The Republic
philosophers in the State which has been described. Other figures, such
as the dog, or the marriage of the portionless maiden, or the drones
and wasps in the eighth and ninth books, also form links of connexion
in long passages, or are used to recall previous discussions.
Plato is most true to the character of his master when he describes him
as ‘not of this world.’ And with this representation of him the ideal
state and the other paradoxes of the Republic are quite in accordance,
though they cannot be shown to have been speculations of Socrates. To
him, as to other great teachers both philosophical and religious, when
they looked upward, the world seemed to be the embodiment of error and
evil. The common sense of mankind has revolted against this view, or
has only partially admitted it. And even in Socrates himself the
sterner judgement of the multitude at times passes into a sort of
ironical pity or love. Men in general are incapable of philosophy, and
are therefore at enmity with the philosopher; but their
misunderstanding of him is unavoidable: for they have never seen him as
he truly is in his own image; they are only acquainted with artificial
systems possessing no native force of truth—words which admit of many
applications. Their leaders have nothing to measure with, and are
therefore ignorant of their own stature. But they are to be pitied or
laughed at, not to be quarrelled with; they mean well with their
nostrums, if they could only learn that they are cutting off a Hydra’s
head. This moderation towards those who are in error is one of the most
characteristic features of Socrates in the Republic. In all the
different representations of Socrates, whether of Xenophon or Plato,
and amid the differences of the earlier or later Dialogues, he always
retains the character of the unwearied and disinterested seeker after
truth, without which he would have ceased to be Socrates.
Leaving the characters we may now analyse the contents of the Republic,
and then proceed to consider (1) The general aspects of this Hellenic
ideal of the State, (2) The modern lights in which the thoughts of
Plato may be read.
BOOK I. 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