De Genio Socratis

Plutarch · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

ARCHIDAMUS. I recall, Caphisias, a saying about a painter, not a bad one, that I once heard applied as an image to those who view painted pictures. He said that ordinary, untrained spectators greet the whole crowd of figures at once, all together, while the refined connoisseurs of the art address each of the persons they encounter individually and in turn. For the former get only a rough, imprecise general impression of the finished work, whereas those who examine it critically, part by part, let nothing that has been well or badly done escape their notice or go unremarked. I think the same holds, similarly, for actual events: the more indolent mind is satisfied with a mere report, if it learns only the headline and the outcome of the matter, but the man who loves honor and loves the beautiful takes more pleasure, as a spectator of deeds wrought like some great work of art, in the particulars — since the outcome has much in common with mere chance, while it is in the causes and in the individual struggles of virtue against circumstance, and in the intelligent daring shown in the face of danger, mingled with calculation suited to the occasion and to feeling, that the true spectacle lies. Since I take both you and us to belong to this class of spectators, go through the affair for us from the beginning, as it was actually done, together with the speeches that were likely made in your presence — for I myself would not have hesitated to come even to Thebes for this, were it not that the Athenians already think we lean too much toward Boeotia as it is.

CAPHISIAS. Well, Archidamus, I ought — "to set even business aside," as Pindar says — for the sake of coming here to this narration, out of regard for your goodwill; but since you have come on an embassy and have leisure until we receive the people's answers, to resist and be churlish toward one so fair-minded and friendly would seem to revive the old reproach against the Boeotians for hating discourse, a charge already fading thanks to your Socrates; while we, for our part, have shown ourselves so devoted to Lysis of sacred memory. But look to those present, whether they are conveniently disposed to listen to so long an account of deeds and speeches together — for the narrative is not short, since you bid me wrap the speeches in with it as well.

ARCHIDAMUS. You do not know these men, Caphisias. Indeed it is worth your knowing — they are sons of good fathers, and on close terms with you. This one here is the nephew of Thrasybulus, Lysitheides; this one is Timotheus, son of Conon; these are the sons of Archinus; and the rest all belong to our own circle of comrades — so that you will have an audience for your narrative that is friendly and akin to you.

CAPHISIAS. Well said. But what would be a fitting starting point for you, given what you already know of the events?

ARCHIDAMUS. We, Caphisias, know roughly how things stood at Thebes before the exiles' return. Indeed, how Archias and Leontidas persuaded Phoebidas to seize the Cadmea during a truce, and then, ruling themselves lawlessly and by force, banished some of the citizens and held the rest in check by fear — this we learned; and how at that time Melon and Pelopidas, as you know, became my personal guest-friends there and, throughout the time of their exile, always spent their time in my company; and again how the Lacedaemonians

fined Phoebidas for seizing the Cadmea and removed him from his command against Olynthus, and sent Lysanoridas as a third in his place instead, who kept a still tighter garrison on the citadel — this we heard; and we learned too that Ismenias met with a death that was anything but the best, straight after the trial held against him, since Gorgidas reported everything by letter to the exiles here — so that what remains for you to relate is

the return itself of your friends and the capture of the tyrants. CAPHISIAS. Well then, in those days, Archidamus, all of us who were party to the enterprise habitually gathered at the house of Simmias, who was recovering from an injury to his leg; there we would meet with one another whenever need required it, while openly we spent the time on discourse and philosophy — often

drawing in Archias and Leontidas as well, to keep suspicion away, since they were not entirely strangers to that kind of pursuit. Indeed Simmias, who had spent a long time abroad and had wandered among foreign peoples, had only shortly before arrived at Thebes, full of tales of every sort and of barbarian lore; and whenever Archias happened to have leisure, he would gladly sit down among

the young men and listen, wishing us to spend our time in talk rather than pay attention to what those others were doing. Now on that very day, on which, once darkness had fallen, the exiles were to come secretly to the wall, someone arrived from there, sent by Pherenicus — a man known to none of us except Charon; he reported that twelve of the youngest of the exiles were to arrive toward evening, hunting with dogs around

Mount Cithaeron; and that he himself had been sent ahead to announce this, and to find out about the house in which they would take shelter once they had come in — whose it would be — so that, knowing beforehand, they might go straight there. While we were at a loss and considering, Charon himself agreed to offer his own house. So the man made ready to hurry back again to the exiles. And Theocritus the seer, gripping

my hand hard and looking toward Charon as he went ahead, said, "This man, Caphisias, is no philosopher, nor has he had a share of exceptional and refined education, as your brother Epaminondas has; but you see how, led by nature toward the noble under the guidance of custom, he willingly takes on the greatest danger for his country's sake. But Epaminondas, who claims to surpass all the Boeotians in his education toward virtue,

is sluggish and unwilling, when he, of all men naturally fitted and well prepared for it, might make use of this opportunity, or some better one." And I said to him, "Most eager Theocritus, we are carrying out what has been decided; but Epaminondas, since he has not been persuaded, thinking it better not to do these things, reasonably resists what he is not naturally disposed to nor approves of when urged upon him. For you would not think it right, I imagine, to force a doctor who promises to cure the disease without knife

or cautery to cut or burn regardless. And so surely this man too, since he wishes no citizen to be put to death without trial, but is nonetheless ready to join eagerly in the struggle to free the city from kindred bloodshed and slaughter. But since he cannot persuade the majority, and we have set out upon this course, he bids himself, remaining pure and blameless of bloodshed, to stand ready for the crisis,

so as to bring himself to bear together with justice and with what is advantageous. For the deed will have no fixed limit, but while Pherenicus and Pelopidas, perhaps, will turn chiefly against those who are guilty and wicked, Eumolpidas and Samidas, men fiery in temper and hot-blooded, once they get license in the night, will not lay down their swords until they have filled the whole city with slaughter and destroyed many

of their own private enemies." While I was saying this to Theocritus, Galaxidorus — for he saw Archias and Lysanoridas the Spartan approaching, as it were, from the Cadmea, hurrying toward the very same place as ourselves — checked himself, and so did we. And Archias, calling Theocritus over and bringing him privately to Lysanoridas, talked with him a long time, having turned aside a little from the road, below the Amphion; so that

we grew anxious lest some suspicion or information had reached them, about which they were questioning Theocritus. Meanwhile Phyllidas, whom you know, Archidamus, who at that time was secretary to Archias and his fellow polemarchs and was party to the enterprise, took hold of my hand, as was his habit, and openly jested about the gymnasia and wrestling. Then, drawing me apart from the others, he asked about

the exiles, whether they were keeping watch for the day. When I said they were, he said, "Then I have done well to prepare the reception today, so as to receive Archias and make the men, in wine and drunkenness, easy to overpower." "Excellent," I said, "Phyllidas, and try to gather all, or as many as possible, of our enemies together in one place." "But that is not easy," he said, "rather impossible:

for Archias, expecting some woman of rank to come to him at that hour, does not wish Leontidas to be present; so that we must divide them between us and go to the two houses separately — for once Archias and Leontidas are both seized at the same time, I think the rest will either be out of the way in flight, or will remain quietly content, if anyone grants them safety." "So we shall do," I said. "But what business

do these men have with Theocritus, about which they are conversing?" And Phyllidas did not answer clearly, nor as one who knew; but I heard that ill-boding signs and portents troubling to Sparta were being reported. Phidolaus of Haliartus, meeting us, said, "Wait here a little, Simmias — for Leontidas is meeting privately with him about Amphitheus, pleading that he be allowed to arrange exile instead of death for the man." And Theocritus said, "That comes

at just the right time, and as if on purpose; for indeed I wished to learn what was found, and what altogether was the appearance of the tomb of Alcmene when it was opened among you, if you yourself were present when Agesilaus sent men and had the remains transferred to Sparta." And Phidolaus said, "No, I was not present, and much to my distress and indignation at my fellow citizens, I was left out by them.

There was found, at any rate — of the body nothing — a small bronze bracelet, and two earthenware jars containing earth that by long time had already turned to stone and hardened; and on the tomb a bronze tablet bearing many wonderful letters, seemingly of great antiquity — for from them nothing could be made out, even once the bronze had been washed clean and the letters exposed, but the form of the characters was of some peculiar, foreign kind, most closely resembling the Egyptian.

That is why Agesilaus, as they said, sent copies to the king, asking that they be shown to the priests, to see if they could understand them. But about these matters perhaps Simmias too could tell us something, since he was in Egypt at that time and spent much time with the priests there because of his love of philosophy." The people of Haliartus, however, believe that the great crop failure and the encroachment of the lake did not come about by chance, but that

this was the wrath of the tomb visiting them, for having endured its being dug up." And Theocritus, pausing a little, said, "But it seems the divine is not without anger even toward the Lacedaemonians themselves, as the signs show which Lysanoridas was just now telling us about; and now he is going off to Haliartus, to heap up the grave-mound again and to pour libations to Alcmene and to Aleus in accordance with some oracle, not knowing who this Aleus

even was; and once he returns from there he means to search for the tomb of Dirce, which is unknown to the Thebans except to those who have held the office of hipparch. For the man giving up that office shows it, alone, to the man taking it over, alone, by night, and after performing certain rites over it without fire, whose signs they confuse and obliterate, they depart, separating in the darkness. As for these men, Phidolaus, I think they will

find it out well enough. For most of those who have held the office of hipparch are now in exile as the law requires — indeed all of them except Gorgidas and Plato, whom they would not even dare to question, fearing the men; while the present rulers on the Cadmea are taking over the spear and the seal knowing nothing, neither..." While Theocritus was saying this, Leontidas went out with his friends; and we went in and greeted

Simmias, who was sitting on his couch — not having succeeded, I imagine, in his request, for he was very thoughtful and troubled; and looking at all of us, he said, "By Heracles, what savage and barbarous manners! Was it not superbly said by Thales of old, when he returned home after a long absence, and his friends asked what strangest thing he had learned of, that he answered, 'An old tyrant'? For even a man to whom nothing personally has happened by way of wrong,

resenting the very weight and harshness of such dealings, is an enemy to lawless and unaccountable powers. But these things, perhaps, will be the god's concern. Do you know who the stranger is who has arrived among you, Caphisias?" "I do not know," I said, "whom you mean." "Why," he said, "Leontidas says a man was seen at the tomb of Lysis, rising in the night,

imposing in the size and equipment of his retinue, and found to have been lodging there upon beds of straw; for there appeared to be pallets of chaste-tree and tamarisk, and moreover remains of fireless offerings and libations of milk; and that at dawn he was asking those he met whether he would find the sons of Polymnis at home." "And who," I said, "could the stranger be? From what you say he seems to be someone out of the ordinary, and no common man." "No indeed," said

Phidolaus, "but him, whenever he comes to us, we shall receive; for now, Simmias, tell us, if you know anything further about the matter of the letters we were just now puzzling over — for the priests in Egypt are said to have deciphered the writing on the tablet which Agesilaus took from us when he removed the tomb of Alcmene." And Simmias, remembering at once, said, "I do not know of this tablet,

Phidolaus; but Agetoridas the Spartan, bringing many letters from Agesilaus, came to Memphis to Chonuphis the prophet, with whom I, and Plato, and Ellopion of Peparethus, once spent time together studying philosophy. He came because the king had sent him and had ordered Chonuphis, if he could make out anything of what was written, to translate it quickly and send it to him; and Chonuphis, after spending three days poring over ancient books of every sort of

character, wrote back to the king and told us that the writing commanded that a contest be held in honor of the Muses, and that the characters were forms of the script used in the time of the reign of Proteus, which Heracles the son of Amphitryon had learned; and moreover that the god was instructing and exhorting the Greeks, through the letters, to devote themselves to leisure and peace, always contending through philosophy, and settling their disputes about justice

by the Muses and by reasoned speech, laying aside their weapons. We at the time thought Chonuphis spoke well, and thought so even more when, as we were returning from Egypt, near Caria some Delians met us, asking Plato, as a geometer, to solve for them an oracle that had been put forward by the god, and seemed strange. The oracle was that there would be an end of their present troubles, for the Delians and the rest of the Greeks, if they doubled the altar at Delos.

But they, unable to grasp the meaning, and meeting with absurd results in their construction of the altar — for when each of the four sides was doubled, they unwittingly, by this increase, produced a solid figure eight times the original, through ignorance of the proportion which gives a double result in length — called upon Plato to help them out of their difficulty. And he, recalling the Egyptian, said the god was making sport of the Greeks for their neglect of learning, mocking them, as it were,

...our ignorance, and bidding us take up geometry — not superficially. For it is not the task of a dull or slow understanding, but of one perfectly trained in the study of lines, to find two mean proportionals; only by this method is a cubic figure doubled, increasing equally in every dimension. This, then, Eudoxus of Cnidus or Helicon of Cyzicus would accomplish for them; but they must not suppose that the god desired this, but rather that he was ordering all the Greeks to give up war and its evils and to devote themselves to the Muses, and by calming their passions through reasoned discourse and mathematical study, to live together in harmless and beneficial intercourse.

While Simmias was still speaking, our father Polymnis came in, and sitting down beside Simmias said, "Epaminondas invites you and all these gentlemen, unless some more pressing business detains you, to wait here a little, as he wishes you to meet the stranger — a man of noble character himself, who has come on a noble and honorable errand from Italy, one of the Pythagoreans. He has arrived to pour libations at the tomb of old Lysis, prompted by certain dreams, so he says, and clear visions. He is bringing a considerable sum of gold, and thinks he ought to repay Epaminondas for his care of Lysis' old age, and he is most eager to help us in our poverty, though we neither ask for nor want it."

Simmias, pleased, said, "That is truly a remarkable man you describe, and worthy of philosophy. But what is the reason he does not come to us at once?" "It seems to me," he said, "that Epaminondas, after he had spent the night at the tomb of Lysis, is taking him to the Ismenus to bathe, and then they will come here to us; but before he met us he had spent the night at the tomb, intending to take up the remains of the body and carry them to Italy, unless some divine sign should oppose it by night."

When our father had said this, he fell silent. And Galaxidorus said, "By Heracles, how hard it is to find a man free from vanity and superstition! Some are caught unwillingly by these feelings through inexperience or weakness; others, wishing to appear god-beloved and out of the ordinary, invest their actions with an air of divinity, putting forward dreams and apparitions and other such pretensions to screen what really came into their minds. This may perhaps not be useless for statesmen who are forced to live among a headstrong and unruly populace — like using superstition as a bridle to draw the masses toward what is advantageous and turn them aside. But for philosophy such posturing seems not only unbecoming but contrary to its very profession, if, while promising to teach by reason alone what is good and advantageous, it then retreats to the gods for the source of action, as though despising reasoned proof, and, seeming to think demonstration beneath it, turns instead to oracles and the visions of dreams, in which even the most worthless of men often succeeds no less than the best.

For this reason your Socrates, Simmias, seems to me to have put on a more philosophical character of education and reasoning, choosing this plain and unaffected manner as befitting a free man and a lover of truth above all, and scattering that vanity — like a kind of smoke of philosophy — onto the sophists."

Theocritus took this up and said, "What then, Galaxidorus? Has Meletus persuaded you too, that Socrates despised the divine? For this is what he charged him with before the Athenians." "By no means," he said, "the divine things themselves — no. But having received from Pythagoras and Empedocles a philosophy full of apparitions and myths and superstition, thoroughly intoxicated with it, he accustomed it, as it were, to sober attention to realities and to pursue truth with a clear-headed reasoning." "Well then," said Theocritus, "and the divine sign — the daimonion of Socrates — what shall we say to that? To me, of all that is told about Pythagoras, nothing seemed so great and divine as what concerns divination. Just as Homer represented Athena as standing by Odysseus 'in all his trials,' so it seems that some such guiding vision from the beginning attached the daimonion to Socrates as a guide for his life, one which alone 'went before him and gave him light' in matters unclear and beyond human calculation to resolve — matters in which the daimonion often spoke along with him, sanctioning his own choices as divine.

The greater and more important matters one must inquire of Simmias and the other companions of Socrates; but as for myself, when I was present — do you remember, Simmias, when we went to Euthyphron the seer? It happened that Socrates was walking up toward the Symbolon and the house of Andocides, questioning Euthyphron the while and teasing him in play. Suddenly he stopped and, falling silent, fixed his attention on himself for a long time; then, turning back, he went by the street of the coffin-makers, and called back those of his companions who had already gone ahead, saying that his daimonion had come upon him. Most of us turned back with him, myself among them, keeping close to Euthyphron; but some young men, walking straight on as if to put the daimonion of Socrates to the test, dragged along with them Charillus the flute-player, who had come with me to Athens to see Cebes. As they went through the street of the image-carvers past the law-courts, they met a drove of pigs, thick with mud and jostling one another for numbers; and since there was no way to turn aside, some of them were knocked down by the pigs charging in, and others were smeared with filth. So Charillus came home with his legs and cloak covered in mud, so that ever after, whenever the daimonion of Socrates was mentioned, they would remember it with laughter, marveling that it never abandoned the man, and that the divine never neglected him."

And Galaxidorus said, "Do you suppose then, Theocritus, that the daimonion of Socrates possessed some private and extraordinary power, and not that the man, through experience, had confirmed for himself some portion of the common art of divination, one able, in matters obscure and beyond calculation, to add its weight to reasoning? For just as a single weight by itself does not move the scale, but added to an already balanced weight tips the whole toward itself, so too a sneeze, or a chance utterance, or some other such slight and trivial sign, can draw a mind already weighty with deliberation toward action: when two opposing calculations are in balance, that to which such a sign is added dissolves the difficulty by upsetting the equality, so that motion and impulse result."

Our father took this up and said, "But indeed, Galaxidorus, I too once heard from a certain Megarian — who had it from Terpsion — that the daimonion of Socrates was a sneeze, both his own and that of others: if someone else sneezed on his right, whether behind him or before him, he would set out on the action; but if on his left, he would turn away from it. And of his own sneezes, one, occurring while he was still deliberating, would confirm the action, but another, occurring while he was already acting, would check and prevent the impulse. But this seems strange to me — that, though he made use of a sneeze, he did not say this to his companions, but instead said that it was a daimonion that hindered or urged him on; for that would be a mark of a certain empty vanity and pretension, my friend, not of the truthfulness and simplicity for which we think the man became truly great and different from the many — to be thrown into confusion in his actions by an outside sound or a chance sneeze, and to abandon what he had resolved. But the impulses of Socrates, on the contrary, show firmness and vigor in everything, as proceeding from a right and strong judgment and principle. For to remain in poverty willingly all his life, when he could have had wealth with the goodwill of those who offered it; and not to abandon philosophy despite so many hindrances; and finally, when his friends had made every zealous and resourceful preparation for his safety and escape, neither to be bent by their entreaties nor to yield as death drew near, but to face the terror with unshaken reasoning — this is not the mark of a man whose judgment is changed, as chance would have it, by omens or sneezes, but of one led toward the good by a greater guiding authority and principle. I hear, too, that he foretold to some of his friends the destruction of the Athenian force in Sicily. And even before that, Pyrilampes son of Antiphon, who was captured in the pursuit near Delium, wounded by our spear, when he heard from those who had come from Athens for the truce that Socrates, along with Alcibiades and Laches, had returned safely by way of Regista, called down many curses on that road, and many too on certain friends and comrades of his who, in fleeing with him past Parnes, had been killed by our cavalry, for having disregarded the daimonion of Socrates and taken another road, not the one he led them by, away from the battle. I think Simmias too has heard this." "Often," said Simmias, "and from many; for the daimonion of Socrates in these matters was much talked of at Athens."

"Well then," said Pheidolaus, "Simmias, shall we let Galaxidorus in jest reduce so great a work of divination to sneezes and chance words, which even ordinary people use, and that only in trivial matters and in play? But when heavier dangers and greater undertakings overtake them, then comes to pass that saying of Euripides: 'No one is such a fool as to trifle with these things when the sword is near.'"

And Galaxidorus said, "As for what Simmias himself heard Socrates say on these matters, Pheidolaus, I am ready to listen and to be persuaded along with the rest of you; but what has been said by you and by Polymnis is not hard to refute. For just as in medicine a pulse or a small blister is a small thing but a sign of something not small, and for a helmsman at sea the cry of a bird or the slight rippling course of a light breeze signals wind and a rougher stirring of the sea, so too for a prophetic soul a sneeze or a chance word is not in itself a great thing, but a sign of a great event; for no art is despised for foretelling much through small and few indications. It is as if someone unfamiliar with the power of letters, seeing a few of them, small in number and mean in shape, should disbelieve that a man skilled in letters could read off from them great wars that befell men of old, and foundings of cities, and the deeds and sufferings of kings, and then, when told that these sounds, or something like them, signify and set forth each of these things to that reader of histories, should burst into hearty laughter at the man's ignorance — consider then, my friend, whether we too, not understanding the power of each kind of divination, are not foolishly indignant if a man of sense declares something about the unclear future from such signs, and moreover says that it is not a sneeze nor a voice but a daimonion that guides him in his actions.

For I now come to you, Polymnis, who wonder that Socrates — a man who, more than anyone, by his freedom from vanity and his simplicity, humanized philosophy — should, if the sign was not a sneeze or a chance word, name it, quite tragically, a 'daimonion.' For my part, I should on the contrary be surprised that a man so supreme in discourse and so masterly in the use of words as Socrates should say that it was not the daimonion but the sneeze that signified to him — just as if someone struck by an arrow should say he was wounded by the arrow rather than by the one who shot it, or that a weight was measured by the balance rather than by the one who set it up. For the work belongs not to the instrument, but to him who also uses the instrument for the work; and the sign, too, is a kind of instrument which the one who signifies employs. But as I said, if Simmias has anything to say, it should be heard, as from one who knows more precisely."

And Theocritus said, "First, though, let us find out who these newcomers are" — indicating rather the stranger whom Epaminondas seemed to be bringing with him. So we looked toward the doors, and saw Epaminondas leading the way, with his friends Ismenodorus, Bacchylidas, and Melissus the flute-player gathered about him, and following behind, the stranger — of no ignoble appearance, but showing in his manner gentleness and kindliness, and gravely dressed. When he had sat down beside Simmias, and his brother beside me, and the rest as each found a place, and silence had fallen, Simmias, addressing our brother, said, "Well, Epaminondas, how, and by what name, and from where ought we to address the stranger? For this, by custom, is the beginning of acquaintance and knowledge." And Epaminondas said, "His name, Simmias, is Theanor, and by birth he is a Crotoniate, of the philosophers there, who does no discredit to the great fame of Pythagoras; and indeed he has now come here, a long journey from Italy, confirming noble doctrines by noble deeds."

The stranger took this up and said, "Why then, Epaminondas, you are hindering the noblest of deeds. For if it is noble to do good to friends, is it not shameful to refuse to receive good from friends? For a favor, needing no less the one who receives than the one who gives, is brought to completion, toward what is noble, from both together; but he who does not accept it, like a ball well thrown, disgraces it by letting it fall short of its mark. For what target is it so pleasant to hit and so painful to miss as a man worthy of kindness, when one is eager through gratitude to reach him? But whereas the man who fails while the target stands still is undone through his own fault, here it is the one who declines and evades who does wrong to the favor, by not letting it reach its intended end.

To you, then, I have already gone through the reasons for which I sailed here; but I wish, having gone through them also to these gentlemen, to use them as judges before you. For when the Pythagorean fellowships in the various cities were broken up, overpowered by factional strife, and while those who still held together at Metapontum were sitting in council in a house, the followers of Cylon piled fire around it and destroyed them all together except Philolaus and Lysis, who, being still young, forced their way through the fire by their strength and agility. Philolaus, fleeing to the Lucanians, was saved and made his way from there back to the other friends, who were now gathering again and gaining the upper hand over the Cylonians; but where Lysis had gone remained unknown for a long time — until Gorgias of Leontini, sailing back from Greece to Sicily, reported to Arcesus and his circle that he had reliably learned Lysis was living at Thebes. Arcesus, in his longing for the man, was eager to sail there himself, just as he was; but being quite unable, through old age and weakness, he charged his friends above all to bring Lysis back to Italy alive, or, if he had died, to bring back his remains. But the wars and factions and tyrannies that intervened prevented his friends from accomplishing this task for him while he still lived.

And since the daimonion of Lysis, now that he is dead, has already given us clear signs of his end, and those who knew well reported to us the care and manner of life he had among you, Polymnis — that, having found rich provision for his old age in a poor household, and having been enrolled as father of your sons, he departed blessed — I was sent, young as I am, and alone, by many older men, who did not...

—who do not lack money to give, and who in return receive much gratitude and friendship. And Lysis indeed lies honorably buried by you, and a finer recompense than a splendid tomb is being paid out to him—a debt of friends to friends and kinsmen.”

When the stranger had said this, the father wept for a long time at the memory of Lysis, while the brother, smiling slightly as was his habit toward me, said, “What shall we do, Caphisias? Shall we let poverty go for the sake of money, and say nothing?” “By no means,” I said. “Do not betray our dear and good nurse—but you must defend her, for the argument is yours.” “Well then, father,” he said, “I myself feared that our household could be captured by wealth on this one point only—on account of Caphisias’s person, which needs fine clothing so that he may adorn himself before so many admirers, and needs abundant, plentiful food so as to hold out against the exercises and the contests in the wrestling schools. But since he does not betray his poverty, nor let go, like a dye, the poverty of his fathers, but, young man though he is, prides himself on frugality and is content with what he has, what disposition and use of money would there be for us? Shall we gild our weapons, no doubt, and inlay our shield with gold mixed with purple, like Nicias the Athenian? And shall we buy for you, father, a cloak of Milesian wool, and for mother a gown fringed with purple? Surely we shall not squander the gift on the belly, feasting ourselves more extravagantly, as though we had welcomed wealth as a heavier guest than we could bear.” “Away with that,” said the father, “my son—may I never live to see such a transformation of our way of life!”

“And yet,” he said, “we shall not sit idle at home guarding our wealth either; for in that case the favor would be graceless and the possession dishonorable.” “What then?” said the father. “Well,” said Epaminondas, “when Jason, the ruler of the Thessalians, recently sent much gold here to us and asked us to accept it, I appeared rather boorish in replying that he was beginning an unjust act, since, being a lover of monarchy, he was trying through money to win over a man of the people from a free and self-governing city. As for your zeal, stranger—for it is noble and philosophical—I receive it and welcome it especially; but you have come bringing remedies to friends who are not sick. Just as, if you had heard that we were at war and had sailed here to help us with weapons and missiles, and then found instead friendship and peace, you would not think it right to give those things and leave them with people who have no need of them—so you have arrived as an ally against poverty, as though we were troubled by it, when in fact it is very easy for us to bear, and a dear housemate. There is therefore no need of money or of weapons against it, since it causes us no distress at all. Rather, report to our friends there that they themselves make the noblest use of wealth, but that they also have friends here who make good use of poverty, and that Lysis himself has repaid us, on his own behalf, for his rearing and his burial—having taught us, among other things, not to be troubled by poverty.”

Then Theanor took up the argument and said, “Is it, then, ignoble to be troubled by poverty, but not strange to fear and flee wealth?” “It is strange,” he said, “unless one rejects it not on principle but out of affectation, or through boorishness, or a certain vanity.” “And what principle,” he said, “would exclude an acquisition gained from honorable and just means, Epaminondas? Or rather—for you should yield yourself to my questions more gently than you did to the Thessalian—tell me: do you think there is a right way of giving money but no right way at all of receiving it, or that both givers and receivers are always at fault?” “By no means,” said Epaminondas, “but just as with anything else, I think there is a shameful and a decent form of the giving and acquiring of wealth.” “Is it not so, then,” said Theanor, “that one who gives willingly and readily what he owes gives well?” He agreed. “And does one who receives what another gives well not receive well? Or could there be a more just acquisition of money than one from a person who gives justly?” “There could not,” he said. “Then of two friends,” he said, “Epaminondas, if the one ought to give, surely the other ought to receive. For in battle one ought to avoid the enemy who strikes well, but in matters of kindness it is not just either to flee or to reject the friend who gives well—if indeed poverty is not a hardship, then neither, in turn, is wealth so dishonorable and to be cast away.”

“No indeed,” said Epaminondas, “but there are cases in which, for one who does not accept it, what is generously offered becomes more honorable and more admirable to have declined. Consider it with me this way. There are, of course, many desires of many kinds—some called innate, springing up around the body in pursuit of necessary pleasures, and others acquired, arising for the sake of empty opinions, which, gaining strength and force through time and habit amid a corrupt upbringing, often drag down and debase the soul more violently than the necessary ones do. By habit and practice, reason has already managed to draw off a good deal even of the innate passions; but the whole power of discipline, my friend, must be directed against the incidental and superfluous desires, to work them out and cut them off by restraints and controls, chastened under the rule of reason. For if the resistance of reason to eating and drinking can overpower thirst and hunger, then surely it is far easier to check love of wealth and love of reputation, and to dissolve them utterly by abstaining from and restraining what they crave—or do you not think so?” The stranger agreed. “Do you see, then,” he said, “the difference between the discipline and the task toward which the discipline is aimed—just as in athletics you would call the contest for the crown against one’s rival the ‘task,’ and the preparation of the body for this through exercises the ‘discipline’? So too you agree that of virtue, one part is the task and another the discipline?” When the stranger had agreed, “Come then,” he said, “tell me first whether you think that abstaining from shameful and unlawful pleasures is discipline, or rather the task and proof of discipline.”

“I think it is the task,” he said, “and the proof; while the discipline and practice of self-control is something you are all still drawn to even now—whenever, after exercising and stirring your appetites like animals, you stand for a long time before splendid tables laden with rich dishes, and then hand these over to your household slaves to feast on, while you yourselves partake of plain and simple fare, your desires already tamed. For abstinence from pleasures where it is permitted is discipline for the soul in view of what is forbidden.” “Quite so,” he said. “There is, then, my friend, a certain discipline for justice as well, directed against love of wealth and love of money—not the refusal to go by night and steal one’s neighbors’ property, nor to rob passersby, nor even the refusal to betray one’s country and friends for silver; for in that case, perhaps, it is the law and fear that restrain the impulse to wrongdoing. Rather, it is the man who often willingly holds himself back from just and lawful gains, permitted though they are by the law, who practices and accustoms himself to keep far from every unjust and unlawful profit. For it is not possible for the mind to remain untroubled amid pleasures that are great but improper and harmful, unless it has often, when free to enjoy them, learned to disdain them; nor is it easy for one to pass over base gains and great opportunities for advantage, when they come within reach, unless love of profit has long since been bound and chastened within him. Rather, one who has been reared without restraint in the pursuit of gain surges toward injustice, and abstains from taking more than his share only with great reluctance and difficulty. But for a man who has given himself over neither to the favors of friends nor to the gifts of kings, but has even refused a legacy of fortune, and has turned away love of wealth even when a treasure appeared before him leaping into his path—for such a man there arises no impulse toward injustice, nor does it trouble his mind, but he deals easily with what is honorable, taking great pride in himself and conscious within his soul of the noblest things. It is of such men that Caphisias and I are lovers, dear Simmias, and we beg the stranger to allow us to train ourselves sufficiently in poverty toward that virtue.”

When his brother had finished saying this, Simmias, nodding his head two or three times, said, “Epaminondas is a great man; and the cause of this is Polymnis here, who from the beginning provided his sons with the finest upbringing in philosophy. But as for these matters, settle them yourselves between you, stranger. As for Lysis—if it is permitted for us to hear—do you mean to move him from his tomb and remove him to Italy, or will you allow him to remain here with us, to have us as kindly and friendly housemates when we too come to be there?”

And Theanor, smiling, said, “It seems, Simmias, that Lysis is fond of this place, having lacked none of the honors due him because of Epaminondas. For there is a certain rite performed privately concerning the burials of the Pythagoreans, and if we fail to obtain it, we do not consider that we have attained the blessed and proper end. So when we learned from dreams of Lysis’s death—for we recognize it by a certain sign appearing in sleep, whether it is the image of one dead or of one living—the thought occurred to many of us that Lysis had somehow been buried improperly in a foreign land, and that he must be moved by us so that he might there share in the customary rites. With this thought in mind, I came here, and was at once guided to the tomb by the local people; in the evening I was already pouring libations, calling upon the soul of Lysis to come down and declare by oracle how these things ought to be done. As the night went on, I saw nothing, but I seemed to hear a voice saying not to move what should not be moved: for the body of Lysis had been piously buried by his friends, and his soul, already judged, had been released to another birth, allotted to another guardian spirit. And indeed, meeting Epaminondas at dawn and hearing the manner in which he had buried Lysis, I recognized that he had been well instructed by that man even in the secret teachings, and that he uses the same guardian spirit for his life—if I am not a poor judge of the helmsman by his course. For broad are the paths of human lives, but few are those along which guardian spirits lead men.”

So Theanor, having said this, looked intently at Epaminondas, as though examining his nature and character afresh from the beginning. Meanwhile the physician came forward and undid the bandage of Simmias, intending to treat his wound; and Phyllidas, entering with Hippostheneidas and bidding me and Charon and Theocritus rise, led us into a corner of the peristyle, greatly agitated, as was plain upon his face. When I said, “Is there something new, Phyllidas, that has happened?” he replied, “Nothing new to me, Caphisias; for I had foreseen it and had warned you beforehand of Hippostheneidas’s cowardice, begging you not to share our plans with him or bring him into the enterprise.” When we were struck with astonishment at his words, Hippostheneidas said, “For the gods’ sake, Phyllidas, do not say this, nor let your rashness, mistaking it for courage, overturn both us and the city; rather, allow the men, if it is fated, to come down safely.”

And Phyllidas, growing exasperated, said, “Tell me, Hippostheneidas, how many do you think share in our secret plan for the enterprise?” “I myself,” he said, “know of no fewer than thirty.” “Why then,” he said, “when there are so many, have you alone undone and thwarted what was resolved by all, by sending out a horseman to the men who are already on the road, bidding them turn back and not press on today, when fortune itself has conspired to provide them with most of what is needed for their return?” When Phyllidas had said this, we were all thrown into confusion; and Charon, fixing his gaze very harshly upon Hippostheneidas, said, “Wretched man, what have you done to us?” “Nothing terrible,” said Hippostheneidas, “if you will drop the harshness of your tone and share in the reasoning of a man your own age, with hair as gray as yours. For if we had resolved to display to our fellow citizens a reckless courage and a spirit that thinks little of life, Phyllidas, there is still much of the day left—let us not wait for evening, but go now against the tyrants, swords in hand: let us kill, let us die, let us spare ourselves nothing.

But if it is neither hard to do nor to suffer these things, while to free Thebes of arms, surrounded as it is by so many enemies, and to drive out the Spartan garrison with two or three corpses, is not easy—for Phyllidas has not prepared so much unmixed wine for the banquets and receptions as to make the fifteen hundred bodyguards of Archias drunk, but even if we do away with him, Herippidas and Arcesus lie in wait that same night, sober—why then do we hasten to bring down our friends and kinsmen to obvious destruction, and this when our enemies are by no means altogether unaware of their return? For why has it been ordered that the Thespians remain under arms these three days, ready to attend whenever the Spartan commanders call them? And Amphitheus, as I learn, they intend to interrogate today and put to death as soon as Archias returns. Are these not great signs that our enterprise has not gone unnoticed? Is it not best to wait a while—not long, but only long enough to make our peace with the gods? For the seers, in sacrificing the ox to Demeter, say that the burnt offerings portend great public disturbance and danger. And what requires the greatest caution from you, Charon—yesterday, as Hypatodorus son of Erianthes, an honest and friendly man but one privy to nothing of our doings, was walking with me from the country, he said, ‘Hippostheneidas, you have Charon as a comrade, though he is not very familiar to me; if you think fit, then, tell him to guard against some danger arising from a very distressing and strange dream. For last night I dreamed that his house was in labor, as though pregnant, and that he himself and his friends, sharing in the anguish, were praying and standing round about it; and that it bellowed and uttered certain inarticulate cries, and at last a great and terrible fire blazed out from within it, so that most of the city was ablaze, while the Cadmea was surrounded only by smoke, and the fire did not spread up to it.’

“Such, then, Charon, was the vision which the man related to me; and I was terrified at once, and much more so on hearing today that the exiles intend to land at your house—I am in anguish lest we fill ourselves with great disasters, without accomplishing anything worthy against our enemies, but only stirring them up. For I count the city on our side, but the Cadmea, as indeed it is, on theirs.” Theocritus then took up the argument, and restraining Charon, who wished to say something in reply—

“But for my part,” he said to Hipposthenidas, “I have never felt so confident about our undertaking, Hipposthenidas—though I have always had good omens on behalf of the exiles—as I do from this vision you describe: if indeed a great, bright light rose in the city from a friendly house, while the enemy’s quarters were blackened with smoke, then nothing ever brought more relief than that, more than tears and turmoil could. And the voices that came from us were inarticulate, so that even if someone should try to bring an accusation, the affair, having received only an obscure report and a blind suspicion, will at the same moment both come to light and prevail. As for the sacrifices going wrong, that is only to be expected: the beginning and the victim do not belong to the people but to those in power.”

While Theocritus was still speaking, I said to Hipposthenidas, “Whom did you send to the men? For if you have not gotten far ahead of us, we will go after them.” And Hipposthenidas said, “I do not know, Caphisias—for I must tell you the truth—whether you would overtake the man, since he is using the best horse in Thebes. You know the man; he is the overseer of Melon’s chariot-teams, and through Melon he has known of the affair from the beginning.”

And I, recognizing the man, said, “Isn’t this Chlidon you mean, Hipposthenidas, the one who won the horse race at the Heraea last year?” “The very same,” he said. “Then who is this,” I said, “standing by the courtyard doors and looking at us for a while now?” Hipposthenidas turned and said, “Chlidon, by Heracles! Alas, has something worse happened?” And that man, when he saw us paying attention to him, came forward quietly from the door.

When Hipposthenidas nodded to him and told him to speak before everyone, he said: “I know the men well, Hipposthenidas, and since I found you neither at home nor in the marketplace, I guessed you had come here to these men, and I hurried straight here so that you should not be ignorant of what has happened. For as you ordered me to go with all speed to meet the men on the mountain, I went home to get my horse; but when I asked for the bridle, my wife did not have it to give, and she delayed a long time in the storeroom, searching and rummaging through things inside, giving me a thorough runaround, until at last she admitted she had lent the bridle to a neighbor that evening, at his wife’s request. I grew angry and spoke harshly to her,

and she turned to dreadful curses, praying for evil journeys and evil returns—which, by Zeus, may the gods turn back upon her alone. In the end, driven by anger, I went so far as to strike her, and then, when a crowd of neighbors and women came running together, I did and suffered the most shameful things, and have scarcely managed to reach you, so that you may send someone else to the men, since I am at present altogether beside myself and in a bad state.”

A strange shift of feeling came over us at this. For a little before, we had been vexed at being delayed; but now, because of the urgency and speed of the moment, as though there were no time to spare, we were thrown into anguish and fear. Nevertheless I addressed Hipposthenidas, took his hand, and encouraged him, saying that the gods too were summoning us to the deed. After this Phyllidas went off to attend to the reception of the guests and to draw Archias at once into the drinking party; Charon went to his house; and Theocritus and I went back again to Simmias, so that we might find an opportunity to speak with Epaminondas.

They were engaged in an inquiry that was not ignoble, by Zeus, but one that Galaxidorus and Pheidolaus had touched on a little before, puzzling over what the substance and power of Socrates’ so-called “daimonion” might be. What Simmias said in reply to Galaxidorus’ argument we did not hear; but he himself said that he had once asked Socrates about these matters and failed to get an answer, and so did not ask again; but that he had often been present when Socrates declared that those who claimed to have encountered something divine by way of sight he considered impostors, while to those who said they had heard a certain voice,

he paid close attention, and questioned them eagerly about where the impression had come from; and that we ourselves, considering the matter privately among ourselves, came to suspect that Socrates’ daimonion was perhaps not a vision but rather the perception of a voice, or the apprehension of an utterance, which made contact with him in some strange manner—just as in sleep there is no actual voice, yet people receive impressions and thoughts of certain words and believe they hear people speaking. But to some

this kind of awareness truly comes as in a dream, because of the stillness and calm of the body, when, as they sleep, their soul is barely able to hear the words of higher beings; whereas those choked by the tumult of the passions and the distraction of daily needs are unable to listen and give their attention to what is being revealed to them. But Socrates’ mind was pure and free from passion, mingling with the body only a little, for necessity’s sake,

so that it was sensitive and delicate, quick to change under whatever fell upon it; and what fell upon it one might liken not to spoken sound but to the meaning of a daimon, touching, without a voice, the very thing signified in the mind of the one perceiving it. For a spoken voice is like a blow to the soul, which is forced to receive the meaning violently through the ears, whenever we converse with one another; but the mind of the higher power guides

a well-endowed soul by simply touching it with the thought conceived, a soul that has no need of a blow; and the soul yields to it, relaxing and tightening its impulses—not violently, as when opposing passions resist, but pliably and gently, like reins that are given slack. And we should not be amazed at this when we see, on the one hand, small rudders turning great merchant ships, and on the other, the spinning of potters’ wheels made to revolve smoothly by the mere brush of a fingertip, even though they are lifeless things;

yet, because of the smoothness of their construction, they nonetheless yield readily to what moves them, once an impulse is given. Now the soul of a human being, strung with countless impulses like starting-cords, is by far the most easily turned of all instruments, if one takes hold of it rationally, once it has received an impulse to move toward what is conceived; for it is here, in the governing faculty, that the origins of the passions and impulses converge, and when this is shaken, they draw and pull

the person along with them. And it is precisely from this that one can best learn how great a force a single thought has: for bones, being without sensation, and sinews and flesh full of fluids, form a heavy mass that lies still and quiet—yet the moment the soul sets something in motion by way of intention and stirs an impulse toward it, the whole body rises up, becomes taut, and, as if in every part grown wings,

is carried toward the deed. And if the manner of this motion and tensing and readiness is difficult, or altogether impossible, to observe clearly—the manner by which the soul, having conceived a thought, draws the body along by its impulses—still, since a thought, conceived quite apart from any spoken voice, moves it without difficulty, so too, I think, we should not find it hard to believe that a lesser mind and a less divine soul could be guided from outside

by contact with a more divine mind and soul, which by nature has the capacity to make contact, reason with reason, as light makes contact with its reflection. For in truth, we recognize one another’s thoughts only as if groping in the dark, by means of speech; but the thoughts of daimons, possessing their own light, shine upon those able to perceive them, and have no need of words or names, which men, in dealing with one another, use as symbols, seeing only images and likenesses of what is thought, without knowing

the things themselves—except for those who possess some special and divine light, as has been said. And yet what occurs with regard to spoken voice can offer some comfort to those who are skeptical: for the air, once shaped by articulate sounds and made wholly into speech, and voice, accomplishes the act of understanding in the soul of the listener; so it should not seem astonishing if, in the same way, what is conceived by higher beings

sets the air in motion through its own susceptibility and impresses upon divine and exceptional men the very thought of the one who conceived it. For just as blows struck against bronze shields are detected because of the resonance, when they strike after rising up from a great depth, while other blows pass through unnoticed and go undetected among other things, so too the words of daimons, though carried through all things, resound only in those who possess a calm character and a soul unruffled,

the very ones we call sacred and daimonic men. But most people suppose that the divine only inspires men when they are asleep; and if it moves them in the same way while they are awake and in full possession of their senses, they consider it astonishing and incredible—just as if someone were to think that a musician, using a lyre that is slack, does not touch or make use of it once it is strung to pitch or tuned.

For they fail to see the true cause: the discord and disturbance within themselves, from which our companion Socrates was free—just as the oracle given to his father while Socrates was still a boy had foretold. For it bade his father to let him do whatever came into his mind, and not to force or redirect him, but to give free rein to the boy’s impulse, praying on his behalf to Zeus of the Marketplace

and to the Muses, but otherwise not to meddle in Socrates’ affairs, since he clearly had within himself, in place of countless teachers and guides, something better to lead him through life. “As for us, Pheidolaus, both while Socrates was alive and since his death, this is how we have come to think about his daimonion, despising those who explain it by omens or sneezes or something of that sort. But what we heard from Timarchus of Chaeronea concerning this matter, I do not know whether it is not more like a myth than an account, and better left unsaid.” “By no means,” said Theocritus, “but tell it through: for even if it is not entirely precise, still there is a point at which even the mythical touches upon the truth. But first tell us who this Timarchus was, for I did not know the man.” “Naturally,” said Simmias, “Theocritus,

for he was quite young when he died. He had asked Socrates that he be buried beside Lamprocles, Socrates’ son, who had died a few days before him, having become his friend and companion in age. This Timarchus, then, longing to learn the nature of the power of Socrates’ daimonion, being a young man of no mean spirit who had just tasted philosophy, shared his plan only with Cebes and me, and went down into the shrine of Trophonius, having performed the customary rites

at the oracle. He remained below for two nights and one day, and when most people had already given him up for lost and his family was in mourning, he came up early in the morning looking very radiant; and after bowing before the god, as soon as he had made his way through the crowd, he told us many wonderful things, both seen and heard.

He said that when he had gone down into the oracle, he first encountered a great darkness; then, after praying, he lay for a long time not clearly aware whether he was awake or dreaming, except that he seemed to feel a blow to his head, accompanied by a sound, and the sutures parted and released his soul. And as it withdrew and mingled, gladly, with air that was clear and pure, it seemed to him that he was breathing for the first time in a long while, after having been constricted before, and that he grew larger than he had been before, like a sail spreading out. Then he heard faintly

a kind of whirring sound circling above his head, giving off a sweet voice. Looking up, he could no longer see the earth anywhere, but islands shining with a soft fire, exchanging one color for another as they alternated, as though the light were dyed and varied by these changes. They appeared countless in number and immense in size, not all equal, but alike in being circular; and he imagined that the aether made a faint whirring sound as they moved in their circuit,

for the softness of that sound was in keeping with the smoothness of their motion, being harmonized out of all of them together. Between them a sea or lake was spread out, gleaming through its own blue-green color as the colors of the islands mingled into it; and a few of the islands sailed out along a channel and were carried across the current, while many others were drawn along, borne gently by the stream. And in some parts

the sea had great depth toward the south, but for the most part it was shallow water and shoals, and in many places it overflowed and then receded again, without producing great outflows; and its color in some places was pure and open-sea blue, in others not clear but murky and marsh-like. And the surging of the waves did not carry the islands back around so as to rejoin the point where they began,

nor did it complete a circle, but their courses shifted gently, tracing a single spiral as they revolved. Of these, the sea was inclined most toward the middle and greatest part of the surrounding whole, by a little less than an eighth of the total, as it appeared to him; and it had two openings through which it received rivers of fire pouring in from opposite directions, so that, being pushed back to the fullest extent, it seethed and turned white,

losing its blue-green color. He gazed on these things, delighting in the spectacle; but looking down he saw a great round chasm, as though a sphere had been cut away, terribly frightening and deep, full of great darkness that was not still but constantly stirred up and surging; from which countless howls and groans of animals could be heard, and countless wailings of infants mixed with the laments of men and women, and sounds of every kind

and disturbances sent up faintly from far below in the depths, which struck him with no small terror. After some time had passed, someone he could not see said to him, “Timarchus, what do you wish to learn?” And he answered, “Everything, for what is not wondrous here?” “But we,” the voice said, “have only a small share in the realms above; those belong to other gods. But the portion of Persephone, which we administer, being one of the

four into which the Styx marks a boundary, is available for you to examine, if you wish.” When he asked what the Styx was, the voice said, “It is the road to Hades, and it runs directly opposite, splitting the light with its very summit; and rising up, as you see, from Hades below, where in its circling it touches the light, it marks off the outermost portion of the whole. There are four

first principles of all things: of life, the first; of motion, the second; of generation, the third; and of decay, the last. The first is joined to the second by the Monad, in the realm of the invisible; the second to the third by Mind, by way of the sun; and the third to the fourth by Nature, by way of the moon. And presiding over each of these junctions sits a Fate, daughter of

Necessity: over the first, Atropos; over the second, Clotho; and over the one nearest the moon, Lachesis, around whom the turning-point of generation revolves. For the other islands have gods, but the moon belongs to the daimons; being close to the earth, it barely rises above and escapes the Styx, and is caught once every hundred and seventy-seven secondary measures; and as the Styx presses upon it, the souls cry out in terror.”

"For Hades snatches away many souls as they slip past, while others the moon draws back up from below as they swim toward her — those for whom the moment of their death has coincided with the moment of their coming-to-be — except for those that are polluted and impure. These the moon, flashing lightning and bellowing terribly, does not allow to draw near, but they, lamenting their own fate, fall away and are carried back down again to another birth, as you see." "But I see nothing," Timarchus said, "except many stars quivering around the chasm, others sinking down into it, and still others darting up again from below." "Then you are looking at the daimons themselves," he said, "without knowing it. For this is how it stands: every soul has a share of intellect; none is without reason or without mind. But whatever part of it is mixed with flesh and with the passions is altered and turns, under pleasures and pains, toward the irrational.

Not every soul mixes in the same way: some sink wholly into the body, and being thoroughly disturbed throughout their whole being by the passions, are carried along by them through the whole of their life; others are blended in part, but leave outside the purest part of themselves — not drawn in, but riding, as it were, on the surface, touching only from the crown of the man's head, like a mooring-line attached to one who has sunk in the depths — while the soul, being kept upright around it, supports as much as obeys and is not mastered by the passions. Now the part that is submerged, carried along within the body, is called the soul; but the part left free of corruption the many, calling it 'mind,' suppose to be within themselves — just as images appear in mirrors by reflection — but those who understand rightly call it, since it is outside them, a daimon.

"So then, Timarchus, the stars you see seeming to be extinguished you should understand to be the whole souls sinking down into a body, and those that seem, as it were, to kindle again and reappear from below, shaking off some mist and gloom like mud, to be the souls rising up out of bodies after death; while the ones moving about above are the daimons of those who are said to possess understanding. Try to make out the tether by which each is joined to its soul."

On hearing this, he himself, he said, gave closer attention and observed among the stars some tossing about less, others more, just as we see the corks that mark out the nets in the sea being carried along; some he saw dragging a motion that was confused and irregular, like spindles being twisted, unable to bring their movement to a straight course. And the voice told him that those whose motion was straight and orderly made use of docile souls, on account of good upbringing and education, souls that did not render the irrational part too harsh and wild; but those who swayed up and down, often unevenly and in confusion, as though wrenched as if from a tether, wrestled against their stubborn and unmanageable dispositions because of a lack of education — sometimes mastering them and turning them to the right, sometimes being bent by the passions and dragged along with their errors,

and then again resisting and struggling against them. For the tether, like a bridle cast upon the irrational part of the soul, whenever it pulls back hard, brings on what is called repentance for sins, and, for those pleasures that are lawless and uncontrolled, shame — a pain and a stinging of the soul from this source, as it is checked by the ruling and governing power — until, chastened in this way, it becomes obedient and, like a tame creature,

grows accustomed, without blow or pain, to perceive the daimon's wishes swiftly, through signs and tokens alone. "These souls, then, are brought and settled toward what is fitting only late and slowly. But from those docile and obedient ones, from the very beginning and birth of their own daimon, comes also the prophetic and god-inspired class of men — of whom you have surely heard of the soul of Hermodorus of Clazomenae,

how it would leave the body altogether by night and by day and wander far and wide, and then return again, having encountered and been present at many things said and done far away — until, his wife having betrayed him, his enemies seized his body, empty of its soul, and burned it at home. This story, however, is not true: for the soul did not leave the body; rather, always yielding and loosening the tether to the daimon, it gave it a circuit and a range of roaming,

so that, seeing and hearing much of what was outside, it reported it back. But those who destroyed the body while it slept are, even now, paying the penalty for it in Tartarus. "These things you will know more clearly, young man, in the third month; for now, go." When the voice had ceased, Timarchus said he wished to turn and see who the speaker was;

but he felt his head ache severely again, as though violently compressed, and could no longer perceive or be aware of anything around him. Then, after a little while, coming to himself, he saw that he was lying in the shrine of Trophonius near the entrance, where he had lain down at the start." "Such, then, is the tale of Timarchus. And since, on coming to Athens, he died in the third month after the voice had occurred to him,

we, in amazement, reported it to Socrates, and Socrates reproached us for not having told it to him while Timarchus was still alive; for he would gladly have questioned him further and examined him more closely about it. You now have, Theocritus, both the argument and the tale together; but see whether we ought also to summon our guest here to join in the inquiry, for it belongs to men of divine nature and is very much their concern." "But why," he said, "does Epaminondas not contribute his own view, drawing on the same considerations as we?" And my father, smiling, said, "Such, stranger, is his character: silent, and guarded in speech, yet insatiable in learning and listening. That is why Spintharus of Tarentum, who spent no little time with him here, always says, I believe, that he has met no man

who knew more and said less. So you, then, tell us yourself what you think about what has been said." "Well then," he said, "I hold that the story of Timarchus ought to be set aside as sacred and inviolate, dedicated to the god; but I am amazed if some are going to disbelieve what Simmias has said about it, when they name swans and serpents and dogs and horses as sacred, yet refuse to believe that men can be divine and beloved of the gods — and this while holding that the god loves not birds but mankind. Just as a lover of horses does not care equally for all of that kind, but always singling out and setting apart some one that is best, trains and rears and loves it above the rest — so too those above us,

marking out the best of us as if from a herd, deem them worthy of a special and superior guidance, directing them not by bit and rein but by reason, through signs — signs of which the many, the common herd, are altogether ignorant. For the many dogs do not understand the signals of the hunt, nor the many horses those of horsemanship, but only those that have been trained, perceiving at once, from some chance hiss or click of the tongue, what is commanded, and readily settling into what is

required. Homer too appears to recognize the very distinction we are speaking of: for among the seers he calls some 'interpreters of birds' and 'priests,' while others, who understand and are attuned when the gods themselves converse, he supposes declare the future, as in the line where he says, 'And Helenus, dear son of Priam, took to heart a counsel that pleased the gods in their deliberation, for thus I heard the voice

of the gods who live forever.' For just as some perceive and know the intention of kings and generals from outside, by certain beacon-fires and proclamations and trumpet-calls, while to their trusted intimates they declare it themselves — so too the divine encounters few, and rarely, by itself directly, but to the many it gives signs, out of which the so-called art of divination is constituted.

For the gods order the life of only a few men — those whom they wish to render supremely blessed and truly divine; but souls that have been released from birth and are now at leisure from the body, set entirely free, as it were, are daimons who care for mankind, according to Hesiod. For just as retired athletes, given up to old age, are not wholly abandoned by their love of honor and of bodily exercise, but take delight in watching others train, and encourage them and run alongside them,

so too those who have ceased from the contests of life, having become daimons through the virtue of their soul, do not entirely disdain the affairs and words and pursuits of this world, but, being kindly disposed to those who strive for the same goal and sharing their ambition for virtue, they urge them on and join in the effort, whenever they see them already near their hope, straining and just touching it. For it is not to whoever chances to be there that the divine

lends its aid: rather, just as, among swimmers in the sea, those still far out and heading further from the shore are watched in silence by those standing on land, while those already close by are run alongside and even waded out to, helped by both hand and voice, and so brought to safety — in just this way is the manner of the divine toward us, who are being swamped by our circumstances and taking on many bodies

as though changing vehicles: it lets us struggle and hold out ourselves, trying through our own virtue to be saved and to reach harbor. But whatever soul has already, through countless births, contended long and hard, striving well and eagerly, and, as its cycle is being brought to completion, is in danger and, straining ambitiously toward its escape, comes up drenched in sweat — to that soul god does not begrudge its own daimon's help, but lets it go to whoever is eager for it,

and each daimon is eager, in turn, to save a different soul that calls upon it; and the soul hearkens, because of its nearness, and is saved — but if it does not obey, the daimon abandons it, and it does not fare well." When this had been said, Epaminondas, looking at me, said, "For you, Caphisias, it is nearly time to go to the gymnasium and not to be absent from your companions; we will look after Theanor ourselves, once we have broken up

this gathering, whenever it seems best." And I said, "Let us do so; but I think this man Theocritus here wishes to have a brief word with me and with Galaxidorus." "Good fortune attend it," he said, "let him speak"; and rising, he went ahead to the bend of the colonnade. And we, gathering around him, tried to urge him toward the undertaking. He said he knew quite clearly the day of the exiles' return, and that he had arranged with

Gorgidas and their friends for the occasion; that they would put no citizen to death without trial, unless great necessity should arise; and that, besides, it suited their purpose with the mass of the Thebans that there should be some who were blameless and clear of what was done, who would therefore be able to advise the people without suspicion, as speaking from the best motives. This seemed good to us. And he withdrew again to Simmias and his companions,

while we went down to the gymnasium and met with our friends, and each of us, drawing another aside as we wrestled together, partly inquired and partly informed and made arrangements for the undertaking. We also saw Archias and Philip, freshly anointed, on their way to dinner. For Phyllidas, fearing they might do away with Amphitheus beforehand, had gone straight from escorting Lysanoridas to receive Archias,

and, raising his hopes about the woman he happened to desire, as if she would come to the drinking-party, persuaded him to turn to ease and relaxation with those accustomed to share his dissipation. It was already late, and the cold grew sharper as a wind came up, and because of this most people had withdrawn more quickly into their houses; so we met with Damocleidas and Pelopidas and Theopompus

and brought them in, and others brought in others still; for they had split up as soon as they crossed Cithaeron, and the storm allowed them, with their faces muffled, to pass through the city unnoticed. To some there flashed lightning on the right, without thunder, as they entered through the gates, and the sign seemed favorable, pointing to safety and glory, as though the enterprise would be brilliant but without danger. So when we were all inside — forty-eight

in number — with Theocritus already by himself sacrificing in a little chamber, there came a great pounding at the door; and after a moment someone arrived reporting that two servants of Archias had been sent in haste to knock at Charon's outer door, to summon Charon, and were ordering it to be opened and growing angry that no one answered quickly. Charon, thrown into confusion, at once ordered it opened for them, while he himself went out to meet them wearing a garland, as though

he had been sacrificing and drinking, and asked the servants what they wanted. One of them said, "Archias and Philip sent us to order you to come to them as quickly as possible." When Charon asked what the urgency was for such a summons at that hour, and whether there was anything unusual, "We know nothing more," the servant said, "but what shall we tell them?" "Why, by Zeus," said Charon, "tell them that as soon as I have set aside

my garland and taken up my cloak, I will follow you; for if I go walking with you at this hour, I would alarm some people, as if I were being led off under arrest." "Do just that," they said, "for we too must carry an order from the magistrates to the garrison guards in the city." So they departed. But when Charon had come in to us and told us this, terror seized us all, thinking we had been betrayed, and

most of us suspected Hipposthenidas, who had tried to stop the return through Chlidon, and, since he had failed and the danger was now bound up with the moment, was thought likely, out of fear, to have divulged the plan; for he had not come with the others to the house, and altogether seemed to have turned base and unreliable. Nevertheless, we all thought Charon must go and

obey when summoned by the magistrates. He then bade his son come forward — the finest of the Theban boys, Archidamus, and the most devoted to the gymnasium, about fifteen years old but far surpassing his contemporaries in strength and stature — and said, "Men, this boy is my only son and my beloved, as you know; I entrust him to you, calling on all the gods and all the daimons to witness: if I should show myself

base toward you, kill him, spare us not at all; but for the rest, good men, set yourselves against whatever befalls, and do not let your bodies be destroyed shamefully and ignobly at the hands of the basest men, but defend yourselves, keeping your souls unconquered for your fatherland." As Charon said this, we admired his spirit and his nobility, but were indignant at the suspicion, and urged that the boy

“...for it is not honorable that he too should fall into the hands of our enemies. No, dare beyond your years, my boy, and taste of necessary trials, and face danger together with many good citizens on behalf of freedom and virtue. Much hope still remains, and surely one of the gods looks down upon us as we contend for justice.” Many of us, Archidamus, were moved to tears by these words of the man; but Charon himself, without a tear, unmoved, put his son into Pelopidas's hands and went out through the door, greeting each of us and giving encouragement. And you would have admired still more the boy's own brightness and fearlessness in the face of danger — like Neoptolemus, he neither paled nor was struck with terror, but drew Pelopidas's sword and examined it closely.

At this point Cephisodorus, son of Diotonus, one of our friends, came to us carrying a sword and wearing an iron breastplate underneath his clothes; and learning of Charon's summons by Archias, he blamed us for our delay and at once urged us to march on the houses of the tyrants, saying that it was better to strike first before they could fall upon us, or else, if not that, better to go out and grapple with them in the open, scattered and unformed against each other, than to remain shut up in a small house like a swarm of bees waiting to be smoked out by the enemy. The seer Theocritus also urged us on, saying that the sacrificial signs had proved favorable and safe and reliable for us.

While we were arming and forming up, Charon arrived again, his face cheerful, smiling, and looking at us he bade us take courage, since nothing terrible was afoot, but the business was proceeding on its course. “For Archias,” he said, “and Philip, when they heard that I had come as summoned, were already heavy with drink and their souls as relaxed as their bodies; they barely got up and came out to the doors.” And when Archias said, “We hear, Charon, that exiles have slipped into the city and are hiding here,” I was greatly disturbed and said, “Where are they said to be, and who are they?” “We do not know,” said Archias, “and that is why we sent for you, in case you happen to have heard something more definite.”

And I, recovering my wits a little as if from a blow, reasoned that the report was not a reliable one, and that the plot had not been betrayed by any of those in on it; for surely they would not be ignorant of the house, if someone with exact knowledge had informed on us. Rather, some vague suspicion or rumor circulating in the city had reached them by other means. So I said to him: “While Androcleidas was alive, I know that such rumors often circulated for nothing, and false reports troubled us; but now,” I said, “I have heard nothing of the kind, Archias. Still, I will look into the matter, if you order it, and if I learn anything worth attention, it will not escape you.” “Indeed,” said Phyllidas, “leave nothing, Charon, unexamined or uninquired concerning this. For what is to prevent us from despising nothing, but being on guard and attentive to everything? Foresight and security are fine things.” And at the same time he took hold of Archias and led him back into the room where they happened to be drinking. “But let us not delay, gentlemen,” he said; “let us pray to the gods and go out.” When Charon had said this, we prayed to the gods and encouraged one another.

It was now the hour at which people are mostly occupied with dinner, and the wind, growing stronger, was already stirring up snow mixed with a fine drizzle, so that there was great emptiness as we made our way through the narrow streets. Those assigned against Leontiades and Hypates, who lived near one another, went out in cloaks, carrying no weapon but a dagger each — among them were Pelopidas, Damoclidas, and Cephisodorus. Charon and Melon and those with them, who were about to attack Archias's group, put on light corselets and wore thick wreaths, some of fir, some of pine, and some even wrapped themselves in women's tunics, imitating drunken men engaged in a revel with women.

But Fortune, Archidamus — a harsher power, evening out the softness and ignorance of our enemies against our own daring and preparation, and, as if embroidering our action from the start like a drama with episodes of danger — ran together into the very deed itself, bringing on a sharp and terrible struggle of unexpected reversal. For after Charon, having reassured Archias and Philip, had withdrawn home and was preparing us for the action, a letter arrived here from you, from Archias the hierophant, to that other Archias, who was, it seems, his friend and guest-friend, announcing the return and the plot of the exiles, and the house into which they had come, and their fellow-conspirators.

Archias, already flooded with drink and excited with expectation of the women, received the letter, but when the letter-carrier said it concerned serious matters, he said, “Serious matters, then, till tomorrow,” and put the letter under his pillow; then, calling for a cup, he ordered it filled, and kept sending Phyllidas out repeatedly to the door to see whether the women were approaching. While such hope was managing the drinking-party in this way, we approached, and pushing our way at once past the servants toward the men's hall, we stood a moment at the doors, surveying each of those reclining there.

The sight of the wreaths and the clothing, mistaking our appearance for a group visiting on other business, produced silence; but when Melon first rushed through the middle with his hand laid on the hilt of his sword, Cabirichus, the archon chosen by lot, seizing him by the arm as he passed, cried out, “Is this not Melon, Phyllidas?” Melon at once struck down this attempt with his sword as he drew it, and running at Archias, who was struggling to rise, did not stop striking until he had killed him. Philip, Charon wounded in the neck; and as he defended himself with the cups lying near him, Lysitheus threw him from the couch to the ground and finished him off. As for Cabirichus, we tried to calm him, urging him not to help the tyrants but to help liberate his fatherland along with us — for he held a sacred office and was consecrated to the gods on her behalf.

But since, on account of the wine, he was not easily brought round by reasoning to what was advantageous, but rose up agitated and confused, and leveled his spear point-forward — the spear which our archons by custom always carry — I, seizing the spear in the middle and raising it above his head, shouted at him to let go and save himself, or else be struck; and Theopompus, standing at his right and striking him with his sword, said, “Lie there now with those you flattered; may you never be crowned in a free Thebes, nor ever again sacrifice to the gods against whom you so often invoked curses on your fatherland on behalf of our enemies.” When Cabirichus had fallen, Theocritus, who was present, snatched up the sacred spear out of the slaughter; and of the servants, we killed the few who dared to resist, but those who kept quiet we shut up in the men's hall, not wishing them to slip away and report what had been done before we knew whether our companions' business had also gone well.

That other business was carried out in this manner: Pelopidas and his men came quietly up to Leontiades's courtyard door and knocked, and told the servant who answered that they had come bringing a letter from Callistratus at Athens for Leontiades. When he had reported this and, being ordered, drew back the bolt and opened the door a little, they burst in all together, knocked the man down, and rushed at a run through the courtyard toward the bedroom. Leontiades, at once grasping the truth from his suspicion and drawing his dagger, rushed to defend himself — an unjust man and tyrannical, but strong in spirit and vigorous of hand. He did not, however, think to knock over the lamp and mix with his attackers in the dark, but, seen in the light by them just as the door was being opened, struck Cephisodorus in the flank, and then, closing with Pelopidas second, shouted loudly and called for his servants.

But these were held back by Samidas and his men, who did not dare to come to close quarters with the most distinguished of the citizens, men who far excelled them in strength. Pelopidas fought hand to hand with Leontiades, a sword-fight at the narrow doors of the bedroom, and with Cephisodorus fallen in the very doorway and dying, the rest could not come to their aid. At last our man, taking a wound to the head that was not severe, dealt many blows and brought Leontiades down, and slew him over the still-warm body of Cephisodorus. For the man saw his enemy falling and gave his right hand to Pelopidas, and, embracing the others with a smile, breathed his last content. From there they turned to Hypates, and when the doors were opened for them in the same way, they caught Hypates fleeing over a roof into the neighbors' house and killed him.

From there they hurried to join us, and met us outside near the Colonnade of Many Pillars. Greeting one another and conferring together, we went on to the prison. Phyllidas called out the man in charge of the jail and said, “Archias and Philip order you to bring Amphitheus to them at once.” But the jailer, seeing how strange the hour was and that Phyllidas was not speaking in his usual manner, but was excited and agitated by the struggle, suspected the trick, and said, “At this hour, Phyllidas, did the polemarchs send for a prisoner? And through you? And what token do you bring?” And as he spoke, Phyllidas, holding a cavalry lance, drove it through his side and struck down the wretched man — whom, even by day, not a few women trampled and spat upon.

We then broke down the doors of the jail and called out by name first Amphitheus, then each of the others as each of us had a particular attachment. Those who recognized the voice leapt up gladly from their pallets, dragging their chains behind them; others, whose feet were bound in the stocks, stretched out their hands and cried out, begging not to be left behind. As these were being freed, many of those living nearby, perceiving what was happening and rejoicing, now came flocking to us. And the women, as each heard about her own kinsman, no longer keeping to the customs of Boeotian women, ran out to one another and asked those they met for news; and those who found their fathers or husbands followed along, and no one prevented them, for the pity, tears, and entreaties of virtuous women weighed heavily on those they met.

While this was happening, learning that Epaminondas and Gorgidas were already gathering with their friends around the temple of Athena, I went to join them; and many good citizens came together there, with ever more streaming in continually. When I reported to them everything that had been done, point by point, and urged them to come and help in the marketplace, all at once began proclaiming freedom to the citizens. And weapons were supplied to the crowds then assembling by the colonnades, which were full of spoils of every kind, and by the workshops of the knife-makers who lived nearby. Hipposthenidas too arrived with his friends and servants, gathering up trumpeters who happened to be in town for the festival of Heracles.

At once some sounded their trumpets in the marketplace, others in different places, throwing our opponents into confusion from every side, as though the whole city had risen; so that some, even setting fire to the Cadmea, fled, dragging along with them even those said to be their superiors, who were accustomed to spend the night below near the citadel. Those above, meanwhile, seeing this disordered and panicked flow of men below, and looking out toward us in the marketplace — no part of the city being quiet, but noise and uproar rising from every direction — did not resolve to come down, although they numbered about five thousand; struck with fear at the danger, they made excuses of another kind, pretending they were waiting for Lysanoridas, since he was expected that very day. For this reason, as we later learned, the Spartan elders fined him heavily; but Herippidas and Arcesus they put to death at once, seizing them at Corinth, and they handed over the Cadmea to us under truce and departed with their soldiers.

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