Callias: A Tale of the Fall of Athens

“‘It is true also that many young men hearing me thus questioning others have found delight in this employment and have learnt to imitate me. And they have obtained this result: they have found many persons who think that they know much but in reality know nothing. But they who are thus discovered are irritated, not so much against their questioners, but against me whom they suppose to have taught them this habit. Hence comes this fable of a certain wicked Socrates who is said to corrupt the young men.

“‘Nevertheless, O men of Athens, if you this day release me, I shall not therefore cease to do that which, as I conceive, the god commands. I shall go about the city seeking wisdom; nor shall I cease to say to such as come in my way, My friend, can you, being a citizen of Athens, the most famous city of Greece, help being ashamed if you make riches or rank your highest aim, and care not for that which is indeed the greatest good? This shall I still do to young or old, for it is this that the god orders me to do!’”

Crito paused in his story.

“Magnificent!” cried Callias, “but how did the judges take it? It was a downright defiance of them.”

“Certainly it was, and so they thought it. There was a tremendous uproar. When the noise had ceased, he began again:—‘Do not clamor against me, men of Athens, but hear me patiently; ’tis indeed for your own good that you should. For be assured that putting me to death, you will harm yourselves rather than me. For, having rid yourselves of me, you will not easily find any one who will do for you the office that I have done, which has been, I take it, that of a rider upon a horse of good breed, indeed, and strong, but needing the spur. Such a rider have I been to the city, sitting close and exciting you continually by persuasion and reproach. You will not easily find another like me; and if you are angry with me, yet remember that persons awakened out of sleep are angry with the man who rouses them, though it may be to the saving of their lives. And remember this too: what I have done, I have done without pay; no one can bring up this against me that I have done anything for gain. If you ask a proof, look at my poverty—that is proof enough.

“‘And if any one ask me why I go about meddling with every body and giving them advice, and yet never come forward and give any advice about matters of state, I make him this answer: There is a voice within me, of which Meletus idly speaks as if it were another god, which never indeed urges me to do anything, but often warns me against doing this or that. This same voice has often warned me against taking part in public affairs, and rightly so indeed, for be assured that if I had so taken part, I should long ago have perished. And do not be offended if I tell you the truth. No man can be safe who opposes things wrong and illegal that are done by the people. If he would live, even but for a short time, he must keep to a private station.

“‘Do you not remember, men of Athens, how when you had to judge the admirals that did not save the shipwrecked men at Arginusæ, I would not put the motion to the vote? For though I had never held any public office I was in the Senate, and it so chanced that my tribe that day had the presidency. You chose to judge all the men together, acting wrongfully, as you afterward acknowledged. And I alone of all the presidents opposed this thing, and would not yield, no not when the orators denounced me, and would have joined me with the accused. This was in the time of the democracy.

“‘And afterwards when the democracy was overthrown, and the oligarchy was in power, what happened? Did not the Thirty send for me along with four others to their council-chamber, and bid us fetch Leon of Salamis, that he might be put to death. This they did, after their habit, seeking to involve as many as possible in their wicked deeds. Then also I showed not in words only, but in deeds that I cared not one jot for death. For in the chamber I declared that I would not do this thing, and when we had gone out, the other four indeed went to Salamis, and fetched Leon, but I went to my own home. Doubtless I should have died for this act, but that the Thirty were overthrown soon afterward.

“‘And what I have done publicly that I have privately also. Never have I conceded anything that was wrong to any man. But if any man would hear what I said I never grudged him the opportunity. I have offered myself to rich and poor, whether they would question me themselves or answer my questions, nor have I spoken for pay, nor been silent because I was not paid, nor have I ever said aught to any man that I have not said to all.

“‘So much, men of Athens, might suffice for my defence, but if any of you, remembering that other men when accused have brought their children before you seeking to rouse compassion, are angry with me because I have not so done, let him listen to me. I, too, have family ties.

“‘From no gnarled oak I sprang, or flinty rock, as Homer has it, but am born of man. Three sons I have; two of them are children, one an infant. Should I then bring them before you, and seek to move your pity by the sight of them? Not so. I have seen many thus demeaning themselves, as if, forsooth, you acquitting them, they would escape death altogether; but such behavior would ill befit those who seek to follow after virtue and honor. Nor is such behavior only unseemly; it is wrong. For we are bound to convince a judge, not to persuade him, and he is set in his place not to give justice as a favor, but because it is justice. Verily, if I should have to persuade you to act against your oaths I should be condemning myself of the very charge that Meletus has brought against me, for I should act as if I did not believe that the gods by whom ye have sworn to do right are gods at all. Far be it from me so to act. I believe in the gods more than my accusers believe; and I leave it to these gods and to you to judge concerning me as it may be best for you and for me.’”

“No man,” said Cebes, “could have spoken better; but it was not the speech that would please or conciliate.”

“And what was the result?” asked Callias.

“After all there was only a majority of six against him; two hundred and eighty-one against two hundred and seventy-five were the numbers. Then came the question of the sentence. The prosecutor had demanded the penalty of death. ‘Socrates,’ said the president of the court, ‘what penalty do you yourself propose?’[87] ‘You ask me,’ said Socrates, ‘what penalty I myself propose. What then do I deserve, I who have not sought to make money, or to hold office in the state, or to command soldiers and ships, who have not even attended to my own affairs, but have sought to do to others what I thought to be their highest good? What should be done to me for being such a man? Surely something good, something suitable to one who is your benefactor, and who requires leisure that he may spend it in giving you good advice. There is nothing, I conceive, more suitable than that I should be maintained at the public expense in the Town Hall, with those who have done great services to the State. Surely I deserve such a reward far more than he who has won a chariot race at the Olympic games; for he only makes you think yourselves fortunate, whereas I teach you to be happy.’

“Of course there was a loud murmur of disapprobation at this. Even some of those who had voted for acquittal were vexed at language so bold.

“Socrates began again: ‘You think that I show too much pride when I talk in this fashion. But it is not so. Let me show you what I mean. As to the penalty which the accuser demands, I cannot say whether it be good or evil; but the other things which I might propose in its stead I know to be evils—imprisonment, or a fine with imprisonment till it be paid, or exile, which last, indeed, you might accept. But if you cannot endure my ways, O men of Athens, think you that others would endure them? And what a life for a man of my age to lead, this wandering from city to city! But if anyone should say, Why, O Socrates, will you not depart to some other city, and there live quietly, and hold your tongue? I answer, To do this would be to disobey the god, and I cannot do it. And indeed to live without talking and questioning about such matters is not to live at all. But I have not yet named the penalty. If I had money I should propose some fine which I could pay; but I have none, except indeed you are willing to impose upon me some small fine, for I think that I could raise a pound of silver.’ At this there was another growl from the judges; and some of us who were standing by Socrates caught him by the robe, and whispered to him. After a pause, he said, ‘Some of my friends, Crito and Plato and Apollodorus, advise me to propose a fine of thirty minas[88] and offer to be security. So I propose that sum.’

“Of course the result was certain. A majority much larger than before voted for the death penalty. Then the condemned man spoke for the last time. You will be able to read for yourself the very words that he said. I can now give you only an idea of the end of his speech. He had told the judges, speaking especially to those who had voted for his acquittal, that the voice that was wont to warn him had never hindered him in the course of his speech, though it was not the speech that he should have made if he had wanted to save his life. From this he argued that he and they had reason to believe that death was a good thing. ‘Either,’ he said, ‘the dead are nothing and feel nothing, or they remove hence to some other place. What can be better than to feel nothing? What days or nights in all our lives are better than those nights in which we sleep soundly without even a dream? But if the common belief is true, and we pass in death to that place wherein are all who have ever died, what greater good can there be than this? If one passes from those who are called judges here to those who really judge and administer true justice, to Æacus and Minos and Rhadamanthus, is this a change to be lamented? What would not any one of you give to join the company of Homer and Orpheus and Hesiod? or talk with those who led that great army of Greeks to Troy, or with any of the many thousands of good men and women that have lived upon the earth? Verily, I would die many times if I could only hope to do this. And now it is time’—for these were his very last words of all—‘that we should separate. I go to die, you remain to live; but which of us is going the better way, only the gods know.’”

There was a deep silence in the room after Crito had finished speaking. It was broken at last by Callias, who asked, “How long since was that?”

“Nearly two months,” said Simmias, “but by a strange chance Socrates was not put to death for nearly a month after his condemnation. It so happened that the Sacred Ship started for Delos just at the time, and during its voyage—in fact from the moment that the priest fastens the chaplet on the stern—no man can be put to death. For thirty days then he was kept in prison. There we were permitted to visit him, and there we heard many things that are well worth being remembered.”

“I want to hear everything,” cried Callias.

“You shall in good time,” said Crito. “Come to my house to-morrow and I will put you in the way of your getting what you want.”

“But you ought to hear,” cried Apollodorus, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, “what the teacher said to me, though, indeed, it shows no great wisdom in me that he had occasion to say it. ‘O Socrates,’ I said, when I saw him turning away from the place where he had stood before his judges—and nothing could be more cheerful than his look—‘O Socrates, this indeed is the hardest thing to bear that you should have been condemned unjustly.’ ‘Nay, not so, my friend,’ he answered, ‘would the matter have been more tolerable if I had been condemned justly?’”

There was a general laugh. “That is true,” said Crito, “but certainly as far as Athens is concerned, it was a more shameful thing.”

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE LAST CONVERSATION.

Crito naturally took charge of Callias as being his special guest. As the two were walking, the young man said, “Tell me, Crito, if it is not unpleasing to you, whether in the thirty days during which the Master was held in prison, any efforts were made to save his life?”

“I am glad,” said Crito, “that you have asked me that question privately and not before others, for, indeed, this is a matter which has caused me no little amount of trouble and shame. Some people blame me because, they say, though a rich man I did not bribe the jailer of the prison in which Socrates was confined, and thus enable him to escape. I am blameable, indeed, but for an exactly opposite reason. I did bribe the man—this of course is in absolute confidence between you and me—and in this, as the Master showed me, I was wrong. Indeed I never received from him so severe a rebuke as I did concerning this matter. But let me tell you what happened. I had arranged everything. The jailer was to let him escape. There were people ready to carry him out of the country. I went to him early in the morning of the day when the ship was expected to return. I told him what I had done. I made light of the money that the affair was to cost. I could well afford it, I said, and if I could not there were others ready to contribute. And then I attacked him, it was an impudent thing to do, but I felt as if I could do anything that we should not lose him. I told him that it was wrong of him to do his best to let his enemies get their way. I said to him, ‘Thus acting you desert your children, whom you might bring up and educate. But if you die you will leave them orphans and friendless. Either you ought not to have children or you ought to take some trouble about them. Surely this does not become one who has made virtue his study throughout his life. And remember what a disgrace will fall upon us, for it will certainly be said that we did not do our best to save your life.’

“Well, I cannot tell you now a tenth part of what he said. I have it all written down at home, but I may say what you will easily believe that I was as helpless in his hands as the veriest pretender whom he has ever cross-examined. I know that he ended by making me thoroughly ashamed of myself. One of his chief arguments was this:

“‘Suppose, Crito, that as I was in the act of escaping, the State itself were to say to me: Are you not seeking to destroy by so acting the laws of the State itself? Is not that State already dissolved wherein public sentences are set aside by private persons? What should I answer to such questions? And if the laws were to say, What complaint have you got to make against us that you seek to destroy us? Do you not owe your being to us, seeing that your father and mother married according to our ordering? Have we not given you nurture, education, all the good things that you possess as being an Athenian? Have you not acknowledged us by living in the city, by having children in it? And if they were further to say, Verily, he who acts in this way in which you are about to act is a corrupter of youth—what could I answer?

“‘And tell me, Crito,’ he went on, ‘whither would you have me betake myself? Not surely to any well-ordered city seeing that I had shown myself the enemy of such order, but rather to some abode of riot, which would indeed ill become one who had professed to be a lover of virtue and righteousness. And as for my children, how shall I benefit them? By taking them elsewhere and bringing them up not as citizens of Athens, but as citizens of some other State which I myself here have judged inferior, seeing that all my life long I have deliberately preferred Athens to it?’ Verily, Callias, when he said this, I had no answer. But here we are at Phaedo’s house.”

Callias was not a little surprised when he was introduced to the man whom he had been brought to see. Phaedo was a man much younger than himself; indeed he had scarcely completed his eighteenth year. His appearance was singularly attractive, and his manners had all the grace and ease of a well-born and well-bred man. That he was not an Athenian was evident from his speech, which was somewhat tinged with a Doric accent. Altogether Callias was at a loss to think who or what he could be, and how he came to be regarded as the best interpreter of the Master’s last words. An opportunity, however, arrived for enlightening him. After a few minutes’ conversation, a slave appeared with a message for the master of the house. Plato who had been compelled to absent himself from the last interview with Socrates, as has been said, was still so unwell that his physician forbade the excitement of seeing visitors. He now sent for Phaedo to entrust him with a message of apology for his fellow disciples whom he was unable to entertain, and partly to set him free to act the part of host in his stead.

Crito seized the opportunity of his temporary absence from the room to give some particulars about him. “He comes of a very good family in Elis, and was taken prisoner about this time last year when Athens and Sparta were allies and acting against that country. He was sold in the slave market here, and I cannot tell the cruelties that he endured from the wretch who bought him. Somehow he heard of Socrates, ran away from his owner and begged for the Master’s protection. Of course, the only thing was to buy him, and equally of course, Socrates was wholly unable to do this. But the Master, if he had no wealth of his own, happily had wealthy friends. He went to Plato and, by great good luck, Plato had a very powerful hold over the poor fellow’s owner; the man owed him a large sum of money, the interest of which was overdue. He was purchased, and at once set free. Plato found that he had been remarkably well educated and that he showed an extraordinary aptitude for philosophy. The lad’s devotion to Socrates was unbounded. He never lost a chance of being near him; he was present of course at the last day, and he watched and listened with an intense earnestness that seemed to engrave everything on his mind as one engraves letters upon marble or bronze. But, see, he is coming back. Now you will understand why I have brought you to see him.”

The young man, at this moment, returned to the room.

“Tell me, Phaedo,” said Crito, “what you saw and heard on the last day of the Master’s life. My friend Callias here, who has just come back from campaigning against the Great King, desires to hear it from you, and, indeed, though we all were present on that day, you seem to remember it more accurately than any.”

“I will do my best,” said the youth modestly. “I do not know,” he went on, addressing himself especially to Callias, “whether you will wholly understand me when I say that I did not feel compassion as one might feel for one who was dying—he was so calm and so happy. Neither, on the other hand, did I feel the pleasure that commonly followed from his discourses, for I knew that he would soon cease to be.”

“It was just so with all of us,” said Crito, “but go on.”

“We had been to visit Socrates daily through the time of his imprisonment, assembling very early in the morning, and waiting till the doors of the prison were opened, and so we did on this day, only earlier than usual, because we knew that the Sacred Ship had arrived the evening before. The jailer came out. ‘You must wait, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the Eleven[89] are with him. They are taking off his chains, and are telling him that he must die to-day.’ After a little while the man came out again, and said that we might go in. When we went in, we found Socrates sitting on the side of his bed, and his wife, Xanthippe, near him, holding one of his children in her arms. As soon as she saw us, she began to lament and say, ‘O Socrates, here are your friends come to see you for the last time.’ Then Socrates, looking at her, said to Crito, ‘Let some one take her home.’ So one of Crito’s servants led her away. After a while, for of course I must leave out many things, the Master said, ‘I have a message for Evenus, who seeks to know, I am told, why I have taken to writing verses in prison. Tell him that a god appeared to me in a dream and told me to cultivate the muses. Tell him also that if he is wise he will follow me as speedily as possible, for it seems that the Athenians command that I depart to-day.’

“‘But, Socrates,’ said Simmias, ‘this is a strange piece of advice, and one which Evenus is not likely to take.’

“‘Why so,’ said Socrates, ‘is he not a philosopher? Surely he should be ready to go the road which I am going. Only he must not kill himself.’ ‘Why do you say this?’ said Cebes.

“You will correct me,” said Phaedo, turning to the company, “if I misrepresent anything that you said.”

“Speak on without fear,” said Simmias, “you seem to have the memory of all the muses.”

Phaedo resumed, “Socrates said, ‘You ask me why a man may not kill himself? Well, there is first this reason that we are as sentinels set at a post, which we must not leave until we are bidden; then again if men be servants of the gods, as seems likely, how can they withdraw from this service without leave? Would you not be angry if one of your servants were to do it?’

“‘True,’ said Cebes, ‘but if we are the servants of the gods, and therefore in the best guardianship, should we not be sorry to quit it? If so, is it not for the foolish to desire death and for the wise to regret it?’ ‘You are right,’ replied the Master, ‘and if I did not expect when I depart hence to go to the realms of the wise and good gods and to the company of righteous men, I should indeed grieve at death. And that I am right in so expecting let me now seek to prove to you, for what better could I do on this the last day of my life? But stay; Crito wishes to say something. What is it?’ Crito said, ‘He who has to give the poison says that you must talk as little as possible, for that if a man so excites himself he has to drink sometimes two potions or even three.’ ‘Let him take his course,’ said the master, ‘and prepare what he thinks needful. And now to the matter in hand. Death, then, is nothing but a separation of the soul from the body. That you concede. And you concede further that a philosopher should care little for the things of the body, and that when he is most free from the body, then he sees most clearly the highest and best things, perceiving, for instance, right and justice and honor and goodness, veritable things all of them, but such as cannot be discerned with the eyes or handled with the hands. For the body with its desires and wants hinders us, and makes us waste our time on the things that it covets, so that we have neither time nor temper for wisdom. If then we are ever to reach absolute Truth we must get rid of the hindrance. While we live we do this to the best of our ability, and he is the wisest man and best philosopher who does it most completely; but wholly we cannot do it, till the god shall liberate us from the control of this companion—And this is done by Death, which is the complete separation of soul and body. Shall then the philosopher, who has all his life been striving for such partial separation as may be possible, complain when the gods send him this separation that is complete? And this is my defence, my friends, for holding it to be a good thing to die.’ ‘Yes,’ replied Cebes, ‘but many fear that when the soul is thus parted from the body, it may be nowhere, being dissipated like a breath or a puff of smoke when the body with which it has been united dies.’ ‘You desire, then,’ said Socrates, ‘that I should prove to you that the soul does not perish when it is thus separated from the body?’ ‘Yes,’ we all said, ‘that is what we all wish.’ ‘First then,’ he went on, ‘is it not true that every thing implies that which is opposite to it, as Right implies Wrong, and Fair implies Foul, and to sleep is the opposite of to wake? If so does not to die imply its opposite to live again?

“‘Secondly, is it not true that the highest part of our knowledge is a remembering again? For there are things which we know not through our senses. How then do we know them? Surely because we had this knowledge of them at some previous time.’

“‘But,’ said Cebes, ‘may it not be true that the soul has been made beforehand to enter the body; and having entered it lives therein, and yet perishes when its dwelling is dissolved?’

“‘Being of a frail nature, I suppose,’ said the Master, ‘it’s all to be blown away by the wind, so that a man should be especially afraid to die on a stormy day.’

“At this we all laughed, for we did laugh many times and heartily that day, though now this may seem to others and indeed to ourselves almost incredible, seeing what we were about to lose.

“‘Well,’ the Master went on, ‘I will seek to relieve you of this fear. Is it not true that things that are made up of parts are liable to be separated? And is it not also true that the soul is not made up of parts, but is simple and not compounded? Also it is visible things that perish; but the soul is not visible. Again the soul is the ruler, and the body the servant. Is it not true that the divine and immortal rule the human and mortal senses?’

“To this we all agreed.

“The Master began again, for he now, as I may say, had to put before us the conclusion of the whole matter. ‘We may think thus, then, may we not? If the soul depart from the body in a state of purity, not taking with it any of the uncleannesses of the body, from which indeed it has kept itself free during life as far as was possible—for this is true philosophy—then it departs into that invisible region which is of its own nature, and being freed from all fears and desires and other evils of mortality, spends the rest of its existence with the gods and the spirits of the good that are like unto itself. But if it depart, polluted and impure, having served the body, and suffered itself to be bewitched by its pleasures and desires, then it cannot attain to this pure and heavenly region, but must abide in some place that is more fitted for it.’

“Much else he said on this point to which we listened as though it were another Orpheus that was singing to us. And when he had ended and sat wrapt in thought, we were silent, fearing to disturb him. And so we remained for no little space of time in silence, he sitting on the bed, as if he neither saw nor heeded any of the things that were about him, and we regarded him most earnestly.

“After a while he woke up, as it were, from his reverie and said, ‘You have agreed with me so far; yet it may be that you have yet fears and doubts in your minds which I have not yet dispersed. If so let me hear them, that I may, if it be possible, rid you of them, for indeed I cannot, as I conceive, leave behind me a greater gift for you than such a riddance. Speak then, if there is anything that you would say.’

“Simmias said—I put, you will perceive, his argument in a few words: ‘May it not be that the soul is in the body as a harmony is in a harp? For the harmony is invisible and beautiful and divine, and the harp is visible and material and mortal. Yet when the harp perishes, then the harmony also, of necessity, ceases to be.’

“When Simmias had ended, Cebes began: ‘I do indeed believe that the soul is more durable than the body. Just so; the wearer is more durable than the thing which he wears. Yet at the last, one thing that he weaves proves to be more durable than he. So may the soul outlast many bodies, and yet perish finally, worn out, so to speak, by having gone through so many births.’

“Have I put these things rightly, O Simmias and Cebes?” said the young philosopher, addressing them, “though indeed I have made them very brief.”

“You have put them rightly,” the two agreed.

“When we heard these things,” Phaedo went on, “we were also greatly disturbed; for we desired to believe that which the Master was seeking to prove, and seemed to have attained certainly, and now we were thrown back again into confusion and doubt.”

“And how did the Master take it, O Phaedo?” said Callias; “for indeed I feel much as you describe yourselves as having felt. Having reached a certain hope, not to say conviction, I am now disturbed by fears.”

“Nothing could be more admirable than his behavior. That he should be able to answer, was to be expected; but that he should receive these objections so sweetly, so gently, and perceiving our dismay, quickly encourage us, and, so to speak, reform our broken ranks—this indeed was beyond all praise.

“I myself was sitting on a low seat by the side of his bed. He dropped his hand, and stroked my head and the hair which lay upon my neck, I wore it long in those days,[90] for he was often wont to play with my hair. Then he said, ‘I suppose, Phaedo, that you intend to cut off these beautiful locks to-morrow, as mourners are wont to do.’

“‘I suppose so,’ I said.

“‘But you must cut them off to-day and not to-morrow if our doctrine be stricken to death, and we cannot bring it to life again.’ Then he turned to Simmias and Cebes, and said, ‘Hear now what I have to say, but while you hear, think much of the truth but little of Socrates; and be on your guard lest in my eagerness I deceive not myself only but you also, and leave my sting behind me when I die even as does a bee. You, Simmias, think that the soul may be but as a harmony in the body. But do you not remember what we said about all knowledge being a remembering, and that what the soul knows it has before learnt? It existed then before the body; but a harmony cannot exist before the things are put together of which it proceeds. Then again harmony may be more or less; but one soul cannot be more a soul than another. And if, as the wise men say, virtue is harmony and vice discord, we have a harmony of a discord, which cannot be; finally one part of the soul often opposes another, as reason opposes appetite; how then is the soul a harmony? You, Cebes, hold, indeed, that the soul is durable, but may not be immortal. Hear then my answer. You believe that there are ideas or principles of things, and that these ideas, being invisible, are the real causes of things that are visible.’ Cebes acknowledged that he did so believe. ‘Is not now the soul the principle of life, and is not this principle the opposite of death? In its essence, therefore, it is immortal; but that which is immortal cannot be destroyed, no, even though there are things which seem to threaten its existence.’

“In this we all agreed. After this Socrates discoursed in many words about the abodes and dwelling-places of the dead both good and bad, and of the manner in which they are dealt with by the powers thereunto appointed. But of this I will speak on some other occasion, if you will. At present time is short, for I must not leave the sick man any longer, only I will relate the very end of the Master’s discourse and the things that happened after.

“‘To affirm positively about such matters,’ he said, ‘is not the part of a wise man. Yet what I have said seems reasonable. And anyhow he who has scorned the body and its pleasures during life, and has adorned the soul with her proper virtues, justice and courage and truth, may surely await his passage to the other world with a good hope. But now destiny calls me, and I must obey. But I will bathe before I take the poison, that the women may not have the trouble of washing my body.’

“Then Crito asked: ‘Have you any directions to give us?’

“‘Nothing now; if you rightly order your own lives, you will do the best for me and my children; but if you do not, then whatever you may promise, you will fail.’

“‘But,’ Crito asked, ‘how shall we bury you?’

“‘As you will,’ said he, ‘provided only you can catch me and that I do not slip out of your hands.’ Then he smiled, and said, ‘Crito here will not be persuaded that I am saying the truth. He thinks that I am the dead body that he will soon see here, and asks how he shall bury me. Assure him then that when this dead body is laid in the grave or put upon the pyre to be burnt it is not Socrates that he sees. For to speak in this way, O Crito, is not only absurd but harmful.’

“After this he bathed, remaining in the bath-chamber for some time. This being ended, his children were brought to him, and the women of his family also. With these he talked awhile in the presence of Crito, and afterward commanded that some one should take the women and children away. And it was now near sunset. Hereupon the servant of the Eleven came in, and said, ‘O Socrates, you will not be angry with me and curse me when I tell you, as the magistrates constrained me to do, that you must drink the poison. I have always found you most gentle and generous, the best by far of all that have come into this place. You will be angry, not with me, for you know that I am blameless, but with those whom you know to be in fault. And now, for you know what I am come to tell you, bear what must be borne as cheerfully as may be.’ And saying this the man turned away his face and wept.

“‘Farewell!’ said Socrates, ‘I will do as you bid,’ and looking to us he said, ‘How courteous he is! All the time he has been so, sometimes talking to me, and showing himself the best of fellows. And now see how generously he weeps for me! But we must do what he says. Let some one bring the poison, if it has been pounded; if not, let the man pound it.’

“‘But,’ said Crito, ‘the sun is still upon the mountains. I have known some who would prolong the day eating and drinking till it was quite late before they drank. Anyhow do not be in a hurry. There is still plenty of time.’

“‘Ah!’ said Socrates, ‘these men were quite consistent. They thought that they were gaining so much time. But I too must be consistent. I believe that I shall gain nothing by dying an hour or two later, except indeed the making of myself a laughing stock by clinging to life when there is really nothing left of it to cling to.’

“Then Crito made a sign to the slave that was standing by; he went out, and after some time had passed brought in the man whose duty it was to give the poison, and who brought it in ready mixed in a cup. When Socrates caught sight of him, he said:

“‘Well, my friend, you know all about these matters. What must I do?’

“‘You will only have to walkabout after you have drunk the poison, till you feel a sort of weight in your legs. Then you should lie down, and the poison will do the rest.’

“So saying, he reached the cup to the Master, who took it. His hand did not shake; there was not the least change in his color or his look. Only he put his head forward in the way he had, and said to the man:

“‘How about making a libation from the cup? May we do it?’

“‘Socrates,’ said the man, ‘we pound just so much as we think sufficient.’

“‘I understand,’ said the Master. ‘Still we may, nay we must, pray to the gods that my removal hence to that place may be fortunate. The gods grant this! Amen!’ And as he said this he put the cup to his lips and drank it off in the easiest, quietest way possible.

“Up to that time we had all been fairly well able to keep from tears. But when we saw him drinking the poison, when we knew that he had finished it, we could restrain them no longer. As for myself I covered my face with my mantle, and wept to myself. Not for him did I weep, but for myself, thinking what a friend I had lost. And others were still more overcome than I was. Only Socrates was quite unmoved.

“‘Why all this,’ he said, ‘my dear friends? I sent the women away for this very reason, that they might not vex us in this fashion. I have heard it said that a man ought to die with good words in his ears. Be quiet, I beseech, and bear yourselves like men.’

“When we heard this we were not a little ashamed of ourselves, and kept back our tears. He walked about till he felt the weight in his legs, and then lay down on his back—this was what the man bade him do. Then the man who administered the poison squeezed his foot pretty strongly, and asked him whether he felt anything. He said no. Then the man showed us how the numbness was going higher and higher.

“‘When it reaches his heart,’ he said, ‘he will die.’

“When the groin was cold the Master uncovered his face—for he had covered it before—and said, ‘Crito, we owe a cock to Æsculapius; pay it, do not forget.’

“These were the last words he said.

“‘I will,’ said Crito, ‘is there anything more?’

“But he made no answer. A little time after, we saw him move. Then the man uncovered the face, and we saw that his eyes were set. Then Crito closed his mouth and his eyes.”

Phaedo left the room hastily when he had finished his narrative. For some time there was silence. Then Apollodorus spoke.

“You know, my friends,” he said, “that I am not very wise nor at all learned; but he bore with me and my foolishness, and you will also because you know I loved him. Let me say then one thing. Much that Socrates said that day I did not understand, nor do I understand it now when I hear it again. Yet no one could be more fully persuaded than I was that he spoke the truth. And what persuaded me was the sight of the man. So brave was he, so cheerful, so wholly convinced in his own mind, that no one could doubt that he was indeed about to depart to a better place.”

CHAPTER XXX.
THE CONDITION OF EXILE.

The story that Callias had heard of the last days of his Master, and heard, of course, with many details which it is now impossible to reproduce, made, it need hardly be said, a profound impression on him. First and foremost—and this was what the dead man himself would have been most rejoiced to see—was the profound conviction that this teaching, inspired, as it was, with a faith which the immediate prospect of death had not been able to shake, was absolutely true. The young man can hardly be said to have had any feeling of religion in the sense in which we understand that word. To believe in the fables, grotesque or even immoral, which made up the popular theology, in gods who were only exaggerated men, stronger, indeed, but more cruel, treacherous, and lustful, was an impossibility. The poets’ tales of the Elysian plain and of the abyss of Tartarus had in no wise helped towards producing any emotions of the spiritual kind, any wish to dwell in an invisible world. The most sacred of these poets in his description of that world as another earth in which everything was feebler, paler, less satisfying than it is here, had certainly repelled rather than attracted him. Now this want had been supplied; the lofty teaching of duty, duty owed to country, kinsfolk, friends, fellow-citizens, fellow-men, that he had heard from the Master was now supplemented and sanctioned by this clear enunciation of a doctrine of immortality. The young man felt that he could face the world, whether it brought him prosperity or adversity, joy or sorrow, life or death, with a more equable soul or more assured spirit than he had ever dreamed could be possible.

His immediate duty, however, was less clear. When his country lay under the heel of the Spartan conqueror, Hermione had pointed out to him—not without sacrifice of herself, as he sometimes could not help feeling, what he owed to the city that had given him birth. But now, how did the case stand? Athens had suffered a second, a more fatal fall. She might repair her losses; she might retrieve defeat. But when she had definitely broken with right and truth, had deliberately chosen the worse rather than the better, what hope, what remedy was there? And what was the obligation on himself? Could he aspire to a career in a State which was so false to all the principles of life and government?

The two or three days that followed the conversation related in my last chapter were spent by the young Athenian in debating with himself the question: What am I to do? But the more he thought over the problem, the more complex and intricate did it seem to become. Just when he was beginning to despair, a solution, rude and peremptory, but satisfactory in so far as it admitted of no questioning, was forced upon him.

He had just risen on the morning of the fourth day, when a visitor was announced. It was Xenophon, looking, as Callias thought, serious, but not depressed.

“And what have you been doing these three days?” cried the newcomer.

“Thinking,” replied Callias.

“That is exactly what I have been doing myself, and I would wager my chance of being Archon next year, a very serious stake indeed, that we have had the same subject for our thoughts. You have been debating with yourself what you are to do?”

“Exactly so; and I am no nearer a conclusion than I was when I began.”

“Well, some one else has been good enough to save us the trouble of deciding. Listen to this. I have a friend in office, I should tell you, and he has given me an early copy of what will be soon known all over Athens. ‘It is proposed by Erasinides, son of Lysias, of the township of Colonus, that Xenophon, son of Grythus, of the township of Orchia, and Callias, son of Hipponicus, of the township of Eleusis,’ and some twenty others, whose names I need not trouble you with, ‘be banished from Athens for unpatriotic conduct, especially in aiding and abetting the designs of Cyrus, who was a notorious enemy of the Athenian people.’ Well; that is going to be proposed to the Senate to-day. My friend, who knows all about the strings, and how they are pulled, tells me that it is certain to be carried. In the course of a few days it will be brought before the Assembly, and I have no doubt whatever that it will be accepted.”

“But what have the Athenian people got to do with Cyrus, who is dead and gone, and can neither help nor hurt?”

“Ah! you don’t understand. The Lacedaemonians, you know, have declared war against the Persian King. Of course that gives the Athenians a chance of becoming his friends. It is true that things are not ripe just yet for anything decisive or public. We are allies with the Lacedaemonians, and can’t venture to quarrel with them. But this is a matter at which they cannot take offence, but which will most certainly please the Great King. He has not forgotten the Cyrus business, you may depend upon it, and it will delight him to hear of any who had a part in it suffering for their act. That is why we are to be banished. It is disgraceful, I allow, to find a great city banishing its citizens in order to curry favor with the barbarians; but it is a fact, and we must take it into account.”

“And what shall you do?”

“I shall go to Asia. I had intended to go in any case, for I have private affairs there, nothing less important, I may tell you in confidence, than marrying a wife. Then I shall find something to do with the Spartans, among whom I have some very good friends. Come with me. You too, might find a wife; that will be as you please; but anyhow I can guarantee you employment.”

“I confess,” said Callias, after meditating awhile, “that I do not feel greatly drawn by what you suggest. As for the wife, that prospect does not please me at all; and, as you know, I am not so much of a Spartan-lover[91] as you. You must let me think about it; you shall have a final answer to-morrow.”

When Xenophon had taken leave, Callias went straight to Hippocles, and happened to arrive just as a messenger was leaving the house with a note addressed to himself, and asking for an early visit. Callias related what he had just heard from Xenophon.

“You do not surprise me. In fact I also have had a private intimation from a member of the Senate that this is going to be done, and it is exactly the matter about which I wished to see you. But tell me, what does Xenophon advise?”

Callias told him.

“And you hesitate about accepting his offer?”

“Yes; I do more than hesitate; I feel more and more averse to it the more I think of it.”

“You are right; to take service with the Spartans must, almost of necessity, mean, sooner or later, some collision with your own country. It was this that ruined Alcibiades. If he could only have had patience, he could have saved himself and the Athenians too, but that visit to Sparta ruined both. No; I should advise you against Xenophon’s suggestion.”

“But where am I to go? I have thought of Syracuse. But I do not care to go back to Dionysius. He was all courtesy and kindness; but I felt suffocated in the air of his court. And we never feel quite safe with a tyrant.”

“I have thought of something else that might suit you. I am going to start in a few days’ time on a visit to my own native country, not to Poseidonia—I could not bear to see the barbarians masters there—but to Italy. There are other Greek cities which still hold their own, and they are well worth seeing. You might, too, if you choose, pay another visit to Rome. You will at least have the advantage of being out of this dismal round of strife to which Greece itself seems doomed. Our countrymen there have, I know, faults of their own; but they do contrive to live on tolerably good terms with each other.”

The plan proposed seemed to Callias to promise better than any that he could think of and he accepted the offer with thankfulness. A few days afterwards he was gazing for what he felt might well be the last time at the city of his birth. Bathed in the sunshine of a summer morning stood the Acropolis, crowned with its marble temples, and, towering above all, the gigantic statue of Athene the Champion, her outstretched spear-point flashing in the light. What glories he was leaving behind him! What lost hopes, what unfulfilled aspirations of his own! The tears of no unmanly emotion were in his eyes as he turned away, but not before he had caught sight of a well-known house by the harbor of Piraeus. This seemed to be the last drop of bitterness in his cup. She had lost him for his country’s sake, and now he had lost her, too. He turned and found himself face to face with Hermione! There was something in her look which made his heart thrill; but she did not give him time to speak.

“Callias,” she said, “you gave up what you said was dear to me,” and her blush deepened as she spoke, “for Athens’ sake. But now—if you have not forgotten—”

He needed to hear no more. The next moment, careless of the eyes of the old helmsman, he had clasped her in his arms.

“I can allow myself to love the exile,” she whispered in his ear.

Author’s Postscript.

It is impossible for the writer of historical fiction, especially if he wishes to suggest to his readers as many subjects of interest as possible, to adapt the literary necessities of his work to fit in with the actual course of events. But he is bound to point out such departures from historical accuracy as he feels constrained to make. It is quite possible that a correction may serve to impress the real facts upon his readers more deeply than an originally accurate statement would have done. I therefore append to my tale a list of

CORRIGENDA.

1. I was anxious to include the Battle of Arginusæ in my story. It was the first scene in the last act of the great drama of the Peloponnesian war. At the same time I felt bound, having made up my mind to give a description of a Greek comedy, to choose the Frogs. It has a literary interest such as no other Aristophanic play possesses, and it is at once more important and more intelligible to a modern reader. But to bring the two things together it was necessary to ante-date the representation of the play. I have put it in the year 406 B. C. It really took place in 405. I have also made the battle happen somewhat earlier than in all probability, it really did. The festival of the Great Dionysia, at which new plays were produced, was celebrated in March. We do not know precisely the date of Arginusæ, but it is likely that it was later in the year. A similar correction must be made about the embassy of Dionysius. It may have taken place when the play was really produced, but in 406 Dionysius was too busy with his war with Carthage to think of such things.

2. I have ante-dated, this time by several years, the capture of Poseidonia by the native Italians. Here again we have no record of the precise time; but it probably happened somewhat later in the century.

3. I do not know whether I am wrong in making Alcibiades escape from his castle in Thrace immediately after the battle Ægos Potami. Plutarch would give one rather to understand that he fled after the capture of Athens. It is quite possible, however, that he recognized the defeat as fatal to Athenian influence of the Thracian coast, and that feeling his own position to be no longer tenable, he retired from it at once.

4. I have taken some liberties with the text of Xenophon’s narrative. The trial of the generals by their own soldiers, the athletic sports, and the entertainment described in my story are all taken from the Anabasis, but they do not come so close together as I have found it convenient to put them.

5. It is a moot point among historians whether Xenophon returned to Athens after he had quitted the Ten Thousand. Mr. Grote thinks that he did; and his authority is perhaps sufficient to shelter such a humble person as myself. It has also been debated whether he was banished in 399 or some years later. I am inclined to think that here I am accurate.

6. I need hardly say that the Thracian national song is of my own invention. Xenophon simply says that the Thracian performers went off the stage singing the “Sitalces.” That this was a song celebrating the achievement of the king of that name (for which see a classical dictionary) cannot be doubted. But we know nothing more about it, and I have supplied the words.

7. It is not necessary to say that the “diary” of Callias is an invention. To be quite candid I do not think it was at all likely that a young soldier would have kept one, or even been able to write it up daily. But I wanted to give some prominent incidents from Xenophon’s story, and had not space for the whole, while a mere epitome would have been tedious.

8. I must caution my readers against supposing my hero to be historical. There was a Callias, son of Hipponicus, at this time, a very different man.

9. I have taken the defence of Socrates from Plato’s Apology, not from Xenophon. The former is immeasurably superior.

INDEX.

ÆGOS POTAMI, BATTLE OF, 148-150.

AGIS, 164.

ALCIBIADES.
Home, 120
Appearance, 124
Career in Thrace, 134
Defense, 137-140
Farewell to his men, 151-154
Assassination, 190-194.

ALIEN, 21-22.

ANABASIS, THE, 209-211.

APATURIA, THE, 92.

APOLLODORUS, 301.

ARGOS, 164.

ARGINUSÆ, BATTLE OF, 51-57.

ARIÆUS, 210, 214, 215.

ARISTIDES, 169.


BISANTHE, 120.


CALENDAR, 223.

CALLICRATIDAS, 39, 44-50, 53, 55, 63.

CALLIXENUS, 93.

CHERSONESUS, 143.

CHIOS, 32, 62.

CHIRISOPHUS, 219.

CIMON, 52.

CLEARCHUS, 210, 213.

CLEON, 12.

CONON, 16, 17, 36.

COS, 89.

CRITIAS, 276, 277.

CRITO, 301, 304-320.

CUNAXA, BATTLE OF, 209-211.

CYBELE, 157.

CYRUS, 48, 49, 142, 153, 211.

CYRUS, THE YOUNGER, 207, 208, 211.


DELIUM, 130.

DIOMEDON, 54-57, 58.

DIONYSIUS, 2, 197, 199-206.

DRESS, 46.


EPHORS, 164.

EUPATRID, 114.

EURYPTOLEMUS, 94, 96, 99-101.

EXILE, 324.


GAMES.
President, 242
Foot-races, 243, 244
The Pentathlon, 244
Leaping the Bar, 245
Running, 246
Quoit Throwing, 246-247
Hurling the Javelin, 247
Wrestling, 248, 249
Horse-race, 251.

GORDIUM, 155, 158.

GOVERNMENT.
Public Guests, 66
Popular Trials, 90-102, 287-302
The Bema, 95
Balloting, 101-102
The Eleven, 102
Capital Punishment, 103.


HELLESPONT, 18, 120.

HERMÆ, 139.

HIPPOCRATES, 264.

HOUSES.
Arrangement, 30, 34
Servants, 30
Clocks, 123.

HUNTING, 132, 133.


LYSANDER, 141, 142, 144, 160.


MARATHON, 32, 173, 179.

MEDICAL SCIENCE, 265, 266, 269, 271.

MONEY, 46.

MYRONIDES, 67.

MITYLENE, 16, 38, 43.


NAVY, 51, 52, 54.

NICIAS, 138.

NOTIUM, BATTLE OF, 26, 28.


ŒNOPHYTA, 67, 68.

OLIGARCHY, 276.

OMENS, 216, 218.


PAINTING, 127.

PARATHERÆA, THE, 27.

PAUSANIAS, 165.

PERSIANS, 48, 324.

PHARNABAZUS, 154.

PHASIS, RIVER, 232.

PHAEDO, 307, 308.

PHORMION, 52.

PLATO, 301.

POSEIDONIA, 22.

POTIDÆA, 130.

PROPONTIS, 120.

PROXENUS, 208, 215.


RHODES, 186.

RETREAT OF TEN THOUSAND, 212-237
Murder of the Generals, 214
Xenophon in Command, 216, 217
Plan of March, 219
First Skirmish, 220
Cavalry Organized, 221
Armenia, 228
Snowfall, 229
Banqueting In Villages, 231
Taking a Pass, 233
The Sea Reached, 236
At Trapezus, 237
Return to Greece, 280-285.


SACRIFICES, 241.

SAILING SEASON, 119.

SAMOS, 53.

SAMOTHRACE, 120.

SEUTHES, 133, 282-284.

SIEGE OF ATHENS, 162-171.

SMYRNA, 188.

SOCIAL LIFE.
Calls, 33, 34
Knocking, 34, 279
At Table, 84, 125
Food, 35
Libations, 35, 40, 125
Banquets, 70-78, 258-262
Rhapsodist, 71
Dancers, 74, 261, 262
Colonial Society, 135
Hospitality, 239.

SOCRATES.
Conversations, 82-86
Refusal to Sanction Illegal Motion, 98
Alcibiades’ Tribute, 129-131
Conduct during the Siege, 167
Dionysius Inquires About Him, 202
His Trial, 287-302
His Defense, 294-302
Conversation in Prison, 308-309
Last Day of Life, 310-318
Argument for Immortality, 312
Death, 318-320.

SPARTANS, 44.

SYBARIS, 22, 26.

SYRACUSE, 31, 193, 198.


TARSUS, 207.

TEN GENERALS, THE
The System, 60
Report of Victory, 87, 88
The Trial Commenced, 90, 91
Plots, 92-94
Trial Continued, 95-101
The Verdict, 102
Punishment, 103.

THASUS, 119.

THEATER, THE
The Curtain, 3
“The Frogs,” 3-11
Aristophanes, 11
Old Comedy and New, 11
The Audience, 12, 13
Arrangement, 15
Author as Prompter, 16.

THEMISTOCLES, 17.

THERAMENES, 60, 89, 168, 276.

THIRTY TYRANTS, 276.

THRACIANS.
Intemperance, 126
Extravagance, 136.

THRASYBULUS, 60, 89.

TIGRIS, RIVER, 222.

TISSAPHERNES, 159, 212, 223.

TOWN HALL, 16, 66.

TRAPEZUS, 237.


WALLS, THE LONG, 109, 165.

WARFARE.
Armor, 210, 221
Archers, 221
Cavalry, 221
Character of Mercenaries, 226.

WOMEN.
In Lucania, 23-25
At Table, 34
Wine Drinking, 35
Marriage, 180-183
Dependence, 82-85.


XENOPHON.
At the Banquet, 78
Describes Socrates, 79-81
Explains the Expedition against the Great King, 207
Elected a General, 217
Reproof of a Soldier, 225
Energy in the Cold Weather, 229, 230
Repartee with Chirisophus, 232
Answers Charges, 254-258.