PHAEDRUS
Socrates
2nd Speech (‘the palinode’ or ‘recantation’)
(Translated by Benjamin Jowett circa 1850)
[242 d]
SOCRATES: That was a dreadful speech
which you brought with you, and you made me utter one as bad.
PHAEDRUS:
How so?
SOCRATES:
It was foolish, I say,—to a certain extent, impious; can anything be more
dreadful?
PHAEDRUS:
Nothing, if the speech was really such as you describe.
SOCRATES:
Well, and is not Eros the son of Aphrodite, and a god?
PHAEDRUS:
So men say.
SOCRATES:
But that was not acknowledged by Lysias in his speech, nor by you in that other
speech which you by a charm drew from my lips. For if love be, as he surely is,
a divinity, he cannot be evil. Yet this was the error of both the speeches.
There was also a simplicity about them which was refreshing; having no truth or
honesty in them, nevertheless they pretended to be something, hoping to succeed
in deceiving the manikins of earth and gain celebrity among them. Wherefore I
must have a purgation. And I bethink me of an ancient purgation of mythological
error which was devised, not by Homer, for he never had the wit to discover why
he was blind, but by Stesichorus, who was a philosopher and knew the reason
why; and therefore, when he lost his eyes, for that was the penalty which was
inflicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he at once purged himself.
And the purgation was a recantation, which began thus:
'False
is that word of mine—the truth is that thou didst not embark in ships, nor ever
go to the walls of Troy;'
and
when he had completed his poem, which is called 'the recantation,' immediately
his sight returned to him. Now I will be wiser than either Stesichorus or
Homer, in that I am going to make my recantation for reviling love before I
suffer; and this I will attempt, not as before, veiled and ashamed, but with
forehead bold and bare.
PHAEDRUS:
Nothing could be more agreeable to me than to hear you say so.
SOCRATES:
Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter want of delicacy was shown in the
two discourses; I mean, in my own and in that which you recited out of the
book. Would not any one who was himself of a noble and gentle nature, and who
loved or ever had loved a nature like his own, when we tell of the petty causes
of lovers' jealousies, and of their exceeding animosities, and of the injuries
which they do to their beloved, have imagined that our ideas of love were taken
from some haunt of sailors to which good manners were unknown—he would
certainly never have admitted the justice of our censure?
PHAEDRUS:
I dare say not, Socrates.
SOCRATES:
Therefore, because I blush at the thought of this person, and also because I am
afraid of Love himself, I desire to wash the brine out of my ears with water
from the spring; and I would counsel Lysias not to delay, but to write another
discourse, which shall prove that 'ceteris paribus' the lover ought to be
accepted rather than the non-lover.
PHAEDRUS:
Be assured that he shall. You shall speak the praises of the lover, and Lysias
shall be compelled by me to write another discourse on the same theme.
SOCRATES:
You will be true to your nature in that, and therefore I believe you.
PHAEDRUS:
Speak, and fear not.
SOCRATES:
But where is the fair youth whom I was addressing before, and who ought to
listen now; lest, if he hear me not, he should accept a non-lover before he
knows what he is doing?
PHAEDRUS:
He is close at hand, and always at your service.
SOCRATES:
Know then, fair youth, that the former discourse was the word of Phaedrus, the
son of Vain Man, who dwells in the city of Myrrhina (Myrrhinusius). And this
which I am about to utter is the recantation of Stesichorus the son of Godly
Man (Euphemus), who comes from the town of Desire (Himera), and is to the
following effect: 'I told a lie when I said' that the beloved ought to accept
the non-lover when he might have the lover, because the one is sane, and the
other mad. It might be so if madness were simply an evil; but there is also a
madness which is a divine gift, and the source of the chiefest blessings
granted to men. For prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the
priestesses at Dodona when out of their senses have conferred great benefits on
Hellas, both in public and private life, but when in their senses few or none.
And I might also tell you how the Sibyl and other inspired persons have given
to many an one many an intimation of the future which has saved them from
falling. But it would be tedious to speak of what every one knows.
There
will be more reason in appealing to the ancient inventors of names (compare
Cratylus), who would never have connected prophecy (mantike) which foretells
the future and is the noblest of arts, with madness (manike), or called them
both by the same name, if they had deemed madness to be a disgrace or
dishonour;—they must have thought that there was an inspired madness which was
a noble thing; for the two words, mantike and manike, are really the same, and
the letter tau is only a modern and tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed
by the name which was given by them to the rational investigation of futurity,
whether made by the help of birds or of other signs—this, for as much as it is
an art which supplies from the reasoning faculty mind (nous) and information
(istoria) to human thought (oiesis) they originally termed oionoistike, but the
word has been lately altered and made sonorous by the modern introduction of
the letter Omega (oionoistike and oionistike), and in proportion as prophecy
(mantike) is more perfect and august than augury, both in name and fact, in the
same proportion, as the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind
(sophrosune) for the one is only of human, but the other of divine origin.
Again, where plagues and mightiest woes have bred in certain families, owing to
some ancient blood-guiltiness, there madness has entered with holy prayers and
rites, and by inspired utterances found a way of deliverance for those who are
in need; and he who has part in this gift, and is truly possessed and duly out
of his mind, is by the use of purifications and mysteries made whole and exempt
from evil, future as well as present, and has a release from the calamity which
was afflicting him. The third kind is the madness of those who are possessed by
the Muses; which taking hold of a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring
frenzy, awakens lyrical and all other numbers; with these adorning the myriad
actions of ancient heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who, having
no touch of the Muses' madness in his soul, comes to the door and thinks that
he will get into the temple by the help of art—he, I say, and his poetry are
not admitted; the sane man disappears and is nowhere when he enters into
rivalry with the madman.
I might
tell of many other noble deeds which have sprung from inspired madness. And
therefore, let no one frighten or flutter us by saying that the temperate
friend is to be chosen rather than the inspired, but let him further show that
love is not sent by the gods for any good to lover or beloved; if he can do so
we will allow him to carry off the palm. And we, on our part, will prove in
answer to him that the madness of love is the greatest of heaven's blessings,
and the proof shall be one which the wise will receive, and the witling
disbelieve. But first of all, let us view the affections and actions of the
soul divine and human, and try to ascertain the truth about them. The beginning
of our proof is as follows:
The
soul through all her being is immortal, for that which is ever in motion is
immortal; but that which moves another and is moved by another, in ceasing to
move ceases also to live. Only the self-moving, never leaving self, never
ceases to move, and is the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves
besides. Now, the beginning is unbegotten, for that which is begotten has a
beginning; but the beginning is begotten of nothing, for if it were begotten of
something, then the begotten would not come from a beginning. But if
unbegotten, it must also be indestructible; for if beginning were destroyed,
there could be no beginning out of anything, nor anything out of a beginning;
and all things must have a beginning. And therefore the self-moving is the
beginning of motion; and this can neither be destroyed nor begotten, else the
whole heavens and all creation would collapse and stand still, and never again
have motion or birth. But if the self-moving is proved to be immortal, he who
affirms that self-motion is the very idea and essence of the soul will not be
put to confusion. For the body which is moved from without is soulless; but
that which is moved from within has a soul, for such is the nature of the soul.
But if this be true, must not the soul be the self-moving, and therefore of
necessity unbegotten and immortal? Enough of the soul's immortality.
Of the
nature of the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large and more than
mortal discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure. And let the figure be
composite—a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now the winged horses and
the charioteers of the gods are all of them noble and of noble descent, but
those of other races are mixed; the human charioteer drives his in a pair; and
one of them is noble and of noble breed, and the other is ignoble and of
ignoble breed; and the driving of them of necessity gives a great deal of
trouble to him. I will endeavour to explain to you in what way the mortal
differs from the immortal creature. The soul in her totality has the care of
inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the whole heaven in divers forms
appearing—when perfect and fully winged she soars upward, and orders the whole
world; whereas the imperfect soul, losing her wings and drooping in her flight
at last settles on the solid ground—there, finding a home, she receives an
earthly frame which appears to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power;
and this composition of soul and body is called a living and mortal creature.
For immortal no such union can be reasonably believed to be; although fancy,
not having seen nor surely known the nature of God, may imagine an immortal
creature having both a body and also a soul which are united throughout all
time. Let that, however, be as God wills, and be spoken of acceptably to him.
And now let us ask the reason why the soul loses her wings!
The
wing is the corporeal element which is most akin to the divine, and which by
nature tends to soar aloft and carry that which gravitates downwards into the
upper region, which is the habitation of the gods. The divine is beauty,
wisdom, goodness, and the like; and by these the wing of the soul is nourished,
and grows apace; but when fed upon evil and foulness and the opposite of good,
wastes and falls away. Zeus, the mighty lord, holding the reins of a winged
chariot, leads the way in heaven, ordering all and taking care of all; and
there follows him the array of gods and demi-gods, marshalled in eleven bands;
Hestia alone abides at home in the house of heaven; of the rest they who are
reckoned among the princely twelve march in their appointed order. They see
many blessed sights in the inner heaven, and there are many ways to and fro,
along which the blessed gods are passing, every one doing his own work; he may
follow who will and can, for jealousy has no place in the celestial choir. But
when they go to banquet and festival, then they move up the steep to the top of
the vault of heaven. The chariots of the gods in even poise, obeying the rein,
glide rapidly; but the others labour, for the vicious steed goes heavily,
weighing down the charioteer to the earth when his steed has not been
thoroughly trained:—and this is the hour of agony and extremest conflict for
the soul. For the immortals, when they are at the end of their course, go forth
and stand upon the outside of heaven, and the revolution of the spheres carries
them round, and they behold the things beyond. But of the heaven which is above
the heavens, what earthly poet ever did or ever will sing worthily? It is such
as I will describe; for I must dare to speak the truth, when truth is my theme.
There abides the very being with which true knowledge is concerned; the
colourless, formless, intangible essence, visible only to mind, the pilot of
the soul. The divine intelligence, being nurtured upon mind and pure knowledge,
and the intelligence of every soul which is capable of receiving the food
proper to it, rejoices at beholding reality, and once more gazing upon truth,
is replenished and made glad, until the revolution of the worlds brings her
round again to the same place. In the revolution she beholds justice, and
temperance, and knowledge absolute, not in the form of generation or of
relation, which men call existence, but knowledge absolute in existence
absolute; and beholding the other true existences in like manner, and feasting
upon them, she passes down into the interior of the heavens and returns home;
and there the charioteer putting up his horses at the stall, gives them ambrosia
to eat and nectar to drink.
Such is
the life of the gods; but of other souls, that which follows God best and is
likest to him lifts the head of the charioteer into the outer world, and is
carried round in the revolution, troubled indeed by the steeds, and with
difficulty beholding true being; while another only rises and falls, and sees,
and again fails to see by reason of the unruliness of the steeds. The rest of
the souls are also longing after the upper world and they all follow, but not
being strong enough they are carried round below the surface, plunging,
treading on one another, each striving to be first; and there is confusion and
perspiration and the extremity of effort; and many of them are lamed or have
their wings broken through the ill-driving of the charioteers; and all of them
after a fruitless toil, not having attained to the mysteries of true being, go
away, and feed upon opinion. The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding
eagerness to behold the plain of truth is that pasturage is found there, which
is suited to the highest part of the soul; and the wing on which the soul soars
is nourished with this. And there is a law of Destiny, that the soul which
attains any vision of truth in company with a god is preserved from harm until
the next period, and if attaining always is always unharmed. But when she is
unable to follow, and fails to behold the truth, and through some ill-hap sinks
beneath the double load of forgetfulness and vice, and her wings fall from her
and she drops to the ground, then the law ordains that this soul shall at her
first birth pass, not into any other animal, but only into man; and the soul
which has seen most of truth shall come to the birth as a philosopher, or
artist, or some musical and loving nature; that which has seen truth in the
second degree shall be some righteous king or warrior chief; the soul which is
of the third class shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the fourth
shall be a lover of gymnastic toils, or a physician; the fifth shall lead the
life of a prophet or hierophant; to the sixth the character of poet or some
other imitative artist will be assigned; to the seventh the life of an artisan
or husbandman; to the eighth that of a sophist or demagogue; to the ninth that
of a tyrant—all these are states of probation, in which he who does righteously
improves, and he who does unrighteously, deteriorates his lot.
Ten
thousand years must elapse before the soul of each one can return to the place
from whence she came, for she cannot grow her wings in less; only the soul of a
philosopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who is not devoid of
philosophy, may acquire wings in the third of the recurring periods of a
thousand years; he is distinguished from the ordinary good man who gains wings
in three thousand years:—and they who choose this life three times in
succession have wings given them, and go away at the end of three thousand
years. But the others (The philosopher alone is not subject to judgment
(krisis), for he has never lost the vision of truth.) receive judgment when
they have completed their first life, and after the judgment they go, some of
them to the houses of correction which are under the earth, and are punished;
others to some place in heaven whither they are lightly borne by justice, and
there they live in a manner worthy of the life which they led here when in the
form of men. And at the end of the first thousand years the good souls and also
the evil souls both come to draw lots and choose their second life, and they
may take any which they please. The soul of a man may pass into the life of a
beast, or from the beast return again into the man. But the soul which has
never seen the truth will not pass into the human form. For a man must have
intelligence of universals, and be able to proceed from the many particulars of
sense to one conception of reason;—this is the recollection of those things
which our soul once saw while following God—when regardless of that which we
now call being she raised her head up towards the true being. And therefore the
mind of the philosopher alone has wings; and this is just, for he is always,
according to the measure of his abilities, clinging in recollection to those
things in which God abides, and in beholding which He is what He is. And he who
employs aright these memories is ever being initiated into perfect mysteries
and alone becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets earthly interests and is
rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem him mad, and rebuke him; they do not see
that he is inspired.
Thus
far I have been speaking of the fourth and last kind of madness, which is
imputed to him who, when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with the
recollection of the true beauty; he would like to fly away, but he cannot; he
is like a bird fluttering and looking upward and careless of the world below;
and he is therefore thought to be mad. And I have shown this of all
inspirations to be the noblest and highest and the offspring of the highest to
him who has or shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful is called a
lover because he partakes of it. For, as has been already said, every soul of
man has in the way of nature beheld true being; this was the condition of her
passing into the form of man. But all souls do not easily recall the things of
the other world; they may have seen them for a short time only, or they may
have been unfortunate in their earthly lot, and, having had their hearts turned
to unrighteousness through some corrupting influence, they may have lost the
memory of the holy things which once they saw. Few only retain an adequate
remembrance of them; and they, when they behold here any image of that other
world, are rapt in amazement; but they are ignorant of what this rapture means,
because they do not clearly perceive. For there is no light of justice or
temperance or any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the
earthly copies of them: they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few
who, going to the images, behold in them the realities, and these only with
difficulty. There was a time when with the rest of the happy band they saw
beauty shining in brightness,—we philosophers following in the train of Zeus,
others in company with other gods; and then we beheld the beatific vision and
were initiated into a mystery which may be truly called most blessed,
celebrated by us in our state of innocence, before we had any experience of
evils to come, when we were admitted to the sight of apparitions innocent and
simple and calm and happy, which we beheld shining in pure light, pure
ourselves and not yet enshrined in that living tomb which we carry about, now
that we are imprisoned in the body, like an oyster in his shell. Let me linger
over the memory of scenes which have passed away.
But of
beauty, I repeat again that we saw her there shining in company with the
celestial forms; and coming to earth we find her here too, shining in clearness
through the clearest aperture of sense. For sight is the most piercing of our
bodily senses; though not by that is wisdom seen; her loveliness would have
been transporting if there had been a visible image of her, and the other
ideas, if they had visible counterparts, would be equally lovely. But this is
the privilege of beauty, that being the loveliest she is also the most palpable
to sight. Now he who is not newly initiated or who has become corrupted, does
not easily rise out of this world to the sight of true beauty in the other; he
looks only at her earthly namesake, and instead of being awed at the sight of
her, he is given over to pleasure, and like a brutish beast he rushes on to
enjoy and beget; he consorts with wantonness, and is not afraid or ashamed of
pursuing pleasure in violation of nature. But he whose initiation is recent,
and who has been the spectator of many glories in the other world, is amazed
when he sees any one having a godlike face or form, which is the expression of
divine beauty; and at first a shudder runs through him, and again the old awe
steals over him; then looking upon the face of his beloved as of a god he
reverences him, and if he were not afraid of being thought a downright madman,
he would sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a god; then while he gazes
on him there is a sort of reaction, and the shudder passes into an unusual heat
and perspiration; for, as he receives the effluence of beauty through the eyes,
the wing moistens and he warms. And as he warms, the parts out of which the
wing grew, and which had been hitherto closed and rigid, and had prevented the
wing from shooting forth, are melted, and as nourishment streams upon him, the
lower end of the wing begins to swell and grow from the root upwards; and the
growth extends under the whole soul—for once the whole was winged. During this
process the whole soul is all in a state of ebullition and effervescence,—which
may be compared to the irritation and uneasiness in the gums at the time of
cutting teeth,—bubbles up, and has a feeling of uneasiness and tickling; but
when in like manner the soul is beginning to grow wings, the beauty of the
beloved meets her eye and she receives the sensible warm motion of particles
which flow towards her, therefore called emotion (imeros), and is refreshed and
warmed by them, and then she ceases from her pain with joy. But when she is
parted from her beloved and her moisture fails, then the orifices of the
passage out of which the wing shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ
of the wing; which, being shut up with the emotion, throbbing as with the
pulsations of an artery, pricks the aperture which is nearest, until at length
the entire soul is pierced and maddened and pained, and at the recollection of
beauty is again delighted. And from both of them together the soul is oppressed
at the strangeness of her condition, and is in a great strait and excitement,
and in her madness can neither sleep by night nor abide in her place by day.
And wherever she thinks that she will behold the beautiful one, thither in her
desire she runs. And when she has seen him, and bathed herself in the waters of
beauty, her constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has no more pangs
and pains; and this is the sweetest of all pleasures at the time, and is the
reason why the soul of the lover will never forsake his beautiful one, whom he
esteems above all; he has forgotten mother and brethren and companions, and he
thinks nothing of the neglect and loss of his property; the rules and
proprieties of life, on which he formerly prided himself, he now despises, and
is ready to sleep like a servant, wherever he is allowed, as near as he can to
his desired one, who is the object of his worship, and the physician who can
alone assuage the greatness of his pain. And this state, my dear imaginary
youth to whom I am talking, is by men called love, and among the gods has a name
at which you, in your simplicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines
in the apocryphal writings of Homer in which the name occurs. One of them is
rather outrageous, and not altogether metrical. They are as follows:
'Mortals
call him fluttering love, But the immortals call him winged one, Because the
growing of wings (Or, reading pterothoiton, 'the movement of wings.') is a
necessity to him.'
You may
believe this, but not unless you like. At any rate the loves of lovers and
their causes are such as I have described.
Now the
lover who is taken to be the attendant of Zeus is better able to bear the
winged god, and can endure a heavier burden; but the attendants and companions
of Ares, when under the influence of love, if they fancy that they have been at
all wronged, are ready to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved.
And he who follows in the train of any other god, while he is unspoiled and the
impression lasts, honours and imitates him, as far as he is able; and after the
manner of his God he behaves in his intercourse with his beloved and with the
rest of the world during the first period of his earthly existence. Every one
chooses his love from the ranks of beauty according to his character, and this
he makes his god, and fashions and adorns as a sort of image which he is to
fall down and worship. The followers of Zeus desire that their beloved should
have a soul like him; and therefore they seek out some one of a philosophical
and imperial nature, and when they have found him and loved him, they do all
they can to confirm such a nature in him, and if they have no experience of
such a disposition hitherto, they learn of any one who can teach them, and
themselves follow in the same way. And they have the less difficulty in finding
the nature of their own god in themselves, because they have been compelled to
gaze intensely on him; their recollection clings to him, and they become
possessed of him, and receive from him their character and disposition, so far
as man can participate in God. The qualities of their god they attribute to the
beloved, wherefore they love him all the more, and if, like the Bacchic Nymphs,
they draw inspiration from Zeus, they pour out their own fountain upon him,
wanting to make him as like as possible to their own god. But those who are the
followers of Here seek a royal love, and when they have found him they do just
the same with him; and in like manner the followers of Apollo, and of every
other god walking in the ways of their god, seek a love who is to be made like
him whom they serve, and when they have found him, they themselves imitate
their god, and persuade their love to do the same, and educate him into the
manner and nature of the god as far as they each can; for no feelings of envy
or jealousy are entertained by them towards their beloved, but they do their
utmost to create in him the greatest likeness of themselves and of the god whom
they honour. Thus fair and blissful to the beloved is the desire of the
inspired lover, and the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries of true
love, if he be captured by the lover and their purpose is effected. Now the
beloved is taken captive in the following manner:—
As I
said at the beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into three—two horses
and a charioteer; and one of the horses was good and the other bad: the
division may remain, but I have not yet explained in what the goodness or
badness of either consists, and to that I will now proceed. The right-hand
horse is upright and cleanly made; he has a lofty neck and an aquiline nose;
his colour is white, and his eyes dark; he is a lover of honour and modesty and
temperance, and the follower of true glory; he needs no touch of the whip, but
is guided by word and admonition only. The other is a crooked lumbering animal,
put together anyhow; he has a short thick neck; he is flat-faced and of a dark
colour, with grey eyes and blood-red complexion (Or with grey and blood-shot
eyes.); the mate of insolence and pride, shag-eared and deaf, hardly yielding
to whip and spur. Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of love, and has
his whole soul warmed through sense, and is full of the prickings and ticklings
of desire, the obedient steed, then as always under the government of shame,
refrains from leaping on the beloved; but the other, heedless of the pricks and
of the blows of the whip, plunges and runs away, giving all manner of trouble
to his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces to approach the beloved and
to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly oppose him and will not
be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds; but at last, when he persists in
plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he bids them. And now they are at
the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved; which when the
charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty, whom he beholds in
company with Modesty like an image placed upon a holy pedestal. He sees her,
but he is afraid and falls backwards in adoration, and by his fall is compelled
to pull back the reins with such violence as to bring both the steeds on their
haunches, the one willing and unresisting, the unruly one very unwilling; and
when they have gone back a little, the one is overcome with shame and wonder,
and his whole soul is bathed in perspiration; the other, when the pain is over
which the bridle and the fall had given him, having with difficulty taken
breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the charioteer and
his fellow-steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that they have
been false to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they refuse, and
again he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that he would
wait until another time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if they
had forgotten, and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them on,
until at length he on the same thoughts intent, forces them to draw near again.
And when they are near he stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes the
bit in his teeth and pulls shamelessly. Then the charioteer is worse off than
ever; he falls back like a racer at the barrier, and with a still more violent
wrench drags the bit out of the teeth of the wild steed and covers his abusive
tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the ground and
punishes him sorely. And when this has happened several times and the villain
has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and humbled, and follows the will
of the charioteer, and when he sees the beautiful one he is ready to die of
fear. And from that time forward the soul of the lover follows the beloved in
modesty and holy fear.
And so
the beloved who, like a god, has received every true and loyal service from his
lover, not in pretence but in reality, being also himself of a nature friendly
to his admirer, if in former days he has blushed to own his passion and turned
away his lover, because his youthful companions or others slanderously told him
that he would be disgraced, now as years advance, at the appointed age and time,
is led to receive him into communion. For fate which has ordained that there
shall be no friendship among the evil has also ordained that there shall ever
be friendship among the good. And the beloved when he has received him into
communion and intimacy, is quite amazed at the good-will of the lover; he
recognises that the inspired friend is worth all other friends or kinsmen; they
have nothing of friendship in them worthy to be compared with his. And when
this feeling continues and he is nearer to him and embraces him, in gymnastic
exercises and at other times of meeting, then the fountain of that stream,
which Zeus when he was in love with Ganymede named Desire, overflows upon the
lover, and some enters into his soul, and some when he is filled flows out
again; and as a breeze or an echo rebounds from the smooth rocks and returns
whence it came, so does the stream of beauty, passing through the eyes which
are the windows of the soul, come back to the beautiful one; there arriving and
quickening the passages of the wings, watering them and inclining them to grow,
and filling the soul of the beloved also with love. And thus he loves, but he
knows not what; he does not understand and cannot explain his own state; he
appears to have caught the infection of blindness from another; the lover is
his mirror in whom he is beholding himself, but he is not aware of this. When
he is with the lover, both cease from their pain, but when he is away then he
longs as he is longed for, and has love's image, love for love (Anteros)
lodging in his breast, which he calls and believes to be not love but
friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the other, but weaker; he
wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, embrace him, and probably not long
afterwards his desire is accomplished. When they meet, the wanton steed of the
lover has a word to say to the charioteer; he would like to have a little
pleasure in return for many pains, but the wanton steed of the beloved says not
a word, for he is bursting with passion which he understands not;—he throws his
arms round the lover and embraces him as his dearest friend; and, when they are
side by side, he is not in a state in which he can refuse the lover anything,
if he ask him; although his fellow-steed and the charioteer oppose him with the
arguments of shame and reason. After this their happiness depends upon their
self-control; if the better elements of the mind which lead to order and
philosophy prevail, then they pass their life here in happiness and
harmony—masters of themselves and orderly—enslaving the vicious and
emancipating the virtuous elements of the soul; and when the end comes, they
are light and winged for flight, having conquered in one of the three heavenly
or truly Olympian victories; nor can human discipline or divine inspiration
confer any greater blessing on man than this. If, on the other hand, they leave
philosophy and lead the lower life of ambition, then probably, after wine or in
some other careless hour, the two wanton animals take the two souls when off their
guard and bring them together, and they accomplish that desire of their hearts
which to the many is bliss; and this having once enjoyed they continue to
enjoy, yet rarely because they have not the approval of the whole soul. They
too are dear, but not so dear to one another as the others, either at the time
of their love or afterwards. They consider that they have given and taken from
each other the most sacred pledges, and they may not break them and fall into
enmity. At last they pass out of the body, unwinged, but eager to soar, and
thus obtain no mean reward of love and madness. For those who have once begun
the heavenward pilgrimage may not go down again to darkness and the journey
beneath the earth, but they live in light always; happy companions in their
pilgrimage, and when the time comes at which they receive their wings they have
the same plumage because of their love.
Thus
great are the heavenly blessings which the friendship of a lover will confer
upon you, my youth. Whereas the attachment of the non-lover, which is alloyed
with a worldly prudence and has worldly and niggardly ways of doling out
benefits, will breed in your soul those vulgar qualities which the populace
applaud, will send you bowling round the earth during a period of nine thousand
years, and leave you a fool in the world below.
And
thus, dear Eros, I have made and paid my recantation, as well and as fairly as
I could; more especially in the matter of the poetical figures which I was
compelled to use, because Phaedrus would have them. And now forgive the past
and accept the present, and be gracious and merciful to me, and do not in thine
anger deprive me of sight, or take from me the art of love which thou hast
given me, but grant that I may be yet more esteemed in the eyes of the fair.
And if Phaedrus or I myself said anything rude in our first speeches, blame
Lysias, who is the father of the brat, and let us have no more of his progeny;
bid him study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus; and then his lover
Phaedrus will no longer halt between two opinions, but will dedicate himself
wholly to love and to philosophical discourses.
PHAEDRUS:
I join in the prayer, Socrates, and say with you, if this be for my good, may
your words come to pass. But why did you make your second oration so much finer
than the first? I wonder why. And I begin to be afraid that I shall lose
conceit of Lysias, and that he will appear tame in comparison, even if he be
willing to put another as fine and as long as yours into the field, which I doubt.
For quite lately one of your politicians was abusing him on this very account;
and called him a 'speech writer' again and again. So that a feeling of pride
may probably induce him to give up writing speeches.