rather than true stories; and being no teller of tales myself, I there- 5 fore used some I had ready to hand; I knew the tales of Aesop by heart, and I made verses from the first of these I came across. So give Evenus this message, Cebes: say good-bye to him, and tell him, if he's sensible, to come after me as quickly as he can. I'm off today, c it seems—by Athenians' orders.'
'What a thing you're urging Evenus to do, Socrates!' said Simmias. 'I've come across the man often before now; and from what I've seen of him, he'll hardly be at all willing to obey you.' 5
'Why,' he said, 'isn't Evenus a philosopher?'
'I believe so,' said Simmias.
'Then Evenus will be willing, and so will everyone who engages worthily in this business. Perhaps, though, he won't do violence to himself: they say it's forbidden.' As he said this he lowered his legs 10 to the ground, and then remained sitting in that position for the rest d of the discussion.
Cebes now asked him: 'How can you say this, Socrates? How can it both be forbidden to do violence to oneself, and be the case that the philosopher would be willing to follow the dying?' 5
'Why Cebes, haven't you and Simmias heard about such things through being with Philolaus?'
'No, nothing definite, Socrates.'
'Well, I myself can speak about them only from hearsay; but what I happen to have heard I don't mind telling you. Indeed, maybe 10 it's specially fitting that someone about to make the journey to the e next world should inquire and speculate as to what we imagine that journey to be like; after all, what else should one do during the time till sundown?'
'Well then, Socrates, on just what ground do they say it's for- 5 bidden to kill oneself? Because—to answer the question you were just asking—I certainly did hear from Philolaus, when he was living with us, and earlier from several others, that one ought not to do that; but I've never heard anything definite about it from anyone.'
'Well you must take heart,' he said; 'as maybe you will hear. 62 Perhaps, though, it will seem a matter for wonder to you if this alone of all things is unqualified, and it never happens as other things do sometimes and for some people, that it is better for a man to be
5 dead than alive; and for those for whom it is better to be dead, perhaps it seems a matter for wonder to you if for these men it is not holy to do good to themselves, but they must await another benefactor.'
Cebes chuckled at this. 'Hark at that, now!' he said, speaking in his own dialect.
b 'Well yes,' said Socrates, 'it would seem unreasonable, put that way; but perhaps there is, in fact, some reason for it. The reason given in mysteries on the subject, that we men are in some sort of prison,1 and that one ought not to release oneself from it or run 5 away, seems to me a lofty idea and not easy to penetrate; but still, Cebes, this much seems to me well said: it is gods who care for us, and for the gods we men are among their belongings. Don't you think so?' 10 'I do,' said Cebes.
c 'Well, if one of your belongings were to kill itself, without your signifying that you wanted it to die, wouldn't you be vexed with it, and punish it, if you had any punishment at hand?'2 5 'Certainly.'
'So perhaps, in that case, it isn't unreasonable that one should not kill oneself until God sends some necessity, such as the one now before us.'
'Yes, that does seem fair,' said Cebes. 'But then what you were 10 saying just now—that philosophers should be willing to die lightly— d that seems odd, if what we were just saying, that it is God who cares for us, and that we are his belongings, is well founded.. Because it's unreasonable that the wisest of men should not be resentful at 5 quitting this service, where they're directed by the best directors there are—the gods; since a man of that sort, surely, doesn't believe he'll care for himself any better on becoming free. A stupid man would perhaps believe that: he would think he should escape from e his master, and wouldn't reflect that a good master is not one to escape from, but to stay with as long as possible, and so his escape would be irrational; but a man of intelligence would surely always want to be with one better than himself. Yet in that case, Socrates, the 5 very opposite of what was said just now seems likely: it's the wise who should be resentful at dying, whereas the foolish should welcome it.'
When Socrates heard this he seemed to me pleased at Cebes' persistence, and looking at us he said: 'There goes Cebes, always 63 hunting down arguments, and not at all willing to accept at once what anyone may say.'
'Well yes,' said Simmias; 'but this time, Socrates, I think myself there's something in what Cebes says: why, indeed,, should truly 5 wise men want to escape from masters who are better than themselves, and be separated from them lightly? So I think it's at you that Cebes is aiming his argument, because you take so lightly your leaving both ourselves and the gods, who are good rulers by your own admission.'
'What you both say is fair,' he said; 'as I take you to mean that I b should defend myself against these charges as if in a court of law.'
'Yes, exactly,' said Simmias.
'Very well then,' he said; 'let me try to defend myself more convincingly before you than I did before the jury. Because if I 5 didn't believe, Simmias and Cebes, that I shall enter the presence, first, of other gods both wise and good, and next of dead men better than those in this world, then I should be wrong not to be resentful at death; but as it is, be assured that I expect to join the company of good men—although that point I shouldn't affirm with absolute c conviction; but that I shall enter the presence of gods who are very good masters, be assured that if there's anything I should affirm on such matters, it is that. So that's why I am not so resentful, but rather am hopeful that there is something in store for those who've 5 died—in fact, as we've long been told, something far better for the good than for the wicked.'
'Well then, Socrates,' said Simmias, 'do you mean to go off keeping this thought to yourself, or would you share it with us too? We have a common claim on this benefit as well, I think; and at the d same time your defence will be made, if you persuade us of what you say.'
'All right, I'll try,' he said. 'But first let's find out what it is that Crito here has been wanting to say, for some time past, I think.'
'Why Socrates,' said Crito, 'it's simply that the man who's going 5 to give you the poison has been telling me for some time that you
must be warned to talk as little as possible: he says people get heated through talking too much,3 and one must bring nothing of e that sort in contact with the poison; people doing that sort of thing are sometimes obliged, otherwise, to drink twice or even three times.'
'Never mind him,' said Socrates. 'Just let him prepare his stuff so 5 as to give two doses, or even three if need be.'
'Yes, I pretty well knew it,' said Crito; 'but he's been giving me trouble for some while.'
'Let him be,' he said. 'Now then, with you for my jury I want to give my defence, and show with what good reason, as it seems to me, 10 a man who has truly spent his life in philosophy feels confident when 64 about to die, and is hopeful that, when he has died, he will win very great benefits in the other world. So I'll try, Simmias and Cebes, to explain how this could be.
'Other people may well be unaware that all who actually engage 5 in philosophy aright are practising nothing other than dying and being dead.4 Now if this is true, it would be odd indeed for them to be eager in their whole life for nothing but this, and yet to be resentful when it comes, the very thing they'd long been eager for and practised.'
Simmias laughed at this and said: 'Goodness, Socrates, you've b made me laugh, even though I wasn't much inclined to laugh just now. I imagine that most people, on hearing that, would think it very well said of philosophers—and our own countrymen would quite agree—that they are, indeed, verging on death, and that they, at 5 any rate, are well aware that this is what philosophers deserve to undergo.'