Chapter X. Socrates, in Conversation with Several Artificers, a Painter, a Statuary, and an Armourer, Showeth His Skill and Good Taste in the Finer Arts
As Socrates studied to be useful in all his conversations, so he never happened to be in company even with tradesmen but he always said something that might be of service to them. Going once into the shop of the painter Parrhasius, he entertained himself with him in the following manner:—
“Is not painting,” said he, “a representation of all we see? For with a few colours you represent on a canvas mountains and caverns, light and obscurity; you cause to be observed the difference between soft things and hard, between things smooth and rough; you give youth and old age to bodies; and when you would represent a perfect beauty, it being impossible to find a body but what has some defect, your way is to regard several, and taking what is beautiful from each of them, you make one that is accomplished in all its parts.” “We do so,” said Parrhasius. “Can you represent likewise,” said Socrates, “what is most charming and most lovely in the person, I mean the inclination?” “How think you,” answered Parrhasius, “we can paint what cannot be expressed by any proportion, nor with any colour, and that has nothing in common with any of those things you mentioned, and which the pencil can imitate; in a word, a thing that cannot be seen?” “Do not the very looks of men,” replied Socrates, “confess either hatred or friendship?” “In my opinion they do,” said Parrhasius. “You can then make hatred and friendship appear in the eyes?” “I own we can.” “Do you think likewise,” continued Socrates, “that they who concern themselves either in the adversity or prosperity of friends, keep the same look with those who are wholly unconcerned for either?” “By no means,” said he, “for during the prosperity of our friends, our looks are gay and full of joy, but in their adversity we look cloudy and dejected.” “This, then, may be painted likewise?” “It may.” “Besides,” said Socrates, “magnificence, generosity, meanness of mind, cowardice, modesty, prudence, insolence, rusticity, all appear in the looks of a man, whether sitting or standing.” “You say true.” “And cannot the pencil imitate all this likewise?” “It may.” “And in which do you take most pleasure,” said Socrates, “in regarding the picture of a man whose external appearance discovereth a good natural disposition, and bespeaks an honest man, or of one who wears in his face the marks of a vicious inclination?” “There is no comparison between them,” said Parrhasius.
Another time, talking with Clito the sculptor, he said to him, “I wonder not that you make so great a difference between the statue of a man who is running a race and that of one who stands his ground to wait for his antagonist with whom he is to wrestle, or to box, or to play a prize at all sorts of defence; but what ravishes the beholders is, that your statues seem to be alive. I would fain know by what art you imprint upon them this wonderful vivacity?” Clito, surprised at this question, stood considering what to answer, when Socrates went on:—“Perhaps you take great care to make them resemble the living persons, and this is the reason that they seem to live likewise.” “It is so,” said Clito. “You must then,” replied Socrates, “observe very exactly in the different postures of the body what are the natural dispositions of all the parts, for when some of them stoop down, the others raise themselves up; when some are contracted, the others stretch themselves out; when some are stiff with straining, others relax themselves; and when you imitate all this, you make your statues approach very near the life.” “You say true,” said Clito. “Is it not true likewise,” replied Socrates, “that it is a great satisfaction to beholders to see all the passions of a man who is in action well expressed? Thus, in the statue of a gladiator who is fighting, you must imitate the sternness of look with which he threatens his enemy; on the contrary, you must give him, when victor, a look of gaiety and content.” “There is no doubt of what you say.” “We may then conclude,” said Socrates, “that it is the part of an excellent statuary to express the various affections and passions of the soul, by representing such-and-such motions and postures of the body as are commonly exerted in real life whenever the mind is so-and-so affected.”
Another time, Socrates being in the shop of Pistias the armourer, who showed him some corselets that were very well made: “I admire,” said Socrates to him, “the invention of these arms that cover the body in the places where it has most need of being defended, and nevertheless are no hindrance to the motions of the hands and arms; but tell me why you sell the suits of armour you make dearer than the other workmen of the city, since they are not stronger nor of better-tempered or more valuable metal?” “I sell them dearer than others,” answered Pistias, “because they are better made than theirs.” “In what does this make consist?” said Socrates, “in the weight, or in the largeness of the arms? And yet you make them not all of the same weight nor of the same size, but to fit every man.” “They must be fit,” said Pistias, “otherwise they would be of no use.” “But do you not know,” replied Socrates, “that some bodies are well-shaped and others not?” “I know it well.” “How, then,” continued Socrates, “can you make a well-shaped suit of armour for an ill-shaped body?” “It will be sufficient if they are fit for him,” answered Pistias; “for what is fit is well made.” “You are of opinion, then,” added Socrates, “that one cannot judge whether a thing be well made, considering it merely in itself, but in regard to the person who is to use it; as if you said that a buckler is well made for him whom it fits, and in like manner of a suit of clothes and any other thing whatsoever. But I think there is another convenience in having a suit of armour well made.” “What do you take that to be?” said Pistias. “I think,” answered Socrates, “a suit of armour that is well made does not load the bearer so much as one ill made, even though it weigh as much. For ill-made arms, by pressing too much upon the shoulders, or hanging cumbrous on some other part, become almost insupportable, and greatly incommode the person that weareth them. But those arms which, as they ought, distribute an equal weight to all the parts of the body, that join upon the neck, the shoulders, the breast, the back, and the hips, may be said to be glued to the body, and to weigh nothing at all.” “For this,” said Pistias, “I value the arms I make. It is true that some choose rather to part with their money for arms that are gilt and finely carved, but if with all this they fit not easy upon them, I think they buy a rich inconveniency.” Socrates went on:—“But since the body is not always in the same posture, but sometimes bends, and sometimes raises itself straight, how can arms that are very fit be convenient and easy?” “They never can,” said Pistias. “Your opinion therefore is,” said Socrates, “that the best arms are not those that are most fit, and fit closest to the body, but those that do not incommode the person that wears them.” “You, too, are of the same opinion,” replied Pistias, “and you understand the matter aright.”
Chapter XI. Discourse of Socrates With Theodota, an Athenian Lady, of No Good Character; Wherein He Endeavoureth, in the Most Artful and Engaging Manner, to Win Her over from the Criminal Pleasures to Which She Was Addicted unto the Sublimer and More Innocent Delights of Philosophy and Virtue
There was at Athens a very beautiful lady called Theodota, who had the character of a loose dame. Some person was speaking of her in presence of Socrates, and saying that she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world; that all the painters went to see her, to draw her picture, and that they were very well received at her house. “I think,” said Socrates, “we ought to go see her too, for we shall be better able to judge of her beauty after we have seen her ourselves than upon the bare relation of others.” The person who began the discourse encouraged the matter, and that very moment they all went to Theodota’s house. They found her with a painter who was drawing her picture; and having considered her at leisure when the painter had done, Socrates began thus:—“Do you think that we are more obliged to Theodota for having afforded us the sight of her beauty than she is to us for coming to see her? If all the advantage be on her side, it must be owned that she is obliged to us; if it be on ours, it must be confessed that we are so to her.” Some of the company saying there was reason to think so, Socrates continued in these words:—“Has she not already had the advantage of receiving the praises we have given her? But it will be yet a much greater to her when we make known her merit in all the companies we come into; but as for ourselves, what do we carry from hence except a desire to enjoy the things we have seen? We go hence with souls full of love and uneasiness; and from this time forward we must obey Theodota in all she pleases to enjoin us.” “If it be so,” said Theodota, “I must return you many thanks for your coming hither.” Meanwhile Socrates took notice that she was magnificently apparelled, and that her mother appeared likewise like a woman of condition. He saw a great number of women attendants elegantly dressed, and that the whole house was richly furnished. He took occasion from hence to inform himself of her circumstances in the world, and to ask her whether she had an estate in land or houses in the city, or slaves, whose labour supplied the expenses of her family. “I have nothing,” answered she, “of all this; my friends are my revenue. I subsist by their liberality.”
Upon which Socrates remarked that “friendship was one of the greatest blessings in life, for that a good friend could stand one in stead of all possessions whatever.” And he advised Theodota to try all her art to procure to herself some lovers and friends that might render her happy. The lady asking Socrates whether there were any artifices to be used for that purpose, he answered, “there were,” and proceeded to mention several:—“Some for attracting the regard of the men, some for insinuating into their hearts; others for securing their affections and managing their passions.” Whereupon Theodota, whose soul then lay open to any impression, mistaking the virtuous design of Socrates in the whole of this discourse for an intention of another sort, cried out in raptures, “Ah! Socrates, why will not you help me to friends?” “I will,” replied Socrates, “if you can persuade me to do so.” “And what means must I use to persuade you?” “You must invent the means,” said Socrates, “if you want me to serve you.” “Then come to see me often,” added Theodota. Socrates laughed at the simplicity of the woman, and in raillery said to her, “I have not leisure enough to come and see you; I have both public and private affairs which take up too much of my time. Besides, I have mistresses who will not suffer me to be from them neither day nor night, and who against myself make use of the very charms and sorceries that I have taught them.” “And have you any knowledge in those things, too?” said she. “Why do Apollodorus and Antisthenes,” answered Socrates, “never leave me? why do Cebes and Simmias forsake Thebes for my company? This they would not do if I were not master of some charm.” “Lend it me,” said Theodota, “that I may employ it against you, and charm you to come to me.” “No,” said Socrates, “but I will charm you, and make you come to me.” “I will,” said Theodota, “if you will promise to make me welcome.” “I promise you I will,” answered Socrates, “provided there be nobody with me whom I love better than you.”
Chapter XII. Of the Necessity of Exercise to Health and Strength of Body
Among others who frequented Socrates, there was a young man whose name was Epigenes, and who was very awkward in his person and behaviour, and had contracted an ill habit of body, having never learnt nor used any exercise. Socrates reproached him for it, and told him that it was unworthy of any man to be so negligent of himself. Epigenes slightly answered that he was under no obligation to do better. “You are no less obliged to it,” replied Socrates, “than they who train themselves up for the Olympic Games. For do you believe that to fight for one’s life against the enemies of the Republic, which we are all obliged to do when the Athenians please to command us, is a less important occasion than to contend with antagonists for a prize? How many men are there who, for want of strength, perish in fights; or have recourse to dishonourable means to seek their safety? Some are taken prisoners, and remain in slavery all the rest of their days, or are forced to pay so great a ransom, as makes them live poor and miserable ever afterwards: others are ill thought of, and their weakness is imputed to cowardice. And do you value so little all these misfortunes, which constantly attend an ill habit of body, and do they seem to you so slight? In my opinion, there are no fatigues in the exercises but what are more easy and more agreeable. But perhaps you despise the advantages of a good disposition of body: nevertheless, they are considerable; for men in that condition enjoy a perfect health, they are robust and active, they come off from combats with honour, they escape from dangers, they succour their friends, they render great services to their country. For these reasons they are well received wherever they come, they are in good reputation with all men, they attain to the highest offices, they live the more honourably and the more at ease, and they leave their posterity the most noble examples. If, therefore, you do not practise the military exercises in public, you ought not to neglect the doing so in private, but to apply yourself to them with all possible diligence.
“To have the body active and healthy can be hurtful to you in no occasions: and since we cannot do anything without the body, it is certain that a good constitution will be of great advantage to us in all our undertakings. Even in study, where there seems to be least need of it, we know many persons who could never make any great progress for want of health. Forgetfulness, melancholy, loss of appetite, and folly, are the diseases that generally proceed from the indisposition of the body; and these diseases sometimes seize the mind with so great violence, that they wipe out even the least remembrance of what we knew before. But in health we have nothing like this to fear, and consequently there is no toil which a judicious man would not willingly undergo to avoid all these misfortunes. And, indeed, it is shameful for a man to grow old before he has tried his own strength, and seen to what degree of dexterity and perfection he can attain, which he can never know if he give himself over for useless; because dexterity and strength come not of themselves, but by practice and exercise.”
Chapter XIII. Several Apophthegms of Socrates
A certain man being vexed that he had saluted one who did not return his civility, Socrates said to him, “It is ridiculous in you to be unconcerned when you meet a sick man in the way, and to be vexed for having met a rude fellow.”
2. Another was saying that he had lost his appetite and could eat nothing. Socrates, having heard it, told him he could teach him a remedy for that. The man asking what it was, “Fast,” said he, “for some time, and I will warrant you will be in better health, spend less money, and eat with more satisfaction afterwards.”
3. Another complained that the water which came into the cistern was warm, and nevertheless he was forced to drink it. “You ought to be glad of it,” said Socrates, “for it is a bath ready for you, whenever you have a mind to bathe yourself.” “It is too cold to bathe in,” replied the other. “Do your servants,” said Socrates, “find any inconvenience in drinking it, or in bathing in it?” “No, but I wonder how they can suffer it.” “Is it,” continued Socrates, “warmer to drink than that of the temple of Æsculapius?” “It is not near so warm.” “You see, then,” said Socrates, “that you are harder to please than your own servants, or even than the sick themselves.”
4. A master having beaten his servant most cruelly, Socrates asked him why he was so angry with him. The master answered, “Because he is a drunkard, a lazy fellow who loves money, and is always idle.” “Suppose he be so,” said Socrates: “but be your own judge, and tell me, which of you two deserves rather to be punished for those faults?”
5. Another made a difficulty of undertaking a journey to Olympia. “What is the reason,” said Socrates to him, “that you are so much afraid of walking, you, who walk up and down about your house almost all day long? You ought to look upon this journey to be only a walk, and to think that you will walk away the morning till dinner-time, and the afternoon till supper, and thus you will insensibly find yourself at your journey’s end. For it is certain that in five or six days’ time you go more ground in walking up and down than you need to do in going from Athens to Olympia. I will tell you one thing more: it is much better to set out a day too soon than a day too late; for it is troublesome to be forced to go long journeys; and on the contrary, it is a great ease to have the advantage of a day beforehand. You were better therefore to hasten your departure than be obliged to make haste upon the road.”
6. Another telling him that he had been a great journey, and was extremely weary, Socrates asked whether he had carried anything. The other answered that he had carried nothing but his cloak. “Were you alone?” said Socrates. “No; I had a slave with me.” “Was not he loaded?” continued Socrates. “Yes, for he carried all my things.” “And how did he find himself upon the road?” “Much better than I.” “And if you had been to carry what he did, what would have become of you?” “Alas!” said he, “I should never have been able to have done it.” “Is it not a shame,” added Socrates, “in a man like you, who have gone through all the exercises, not to be able to undergo as much fatigue as his slave?”
Chapter XIV. Socrates Proposeth Some Regulations for the Better Management of Their Public Feasts
Socrates having observed that in public suppers every one brought his own dish of meat, and that sometimes some brought more and others less, was wont, when this happened, to bid a servant set the least dish in the middle of the table, and to give some of it to all the company. No man could, in civility, refuse it, nor exempt himself from doing the like with his own dish, insomuch that every man had a taste of the whole, and all fared alike. This in some measure banished luxury and expensiveness from these feasts. For they who would have laid out a great deal of money in delicacies cared no longer to do so, because they would have been as much for others as for themselves.
Being one day in these assemblies, and seeing a young man who ate his meat without bread, he took occasion to rally him for it upon a question that was started touching the imposing of names. “Can we give any reasons,” said he, “why a man is called flesh-eater—that is to say, a devourer of flesh?—for every man eats flesh when he has it; and I do not believe it to be upon that account that a man is called so.” “Nor I neither,” said one of the company. “But,” continued Socrates, “if a man takes delight to eat his meat without bread, do you not take him to be, indeed, a flesh-eater?” “I should think it difficult to find another who better would deserve that name.” Upon which somebody else taking the word said, “What think you of him who, with a little bread only, eats a great deal of flesh?” “I should,” replied Socrates, “judge him, too, to be a flesh-eater; and whereas others ask of the gods in their prayers to give them an abundance of fruits, such men in their petitions it is likely would pray only for abundance of flesh.”
The young man whom Socrates had in mind, suspecting that he spoke upon his account, took some bread, but continued still to eat a great deal of flesh with it. Socrates perceived him, and showing him with his finger to those that sat next to him, said to them, “Take notice of jour neighbour, and see whether it be the meat that makes him eat his bread, or the bread that makes him eat his meat.”
In a like occasion, seeing a man sop the same morsel of meat in several sauces, he said, “Is it possible to make a sauce that will cost more, and be not so good, as one that is made by taking out of several different sauces at once? For there being more ingredients than usual, no doubt it costs more; but then because we mix things together, which the cooks never used to mingle, because they agree not well with one another, we certainly spoil the whole; and is it not a jest to be curious in having good cooks, and at the same time to be so fantastical as to alter the relish of the dishes they have dressed? Besides, when we have once got a habit of eating thus of several dishes at once, we are not so well satisfied when we have no longer that variety. Whereas a man who contents himself to eat but of one dish at a time finds no great inconvenience in having but one dish of meat for his dinner.”
He made likewise this remark: that to express what the other Greeks called “to eat a meal,” the Athenians said “to make good cheer;” and that the word “good” shows us that we ought to eat such things only as will neither disorder the body nor the mind, which are easily had, and purchased without great expense. From whence he inferred that they alone who live temperately and soberly can truly be said to make good cheer—that is to say, to eat well.