And Adeimantus broke in and said, What will be your defence, Socrates, if anyone objects that you are not making these men very happy, and that through their own fault? For the city really belongs to them and yet they get no enjoyment out of it as ordinary men do by owning lands and building fine big houses and providing them with suitable furniture and winning the favor of the gods by private sacrifices and entertaining guests and enjoying too those possessions which you just now spoke of, gold and silver and all that is customary for those who are expecting to be happy?
—But they seem, one might say, to be established in idleness in the city, exactly like hired mercenaries, with nothing to do but keep guard. Yes, said I, and what is more, they serve for board-wages and do not even receive pay in addition to their food as others do, so that they will not even be able to take a journey on their own account, if they wish to, or make presents to their mistresses, or spend money in other directions according to their desires like the men who are thought to be happy. These and many similar counts of the indictment you are omitting. Well, said he, assume these counts too. What then will be our apology you ask? Yes. By following the same path I think we shall find what to reply. For we shall say that while it would not surprise us if these men thus living prove to be the most happy, yet the object on which we fixed our eyes in the establishment of our state was not the exceptional happiness of any one class but the greatest possible happiness of the city as a whole. For we thought that in a state so constituted we should be most likely to discover justice as we should injustice in the worst governed state, and that when we had made these out we could pass judgement on the issue of our long inquiry. Our first task then, we take it, is to mold the model of a happy state—we are not isolating a small class in it and postulating their happiness, but that of the city as a whole. But the opposite type of state we will consider presently. It is as if we were coloring a statue and someone approached and censured us, saying that we did not apply the most beautiful pigments to the most beautiful parts of the image, since the eyes, which are the most beautiful part, have not been painted with purple but with black— we should think it a reasonable justification to reply, Don’t expect us, quaint friend, to paint the eyes so fine that they will not be like eyes at all, nor the other parts. But observe whether by assigning what is proper to each we render the whole beautiful. And so in the present case you must not require us to attach to the guardians a happiness that will make them anything but guardians. For in like manner we could clothe the farmers in robes of state and deck them with gold and bid them cultivate the soil at their pleasure, and we could make the potters recline on couches from left to right before the fire drinking toasts and feasting with their wheel alongside to potter with when they are so disposed, and we can make all the others happy in the same fashion, so that thus the entire city may be happy.
—But urge us not to this, since, if we yield, the farmer will not be a farmer nor the potter a potter, nor will any other of the types that constitute state keep its form. However, for the others it matters less. For cobblers who deteriorate and are spoiled and pretend to be the workmen that they are not are no great danger to a state. But guardians of laws and of the city who are not what they pretend to be, but only seem, destroy utterly, I would have you note, the entire state, and on the other hand, they alone are decisive of its good government and happiness. If then we are forming true guardians and keepers of our liberties, men least likely to harm the commonwealth, but the proponent of the other ideal is thinking of farmers and happy feasters as it were in a festival and not in a civic community, he would have something else in mind than a state. Consider, then, whether our aim in establishing the guardians is the greatest possible happiness among them or whether that is something we must look to see develop in the city as a whole, but these helpers and guardians are to be constrained and persuaded to do what will make them the best craftsmen in their own work, and similarly all the rest. And so, as the entire city develops and is ordered well, each class is to be left, to the share of happiness that its nature comports.
—There are two at the least at enmity with one another, the city of the rich and the city of the poor, and in each of these there are many. If you deal with them as one you will altogether miss the mark, but if you treat them as a multiplicity by offering to the one faction the property, the power, the very persons of the other, you will continue always to have few enemies and many allies. And so long as your city is governed soberly in the order just laid down, it will be the greatest of cities. I do not mean greatest in repute, but in reality, even though it have only a thousand defenders. For a city of this size that is really one you will not easily discover either among Greeks or barbarians—but of those that seem so you will find many and many times the size of this. Or do you think otherwise? No, indeed I don’t, said he.
—Their education and nurture, I replied. For if a right education makes of them reasonable men they will easily discover everything of this kind—and other principles that we now pass over, as that the possession of wives and marriage, and the procreation of children and all that sort of thing should be made as far as possible the proverbial goods of friends that are common. Yes, that would be the best way, he said. And, moreover, said I, the state, if it once starts well, proceeds as it were in a cycle of growth. I mean that a sound nurture and education if kept up creates good natures in the state, and sound natures in turn receiving an education of this sort develop into better men than their predecessors both for other purposes and for the production of offspring as among animals also. It is probable, he said. To put it briefly, then, said I, it is to this that the overseers of our state must cleave and be watchful against its insensible corruption. They must throughout be watchful against innovations in music and gymnastics counter to the established order, and to the best of their power guard against them, fearing when anyone says that That song is most regarded among men Which hovers newest on the singer’s lips, Hom. Od. 1.351 lest haply it be supposed that the poet means not new songs but a new way of song and is commending this. But we must not praise that sort of thing nor conceive it to be the poet’s meaning. For a change to a new type of music is something to beware of as a hazard of all our fortunes. For the modes of music are never disturbed without unsettling of the most fundamental political and social conventions, as Damon affirms and as I am convinced. Set me too down in the number of the convinced, said Adeimantus.
—Then, as we were saying in the beginning, our youth must join in a more law-abiding play, since, if play grows lawless and the children likewise, it is impossible that they should grow up to be men of serious temper and lawful spirit. Of course, he said. And so we may reason that when children in their earliest play are imbued with the spirit of law and order through their music, the opposite of the former supposition happens—this spirit waits upon them in all things and fosters their growth, and restores and sets up again whatever was overthrown in the other type of state. True, indeed, he said. Then such men rediscover for themselves those seemingly trifling conventions which their predecessors abolished altogether. Of what sort? Such things as the becoming silence of the young in the presence of their elders; the giving place to them and rising up before them, and dutiful service of parents, and the cut of the hair and the garments and the fashion of the foot-gear, and in general the deportment of the body and everything of the kind. Don’t you think so? I do. Yet to enact them into laws would, I think, be silly. For such laws are not obeyed nor would they last, being enacted only in words and on paper. How could they? At any rate, Adeimantus, I said, the direction of the education from whence one starts is likely to determine the quality of what follows. Does not like ever summon like? Surely. And the final outcome, I presume, we would say is one complete and vigorous product of good or the reverse. Of course, said he. For my part, then, I said, for these reasons I would not go on to try to legislate on such matters. With good reason, said he. But what, in heaven’s name, said I, about business matters, the deals that men make with one another in the agora— and, if you please, contracts with workmen and actions for foul language and assault, the filing of declarations, the impanelling of juries, the payment and exaction of any dues that may be needful in markets or harbors and in general market, police or harbor regulations and the like, can we bring ourselves to legislate about these? Nay, ʼtwould not be fitting, he said, to dictate to good and honorable men. For most of the enactments that are needed about these things they will easily, I presume, discover. Yes, my friend, provided God grants them the preservation of the principles of law that we have already discussed. Failing that, said he, they will pass their lives multiplying such petty laws and amending them in the expectation of attaining what is best. You mean, said I, that the life of such citizens will resemble that of men who are sick, yet from intemperance are unwilling to abandon their unwholesome regimen.
—Then it is by virtue of its smallest class and minutest part of itself, and the wisdom that resides therein, in the part which takes the lead and rules, that a city established on principles of nature would be wise as a whole. And as it appears these are by nature the fewest, the class to which it pertains to partake of the knowledge which alone of all forms of knowledge deserves the name of wisdom. Most true, he said. This one of our four, then, we have, I know not how, discovered, the thing itself and its place in the state. I certainly think, said he, that it has been discovered sufficiently.
—By this analogy, then, said I, you must conceive what we too to the best of our ability were doing when we selected our soldiers and educated them in music and exercises of the body. The sole aim of our contrivance was that they should be convinced and receive our laws like a dye as it were, so that their belief and faith might be fast-colored both about the things that are to be feared and all other things because of the fitness of their nature and nurture, and that so their dyes might not be washed out by those lyes that have such dread power to scour our faiths away, pleasure more potent than any detergent or abstergent to accomplish this, and pain and fear and desire more sure than any lye. This power in the soul, then, this unfailing conservation of right and lawful belief about things to be and not to be feared is what I call and would assume to be courage, unless you have something different to say. No, nothing, said he; for I presume that you consider mere right opinion about the same matters not produced by education, that which may manifest itself in a beast or a slave, to have little or nothing to do with law and that you would call it by another name than courage. That is most true, said I. Well then, he said, I accept this as bravery. Do so, said I, and you will be right with the reservation that it is the courage of a citizen. Some other time, if it please you, we will discuss it more fully. At present we were not seeking this but justice; and for the purpose of that inquiry I believe we have done enough. You are quite right, he said.
—Now the phrase master of himself is an absurdity, is it not? For he who is master of himself would also be subject to himself, and he who is subject to himself would be master. For the same person is spoken of in all these expressions. Of course. But, said I, the intended meaning of this way of speaking appears to me to be that the soul of a man within him has a better part and a worse part, and the expression self-mastery means the control of the worse by the naturally better part. It is, at any rate, a term of praise. But when, because of bad breeding or some association, the better part, which is the smaller, is dominated by the multitude of the worse, I think that our speech censures this as a reproach, and calls the man in this plight unselfcontrolled and licentious. That seems likely, he said. Turn your eyes now upon our new city, said I, and you will find one of these conditions existent in it. For you will say that it is justly spoken of as master of itself if that in which the superior rules the inferior is to be called sober and self-mastered. I do turn my eyes upon it, he said, and it is as you say. And again, the mob of motley appetites and pleasures and pains one would find chiefly in children and women and slaves and in the base rabble of those who are freemen in name. By all means. But the simple and moderate appetites which with the aid of reason and right opinion are guided by consideration you will find in few and those the best born and best educated. True, he said. And do you not find this too in your city and a domination there of the desires in the multitude and the rabble by the desires and the wisdom that dwell in the minority of the better? I do, he said.
—Because its operation is unlike that of courage and wisdom, which residing in separate parts respectively made the city, the one wise and the other brave. That is not the way of soberness, but it extends literally through the entire gamut throughout, bringing about the unison in the same chant of the strongest, the weakest and the intermediate, whether in wisdom or, if you please, in strength, or for that matter in numbers, wealth, or any similar criterion. So that we should be quite right in affirming this unanimity to be soberness, the concord of the naturally superior and inferior as to which ought to rule both in the state and the individual. I entirely concur, he said. Very well, said I. We have made out these three forms in our city to the best of our present judgement. What can be the remaining form that would give the city still another virtue? For it is obvious that the remainder is justice. Obvious. Now then, Glaucon, is the time for us like huntsmen to surround the covert and keep close watch that justice may not slip through and get away from us and vanish from our sight. It plainly must be somewhere hereabouts. Keep your eyes open then and do your best to descry it. You may see it before I do and point it out to me. Would that I could, he said; but I think rather that if you find in me one who can follow you and discern what you point out to him you will be making a very fair use of me. Pray for success then, said I, and follow along with me. That I will do, only lead on, he said. And truly, said I, it appears to be an inaccessible place, lying in deep shadows. It certainly is a dark covert, not easy to beat up. But all the same on we must go. Yes, on. And I caught view and gave a hulloa and said, Glaucon, I think we have found its trail and I don’t believe it will get away from us. I am glad to hear that, said he. Truly, said I, we were slackers indeed. How so? Why, all the time, bless your heart, the thing apparently was tumbling about our feet from the start and yet we couldn’t see it, but were most ludicrous, like people who sometimes hunt for what they hold in their hands. So we did not turn our eyes upon it, but looked off into the distance, which perhaps was the reason it escaped us. What do you mean? he said. This, I replied, that it seems to me that though we were speaking of it and hearing about it all the time we did not understand ourselves or realize that we were speaking of it in a sense. That is a tedious prologue, he said, for an eager listener.
—From this point of view too, then, the having and doing of one’s own and what belongs to oneself would admittedly be justice. That is so. Consider now whether you agree with me. A carpenter undertaking to do the work of a cobbler or a cobbler of a carpenter or their interchange of one another’s tools or honors or even the attempt of the same man to do both—the confounding of all other functions would not, think you, greatly injure a state, would it? Not much, he said. But when I fancy one who is by nature an artisan or some kind of money-maker tempted and incited by wealth or command of votes or bodily strength or some similar advantage tries to enter into the class of the soldiers or one of the soldiers into the class of counsellors and guardians, for which he is not fitted, and these interchange their tools and their honors or when the same man undertakes all these functions at once, then, I take it, you too believe that this kind of substitution and meddlesomeness is the ruin of a state. By all means. The interference with one another’s business, then, of three existent classes and the substitution of the one for the other is the greatest injury to a state and would most rightly be designated as the thing which chiefly works it harm. Precisely so. And the thing that works the greatest harm to one’s own state, will you not pronounce to be injustice? Of course. This, then, is injustice.
—But if something different manifests itself in the individual, we will return again to the state and test it there and it may be that, by examining them side by side and rubbing them against one another, as it were from the fire-sticks we may cause the spark of justice to flash forth, and when it is thus revealed confirm it in our own minds. Well, he said, that seems a sound method and that is what we must do. Then, said I, if you call a thing by the same name whether it is big or little, is it unlike in the way in which it is called the same or like? Like, he said. Then a just man too will not differ at all from a just city in respect of the very form of justice, but will be like it. Yes, like. But now the city was thought to be just because three natural kinds existing in it performed each its own function, and again it was sober, brave, and wise because of certain other affections and habits of these three kinds. True, he said. Then, my friend, we shall thus expect the individual also to have these same forms in his soul, and by reason of identical affections of these with those in the city to receive properly the same appellations. Inevitable, he said. Goodness gracious, said I, here is another trifling inquiry into which we have plunged, the question whether the soul really contains these three forms in itself or not. It does not seem to me at all trifling, he said, for perhaps, Socrates, the saying is true that ’fine things are difficult.’ Apparently, said I; and let me tell you, Glaucon, that in my opinion we shall never in the world apprehend this matter from such methods as we are now employing in discussion. For there is another longer and harder way that conducts to this. Yet we may perhaps discuss it on the level of previous statements and inquiries. May we acquiesce in that? he said. I for my part should be quite satisfied with that for the present. And I surely should be more than satisfied, I replied. Don’t you weary then, he said, but go on with the inquiry. Is it not, then, said I, impossible for us to avoid admitting this much, that the same forms and qualities are to be found in each one of us that are in the state? They could not get there from any other source.
—It would be absurd to suppose that the element of high spirit was not derived in states from the private citizens who are reputed to have this quality as the populations of the Thracian and Scythian lands and generally of northern regions; or the quality of love of knowledge, which would chiefly be attributed to the region where we dwell, or the love of money which we might say is not least likely to be found in Phoenicians and the population of Egypt. One certainly might, he replied. This is the fact then, said I, and there is no difficulty in recognizing it. Certainly not.
—No such remarks then will disconcert us or any whit the more make us believe that it is ever possible for the same thing at the same time in the same respect and the same relation to suffer, be, or do opposites. They will not me, I am sure, said he. All the same, said I, that we may not be forced to examine at tedious length the entire list of such contentions and convince ourselves that they are false, let us proceed on the hypothesis that this is so, with the understanding that, if it ever appear otherwise, everything that results from the assumption shall be invalidated. That is what we must do, he said.
—To return to thirst, then, said I, will you not class it with the things that are of something and say that it is what it is in relation to something—and it is, I presume, thirst? I will, said he, —namely of drink. Then if the drink is of a certain kind, so is the thirst, but thirst that is just thirst is neither of much nor little nor good nor bad, nor in a word of any kind, but just thirst is naturally of just drink only. By all means. The soul of the thirsty then, in so far as it thirsts, wishes nothing else than to drink, and yearns for this and its impulse is towards this. Obviously. Then if anything draws it back when thirsty it must be something different in it from that which thirsts and drives it like a beast to drink. For it cannot be, we say, that the same thing with the same part of itself at the same time acts in opposite ways about the same thing. We must admit that it does not. So I fancy it is not well said of the archer that his hands at the same time thrust away the bow and draw it nigh, but we should rather say that there is one hand that puts it away and another that draws it to. By all means, he said. Are we to say, then, that some men sometimes though thirsty refuse to drink? We are indeed, he said, many and often. What then, said I, should one affirm about them? Is it not that there is something in the soul that bids them drink and a something that forbids, a different something that masters that which bids? I think so. And is it not the fact that that which inhibits such actions arises when it arises from the calculations of reason, but the impulses which draw and drag come through affections and diseases? Apparently. Not unreasonably, said I, shall we claim that they are two and different from one another, naming that in the soul whereby it reckons and reasons the rational and that with which it loves, hungers, thirsts, and feels the flutter and titillation of other desires, the irrational and appetitive—companion of various repletions and pleasures. It would not be unreasonable but quite natural, he said, for us to think this. These two forms, then, let us assume to have been marked off as actually existing in the soul. But now the Thumos or principle of high spirit, that with which we feel anger, is it a third, or would it be identical in nature with one of these? Perhaps, he said, with one of these, the appetitive.
—But, I said, I once heard a story which I believe, that Leontius the son of Aglaion, on his way up from the Peiraeus under the outer side of the northern wall, becoming aware of dead bodies that lay at the place of public execution at the same time felt a desire to see them and a repugnance and aversion, and that for a time he resisted and veiled his head, but overpowered in despite of all by his desire, with wide staring eyes he rushed up to the corpses and cried, There, ye wretches, take your fill of the fine spectacle! I too, he said, have heard the story. Yet, surely, this anecdote, I said, signifies that the principle of anger sometimes fights against desires as an alien thing against an alien. Yes, it does, he said.
—Is it then distinct from this too, or is it a form of the rational, so that there are not three but two kinds in the soul, the rational and the appetitive, or just as in the city there were three existing kinds that composed its structure, the moneymakers, the helpers, the counsellors, so also in the soul there exists a third kind, this principle of high spirit, which is the helper of reason by nature unless it is corrupted by evil nurture? We have to assume it as a third, he said. Yes, said I, provided it shall have been shown to be something different from the rational, as it has been shown to be other than the appetitive. That is not hard to be shown, he said; for that much one can see in children, that they are from their very birth chock-full of rage and high spirit, but as for reason, some of them, to my thinking, never participate in it, and the majority quite late. Yes, by heaven, excellently said, I replied; and further, one could see in animals that what you say is true. And to these instances we may add the testimony of Homer quoted above: He smote his breast and chided thus his heart. Hom. Od. 20.17 For there Homer has clearly represented that in us which has reflected about the better and the worse as rebuking that which feels unreasoning anger as if it were a distinct and different thing. You are entirely right, he said.
—Then is it not, as we said, the blending of music and gymnastics that will render them concordant, intensifying and fostering the one with fair words and teachings and relaxing and soothing and making gentle the other by harmony and rhythm? Quite so, said he. And these two thus reared and having learned and been educated to do their own work in the true sense of the phrase, will preside over the appetitive part which is the mass of the soul in each of us and the most insatiate by nature of wealth. They will keep watch upon it, lest, by being filled and infected with the so-called pleasures associated with the body and so waxing big and strong, it may not keep to its own work but may undertake to enslave and rule over the classes which it is not fitting that it should, and so overturn the entire life of all. By all means, he said. Would not these two, then, best keep guard against enemies from without also in behalf of the entire soul and body, the one taking counsel, the other giving battle, attending upon the ruler, and by its courage executing the ruler’s designs? That is so. Brave, too, then, I take it, we call each individual by virtue of this part in him, when, namely, his high spirit preserves in the midst of pains and pleasures the rule handed down by the reason as to what is or is not to be feared. Right, he said. But wise by that small part that ruled in him and handed down these commands, by its possession in turn within it of the knowledge of what is beneficial for each and for the whole, the community composed of the three. By all means. And again, was he not sober by reason of the friendship and concord of these same parts, when, namely, the ruling principle and its two subjects are at one in the belief that the reason ought to rule, and do not raise faction against it? The virtue of soberness certainly, said he, is nothing else than this, whether in a city or an individual. But surely, now, a man is just by that which and in the way we have so often described. That is altogether necessary. Well then, said I, has our idea of justice in any way lost the edge of its contour so as to look like anything else than precisely what it showed itself to be in the state? I think not, he said. We might, I said, completely confirm your reply and our own conviction thus, if anything in our minds still disputes our definition—by applying commonplace and vulgar tests to it. What are these?
—For example, if an answer were demanded to the question concerning that city and the man whose birth and breeding was in harmony with it, whether we believe that such a man, entrusted with a deposit of gold or silver, would withhold it and embezzle it, who do you suppose would think that he would be more likely so to act than men of a different kind? No one would, he said. And would not he be far removed from sacrilege and theft and betrayal of comrades in private life or of the state in public? He would. And, moreover, he would not be in any way faithless either in the keeping of his oaths or in other agreements. How could he? Adultery, surely, and neglect of parents and of the due service of the gods would pertain to anyone rather than to such a man. To anyone indeed, he said. And is not the cause of this to be found in the fact that each of the principles within him does its own work in the matter of ruling and being ruled? Yes, that and nothing else. Do you still, then, look for justice to be anything else than this potency which provides men and cities of this sort? No, by heaven, he said, I do not.
—What you say is entirely true, Socrates. Well, said I, if we should affirm that we had found the just man and state and what justice really is in them, I think we should not be much mistaken. No indeed, we should not, he said. Shall we affirm it, then? Let us so affirm.
So be it, then, said I; next after this, I take it, we must consider injustice. Obviously. Must not this be a kind of civil war of these three principles, their meddlesomeness and interference with one another’s functions, and the revolt of one part against the whole of the soul that it may hold therein a rule which does not belong to it, since its nature is such that it befits it to serve as a slave to the ruling principle? Something of this sort, I fancy, is what we shall say, and that the confusion of these principles and their straying from their proper course is injustice and licentiousness and cowardice and brutish ignorance and, in general, all turpitude. Precisely this, he replied. Then, said I, to act unjustly and be unjust and in turn to act justly the meaning of all these terms becomes at once plain and clear, since injustice and justice are so. How so? Because, said I, these are in the soul what the healthful and the diseaseful are in the body; there is no difference. In what respect? he said. Healthful things surely engender health and diseaseful disease. Yes. Then does not doing just acts engender justice and unjust injustice? Of necessity. But to produce health is to establish the elements in a body in the natural relation of dominating and being dominated by one another, while to cause disease is to bring it about that one rules or is ruled by the other contrary to nature. Yes, that is so. And is it not likewise the production of justice in the soul to establish its principles in the natural relation of controlling and being controlled by one another, while injustice is to cause the one to rule or be ruled by the other contrary to nature? Exactly so, he said. Virtue, then, as it seems, would be a kind of health and beauty and good condition of the soul, and vice would be disease, ugliness, and weakness. It is so. Then is it not also true that beautiful and honorable pursuits tend to the winning of virtue and the ugly to vice? Of necessity.
—And now at last, it seems, it remains for us to consider whether it is profitable to do justice and practice honorable pursuits and be just, whether one is known to be such or not, or whether injustice profits, and to be unjust, if only a man escape punishment and is not bettered by chastisement. Nay, Socrates, he said, I think that from this point on our inquiry becomes an absurdity—if, while life is admittedly intolerable with a ruined constitution of body even though accompanied by all the food and drink and wealth and power in the world, we are yet to be asked to suppose that, when the very nature and constitution of that whereby we live is disordered and corrupted, life is going to be worth living, if a man can only do as he pleases, and pleases to do anything save that which will rid him of evil and injustice and make him possessed of justice and virtue—now that the two have been shown to be as we have described them. Yes, it is absurd, said I; but nevertheless, now that we have won to this height, we must not grow weary in endeavoring to discover with the utmost possible clearness that these things are so. That is the last thing in the world we must do, he said. Come up here then, said I, that you may see how many are the kinds of evil, I mean those that it is worth while to observe and distinguish. I am with you, he said; only do you say on. And truly, said I, now that we have come to this height of argument I seem to see as from a point of outlook that there is one form of excellence, and that the forms of evil are infinite, yet that there are some four among them that it is worth while to take note of. What do you mean? he said. As many as are the varieties of political constitutions that constitute specific types, so many, it seems likely, are the characters of soul. How many, pray? There are five kinds of constitutions, said I, and five kinds of soul. Tell me what they are, he said. I tell you, said I, that one way of government would be the constitution that we have just expounded, but the names that might be applied to it are two. If one man of surpassing merit rose among the rulers, it would be denominated royalty; if more than one, aristocracy. True, he said. Well, then, I said, this is one of the forms I have in mind. For neither would a number of such men, nor one if he arose among them, alter to any extent worth mentioning the laws of our city—if he preserved the breeding and the education that we have described. It is not likely, he said.