Complete Works (106 page)

F
RIEND
: You’ll never change, Apollodorus! Always nagging, even at yourself! I do believe you think everybody—yourself first of all—is totally worthless, except, of course, Socrates. I don’t know exactly how you came to be called “the maniac,” but you certainly talk like one, always furious with everyone, including yourself—but not with Socrates!

A
POLLODORUS
: Of course, my dear friend, it’s perfectly obvious why I [e] have these views about us all: it’s simply because I’m a maniac, and I’m raving!

F
RIEND
: It’s not worth arguing about this now, Apollodorus. Please do as I asked: tell me the speeches.

A
POLLODORUS
: All right … Well, the speeches went something like this—but I’d better tell you the whole story from the very beginning, as Aristodemus
[174]
told it to me.

He said, then, that one day he ran into Socrates, who had just bathed and put on his fancy sandals—both very unusual events. So he asked him where he was going, and why he was looking so good.

Socrates replied, “I’m going to Agathon’s for dinner. I managed to avoid yesterday’s victory party—I really don’t like crowds—but I promised to be there today. So, naturally, I took great pains with my appearance: I’m going to the house of a good-looking man; I had to look my best. But let me ask you this,” he added, “I know you haven’t been invited to the dinner; how would you like to come anyway?” [b]

And Aristodemus answered, “I’ll do whatever you say.”

“Come with me, then,” Socrates said, “and we shall prove the proverb wrong; the truth is, ‘Good men go uninvited to Goodman’s feast.’
¹
Even Homer himself, when you think about it, did not much like this proverb; [c] he not only disregarded it, he violated it. Agamemnon, of course, is one of his great warriors, while he describes Menelaus as a ‘limp spearman.’ And yet, when Agamemnon offers a sacrifice and gives a feast, Homer has the weak Menelaus arrive uninvited at his superior’s table.”
²

Aristodemus replied to this, “Socrates, I am afraid Homer’s description is bound to fit me better than yours. Mine is a case of an obvious inferior arriving uninvited at the table of a man of letters. I think you’d better figure out a good excuse for bringing me along, because, you know, I [d] won’t admit I’ve come without an invitation. I’ll say I’m your guest.”

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll think about what to say ‘as we proceed the two of us along the way.’ ”
³

With these words, they set out. But as they were walking, Socrates began to think about something, lost himself in thought, and kept lagging behind. Whenever Aristodemus stopped to wait for him, Socrates would urge him [e] to go on ahead. When he arrived at Agathon’s he found the gate wide open, and that, Aristodemus said, caused him to find himself in a very embarrassing situation: a household slave saw him the moment he arrived and took him immediately to the dining room, where the guests were already lying down on their couches, and dinner was about to be served.

As soon as Agathon saw him, he called:

“Welcome, Aristodemus! What perfect timing! You’re just in time for dinner! I hope you’re not here for any other reason—if you are, forget it. I looked all over for you yesterday, so I could invite you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. But where is Socrates? How come you didn’t bring him along?”

So I turned around (Aristodemus said), and Socrates was nowhere to be seen. And I said that it was actually Socrates who had brought
me
along as his guest.

[175]
“I’m delighted he did,” Agathon replied. “But where is he?”

“He was directly behind me, but I have no idea where he is now.”

“Go look for Socrates,” Agathon ordered a slave, “and bring him in. Aristodemus,” he added, “you can share Eryximachus’ couch.”

A slave brought water, and Aristodemus washed himself before he lay down. Then another slave entered and said: “Socrates is here, but he’s gone off to the neighbor’s porch. He’s standing there and won’t come in even though I called him several times.”

“How strange,” Agathon replied. “Go back and bring him in. Don’t leave him there.”

But Aristodemus stopped him. “No, no,” he said. “Leave him alone. It’s [b] one of his habits: every now and then he just goes off like that and stands motionless, wherever he happens to be. I’m sure he’ll come in very soon, so don’t disturb him; let him be.”

“Well, all right, if you really think so,” Agathon said, and turned to the slaves: “Go ahead and serve the rest of us. What you serve is completely up to you; pretend nobody’s supervising you—as if I ever did! Imagine that we are all your own guests, myself included. Give us good reason to [c] praise your service.”

So they went ahead and started eating, but there was still no sign of Socrates. Agathon wanted to send for him many times, but Aristodemus wouldn’t let him. And, in fact, Socrates came in shortly afterward, as he always did—they were hardly halfway through their meal. Agathon, who, as it happened, was all alone on the farthest couch, immediately called: “Socrates, come lie down next to me. Who knows, if I touch you, I may [d] catch a bit of the wisdom that came to you under my neighbor’s porch. It’s clear
you’ve
seen the light. If you hadn’t, you’d still be standing there.”

Socrates sat down next to him and said, “How wonderful it would be, dear Agathon, if the foolish were filled with wisdom simply by touching the wise. If only wisdom were like water, which always flows from a full cup into an empty one when we connect them with a piece of yarn—well, [e] then I would consider it the greatest prize to have the chance to lie down next to you. I would soon be overflowing with your wonderful wisdom. My own wisdom is of no account—a shadow in a dream—while yours is bright and radiant and has a splendid future. Why, young as you are, you’re so brilliant I could call more than thirty thousand Greeks as witnesses.”

“Now you’ve gone
too
far, Socrates,” Agathon replied. “Well, eat your dinner. Dionysus will soon enough be the judge of our claims to wisdom!”
⁴
[176]

Socrates took his seat after that and had his meal, according to Aristodemus. When dinner was over, they poured a libation to the god, sang a hymn, and—in short—followed the whole ritual. Then they turned their attention to drinking. At that point Pausanias addressed the group:

“Well, gentlemen, how can we arrange to drink less tonight? To be honest, I still have a terrible hangover from yesterday, and I could really use a break. I daresay most of you could, too, since you were also part of the celebration. So let’s try not to overdo it.” [b]

Aristophanes replied: “Good idea, Pausanias. We’ve got to make a plan for going easy on the drink tonight. I was over my head last night myself, like the others.”

After that, up spoke Eryximachus, son of Acumenus: “Well said, both of you. But I still have one question: How do
you
feel, Agathon? Are you strong enough for serious drinking?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Agathon. “I’ve no strength left for anything.”

[c] “What a lucky stroke for us,” Eryximachus said, “for me, for Aristodemus, for Phaedrus, and the rest—that you large-capacity drinkers are already exhausted. Imagine how weak drinkers like ourselves feel after last night! Of course I don’t include Socrates in my claims: he can drink or not, and will be satisfied whatever we do. But since none of us seems particularly eager to overindulge, perhaps it would not be amiss for me [d] to provide you with some accurate information as to the nature of intoxication. If I have learned anything from medicine, it is the following point: inebriation is harmful to everyone. Personally, therefore, I always refrain from heavy drinking; and I advise others against it—especially people who are suffering the effects of a previous night’s excesses.”

“Well,” Phaedrus interrupted him, “I always follow your advice, especially when you speak as a doctor. In this case, if the others know what’s good for them, they too will do just as you say.”

[e] At that point they all agreed not to get drunk that evening; they decided to drink only as much as pleased them.

“It’s settled, then,” said Eryximachus. “We are resolved to force no one to drink more than he wants. I would like now to make a further motion: let us dispense with the flute-girl who just made her entrance; let her play for herself or, if she prefers, for the women in the house. Let us instead spend our evening in conversation. If you are so minded, I would like to
[177]
propose a subject.”

They all said they were quite willing, and urged him to make his proposal. So Eryximachus said:

“Let me begin by citing Euripides’
Melanippe:
‘Not mine the tale.’ What I am about to tell belongs to Phaedrus here, who is deeply indignant on this issue, and often complains to me about it:

“‘Eryximachus,’ he says, ‘isn’t it an awful thing! Our poets have composed hymns in honor of just about any god you can think of; but has a [b] single one of them given one moment’s thought to the god of love, ancient and powerful as he is? As for our fancy intellectuals, they have written volumes praising Heracles and other heroes (as did the distinguished Prodicus). Well, perhaps
that’s
not surprising, but I’ve actually read a book [c] by an accomplished author who saw fit to extol the usefulness of salt! How
could
people pay attention to such trifles and never, not even once, write a proper hymn to Love? How could anyone ignore so great a god?’

“Now, Phaedrus, in my judgment, is quite right. I would like, therefore, to take up a contribution, as it were, on his behalf, and gratify his wish. [d] Besides, I think this a splendid time for all of us here to honor the god. If you agree, we can spend the whole evening in discussion, because I propose that each of us give as good a speech in praise of Love as he is capable of giving, in proper order from left to right. And let us begin with Phaedrus, who is at the head of the table and is, in addition, the father of our subject.”

“No one will vote against that, Eryximachus,” said Socrates. “How could [e]
I
vote ‘No,’ when the only thing I say I understand is the art of love? Could Agathon and Pausanias? Could Aristophanes, who thinks of nothing but Dionysus and Aphrodite? No one I can see here now could vote against your proposal.

“And though it’s not quite fair to those of us who have to speak last, if the first speeches turn out to be good enough and to exhaust our subject, I promise we won’t complain. So let Phaedrus begin, with the blessing of Fortune; let’s hear his praise of Love.”

They all agreed with Socrates, and pressed Phaedrus to start. Of course,
[178]
Aristodemus couldn’t remember exactly what everyone said, and I myself don’t remember everything he told me. But I’ll tell you what he remembered best, and what I consider the most important points.

As I say, he said Phaedrus spoke first, beginning more or less like this:

Love is a great god, wonderful in many ways to gods and men, and most marvelous of all is the way he came into being. We honor him as one of the most ancient gods, and the proof of his great age is this: the [b] parents of Love have no place in poetry or legend. According to Hesiod, the first to be born was Chaos,

                                          
… but then came
Earth, broad-chested, a seat for all, forever safe,
And Love.
⁵

And Acusilaus agrees with Hesiod: after Chaos came Earth and Love, these two.
⁶
And Parmenides tells of this beginning:

The very first god [she] designed was Love.
⁷

All sides agree, then, that Love is one of the most ancient gods. As such, [c] he gives to us the greatest goods. I cannot say what greater good there is for a young boy than a gentle lover, or for a lover than a boy to love. There is a certain guidance each person needs for his whole life, if he is to live well; and nothing imparts this guidance—not high kinship, not public honor, not wealth—nothing imparts this guidance as well as Love. [d] What guidance do I mean? I mean a sense of shame at acting shamefully, and a sense of pride in acting well. Without these, nothing fine or great can be accomplished, in public or in private.

What I say is this: if a man in love is found doing something shameful, or accepting shameful treatment because he is a coward and makes no defense, then nothing would give him more pain than being seen by the boy he loves—not even being seen by his father or his comrades. We see [e] the same thing also in the boy he loves, that he is especially ashamed before his lover when he is caught in something shameful. If only there were a way to start a city or an army made up of lovers and the boys they love! Theirs would be the best possible system of society, for they would
[179]
hold back from all that is shameful, and seek honor in each other’s eyes.
⁸
Even a few of them, in battle side by side, would conquer all the world, I’d say. For a man in love would never allow his loved one, of all people, to see him leaving ranks or dropping weapons. He’d rather die a thousand deaths! And as for leaving the boy behind, or not coming to his aid in danger—why, no one is so base that true Love could not inspire him with [b] courage, and make him as brave as if he’d been born a hero. When Homer says a god ‘breathes might’ into some of the heroes, this is really Love’s gift to every lover.
⁹

Besides, no one will die for you but a lover, and a lover will do this even if she’s a woman. Alcestis is proof to everyone in Greece that what [c] I say is true.
¹⁰
Only she was willing to die in place of her husband, although his father and mother were still alive. Because of her love, she went so far beyond his parents in family feeling that she made them look like outsiders, as if they belonged to their son in name only. And when she did this her deed struck everyone, even the gods, as nobly done. The gods were so delighted, in fact, that they gave her the prize they reserve for a handful [d] chosen from the throngs of noble heroes—they sent her soul back from the dead. As you can see, the eager courage of love wins highest honors from the gods.