Plutarch · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
...to embrace Hyrcanus, and to honor friendship, and to pursue it, welcome it, and cultivate it — since it will prove useful and fruitful to many privately and to many publicly as well — belongs to men who love what is noble, who are political and humane, not, as some suppose, to lovers of glory. On the contrary, it is the man who flees and is afraid to be called a persistent, obsequious attendant upon those in power who is really the lover of glory, and a coward. For what does
a man who attends and courts power, yet needs philosophy, say? Am I then to become Simon the shoemaker, or Dionysius the schoolteacher, rather than a companion of Pericles or Cato, so that Socrates might converse and sit with me as he did with Simon? And Ariston of Chios, when he was reproached by the sophists for conversing with anyone who wished it, said, "Would that even wild beasts could understand words that move them toward
virtue!" Shall we then shrink from becoming familiar with the powerful and the ruling class, as though they were wild, untamed beasts? The philosopher's teaching is not a "statue-maker," "making figures that stand idle upon the same base," in Pindar's phrase; rather it wishes to make active whatever it touches — practical and animate — and it implants impulses that move men and judgments that lead them toward what is beneficial, and toward
purposes that love what is noble, and high thinking and greatness joined with gentleness and security — qualities by which statesmen more eagerly associate with those who are eminent and powerful. Indeed, if a physician loves what is noble, he will more gladly heal an eye that sees on behalf of many and watches over many; and a philosopher will more eagerly attend to a soul which he sees caring for many, and which is bound to think, be prudent, and act justly on behalf of many.
For if someone were skilled in the search for and gathering of water, as they say Heracles and many of the ancients were, he would not delight in digging wells on some remote frontier, "by the Raven's Rock," that swineherd's little Arethusa, but would rather uncover the ever-flowing springs of some river for a city, for armies, for the plantations of kings, and for their groves. We hear indeed that Homer calls
Minos "the companion of great Zeus"; and this means, as Plato says, his associate and pupil. For men did not think it fitting that private individuals, homebodies, or people of no action should be pupils of the gods, but kings — men in whom, once good counsel, justice, decency, and greatness of mind had taken root, all who dealt with them were bound to be benefited and to enjoy the advantage. They say that when a single goat takes eryngo into its mouth,
that goat itself, and then the whole herd besides, comes to a standstill, until the goatherd approaches and pulls it out; such is the sharpness with which the emanations of its power spread, like fire, to what lies near and scatter outward. So too the philosopher's teaching, if it takes hold of a single private man who delights in inactivity and confines himself, as with a compass-point and a fixed geometric radius, to the needs of his own body,
does not spread to others, but having produced calm and quiet in that one man, withers away and dies out along with him. But if it lays hold of a ruling man, one active in politics and public affairs, and fills him with nobility and goodness, it benefits many through one — as Anaxagoras did by his association with Pericles, and Plato with Dion, and Pythagoras with the leading men of the Italian Greeks. Cato himself sailed away from his army to visit Athenodorus, and Scipio sent for
Panaetius, when the Senate dispatched him to observe the arrogance and the lawful order of mankind, as Posidonius says. What then should Panaetius have said? "If you were Baton, or Polydeuces, or some other private person, wishing to flee the centers of cities, resolving syllogisms quietly in some corner and trailing about in a philosopher's cloak, I would gladly have welcomed you and kept your company.
But since you are the son of Aemilius Paulus, twice consul, and the grandson of Scipio Africanus, who conquered Hannibal the Carthaginian, shall I not converse with you?" As for the claim that there are two kinds of reason — the one internal, a gift of Hermes the guide, the other expressed in speech, a messenger and an instrument — this is stale, and let it fall under the reproach, "This I knew before Theognis
was born." But this observation would not be out of place: that friendship is the end of both the internal reason and the spoken — of the one toward oneself, of the other toward another. For the man who arrives at virtue through philosophy always renders himself in harmony with himself, blameless in his own eyes, and full of peace and goodwill toward himself; there is in him no discord, no
"ruinous strife within his limbs," no passion disobedient to reason, no battle of impulse against impulse, no clash of reasoning against reasoning — not, as it were, on the borderline between desire and regret, the harsh and turbulent set against the pleasurable — but everything in him is benevolent and friendly, and each part causes him to attain the greatest goods and to take joy in itself. As for the Muse of spoken reason, Pindar
says she was "not greedy for gain" nor "a hired laborer" in former times, and I think not now either, but that through lack of culture and taste the common Hermes has become a thing bought and sold, hired out for pay. For it is not the case that Aphrodite raged against the daughters of Propoetus because they were the first to contrive to pour scorn upon young men, while Urania, Calliope, and Clio delight in those who corrupt speech for money. But
it seems to me rather that the works and gifts of the Muses are truer tokens of friendship than the amorous gifts of Aphrodite. Indeed the reputation that some make the very end of oratory was originally cherished only as the beginning and seed of friendship; or rather, most people altogether base reputation on goodwill, believing that we do not praise only those whom we love. But these men, like Ixion,
who, pursuing Hera, slipped instead into embracing a cloud, likewise seize upon a deceptive, showy, ever-circulating phantom in place of friendship. But the man of sense, if he moves among political affairs and actions, will need only so much reputation as gives him power in his undertakings through being trusted; for it is neither pleasant nor easy to benefit people against their will, and it is trust that makes them willing — just as
light is a good more for those who see than for those who are seen, so reputation is a good more for those who perceive it than for those merely looked upon. But the man who has withdrawn from public affairs and lives with himself, placing the good in quiet and freedom from business, avoids the reputation that is common and open to crowds and theaters, just as
Hippolytus, "being chaste, greets Aphrodite from afar" — yet even he does not despise the good report of decent and distinguished men. He does not pursue wealth, commanding reputation, and power in his friendships, but neither does he flee them when they attach to a moderate and cultivated character; for just as he does not pursue the handsome and youthful among the young, but rather the teachable, the well-ordered, and the eager to learn, so too he does not pursue those to whom beauty and
charm and youthful bloom attend; nor does mere beauty frighten the philosopher off, or drive him away from those worthy of his attention. So too, when high office and power attach to a moderate and cultivated man, the philosopher will not refrain from loving and cherishing him, nor will he fear to be called courtierlike and obsequious. For those who flee Aphrodite altogether are as sick as those who chase after her to excess; and likewise those who avoid men of reputation
are as unhealthy as those who court such friendship with rulers too eagerly. The philosopher who avoids public life will not shun such men; but the political philosopher will actively seek their company — not troubling them against their will, nor billeting himself upon their ears with untimely, sophistical discourses, but rejoicing to converse, spend leisure, and associate eagerly with those who are willing. "I sow a field, the Berecynthian land, a twelve days' journey across": this man, were he not only a lover of farming
but also a lover of mankind, would more gladly have sown a field able to feed so many than that little plot of Antisthenes, which would scarcely have sufficed for Autolycus to wrestle upon. But if you asked me to turn the whole inhabited world to farming, I would beg to be excused. And yet Epicurus, who places the good in the deepest quiet, as in a harbor sheltered from waves and silent, still says that doing good is not
only nobler but also more pleasant than receiving it. For nothing is so productive of joy as a favor freely given. Whoever gave the Graces their names — Splendor, Mirth, and Good Cheer — was wise; for the exultation and joy felt by the one who confers the favor is greater and purer. This is why men are often ashamed at being benefited, but always take pride in doing
good. Those who make good men of those on whom many depend thereby benefit many; and, on the contrary, those who continually corrupt rulers, kings, or tyrants — slanderers, false accusers, and flatterers — are driven off and punished by everyone, as though they had cast a deadly poison not into a single cup but into a spring flowing for public use, from which they see everyone drawing. So just as people laugh at the flatterers of Callias mocked in comedy,
whom, as Eupolis says, neither fire nor iron nor bronze could keep from frequenting a dinner, so people used to club to death, torture, and burn the friends and associates of the tyrants Apollodorus, Phalaris, and Dionysius, and declared them accursed and under a curse — on the grounds that those tyrants themselves wronged only one man at a time, while these men, through a single ruler, wronged many. In this way, those who keep company with private individuals make
themselves harmless, unhurtful, and agreeable only to themselves; but the man who removes a ruler's depraved character, or helps guide his judgment toward what is right, in a sense practices philosophy publicly and corrects the common government by which everyone is administered. Cities grant priests reverence and honor because they ask the gods for good things not only for themselves, their friends, and their households, but in common for all the citizens.
And yet the priests do not make the gods givers of good things — they merely call upon gods who are already such; whereas philosophers, by associating with rulers, actually make them more just, more moderate, and more eager to do good, so it stands to reason that they should take even greater pride in this. It seems to me that a lyre-maker, too, would fashion a lyre more gladly and more eagerly, on learning that the man who was to acquire it was going
to wall the city of Thebes with it, as Amphion did, or to quiet the factional strife of the Spartans by singing and offering consolation, as Thales did; and likewise a shipwright would take more pleasure in fashioning a rudder, on learning that it would steer the flagship of Themistocles as it fought in the front line for Greece, or Pompey's ship as it defeated the pirates in a sea battle. What then do you suppose a philosopher thinks about his own teaching, knowing that the statesman who receives it,
once ruling and in power, will become a common benefit — dispensing justice, making laws, punishing the wicked, and exalting the decent and the good? It seems to me that a skilled shipwright, too, would more gladly build a rudder on learning that it would steer the Argo, "the ship that concerned all"; and a carpenter would not construct a plow or a wagon with such eagerness as he would the tablets on which Solon was to inscribe his laws.
Indeed, the arguments of philosophers, if they are inscribed firmly in the souls of rulers and statesmen and take hold there, acquire the force of laws; it was for this very reason that Plato sailed to Sicily, hoping to turn his doctrines into laws and deeds amid the affairs of Dionysius. But he found Dionysius to be like a palimpsest already full of stains, whose dye of tyranny would not fade, since over a long time
it had become fast and hard to wash out. Young men, while still in their prime, ought instead to take hold of sound teachings.