Afterwards, going back through the Agora, we heard one householder say to another, “One thing we can say for the Government, it has taken some abuses in hand. It is time someone put down these Sophists, who trip a man up and twist him round till he can’t tell right from wrong, and give young fellows a back answer to anything you say.” When we had passed, Xenophon said to me, “Those, Alexias, are the people you want to be governed by.”—“The many rub off one another’s extremes,” I said, “like pebbles on a beach. Would you rather have Kritias?” But we parted friends. Even today, when we meet, it is much the same with us.
From that time, Sokrates’ friends were bound in a conspiracy. Someone would arrive at his house very early each morning, bringing some question for advice. While he talked, and put off going out, others would turn up, and get a full discussion going. We kept an eye on the street; there was a back way out, at need, over the roof-tops. Usually we managed to keep him in at least while the Agora was full.
I remember the little whitewashed room full of people; the first-comer sitting on the foot of Sokrates’ bed; the next perched on the window-sill; most of us on the floor; and Xanthippe grumbling loudly inside that she had no chance to sweep house. Plato would come in, silently, and sit down in the darkest corner. For he came now every day; no more was heard of his legal studies. His absent fits were over; you could see him following every word and running ahead; but he seldom spoke. His soul was in strife, and we all pitied him, as far as men can pity a mind much stronger than their own. I except Xenophon: for he knew, I think, that Plato was wrestling with matters he himself did not wish to question; and it made him uneasy.
Those of us who were going used to gather at the shop of Euphronios the Perfumer. It was not so fashionable that everyone went there, so not full of strangers who might be informers for all one knew. We would arrive and go through the civilities a scentmaker expects, sniffing the latest oil he was compounding, pronouncing it too heavy or too light or too musky, or sometimes, to keep him sweet, praising and buying. Sokrates when we got to his house used to wrinkle his snub nose, and tell us a good reputation smelt better.
But one morning, the man who had gone early met us in the doorway (it was Kriton’s son, Kritobulos) and said, “He’s not at home.”
In the silence, Euphronios was heard saying, “Just try this, sir. Real Persian rose attar. The flask’s Egyptian glasswork. For a special gift …”—“I’ve been everywhere,” Kritobulos said, “about the City. Yes, send me two, Euphronios.”—“Two, sir? That comes to …” Kritobulos came over and dropped his voice. “Someone said he went to the Painted Porch.”
Young people who go now to see the picture gallery will scarcely imagine it as a place where men walked in by daylight and came out at night feet first. The Thirty questioned suspects there. They used it, of course, for other business too; but the graceful columns, the painted capitals and the goldwork, stank of death like the warren of the Minotaur.
“Someone always says that,” said Lysis presently. “People who would sooner run about with bad news than none. He may have got up early to sacrifice.”—“Father is trying to find out. If we learn anything, I’ll come back.”
Men in a common trouble draw naturally together; yet for a moment, each sat stricken in a grief that seemed all his own. Xenophon, hands upon knees, stared at the wall. He always looked out of place at Euphronios’. If he was offered a free sample, he would say, “Not for me. Have you something for a girl?” Apollodoros was twisting his big red hands till the knuckles cracked. He had joined us lately, and was something of a trial to us, being so simple that his company had the inconvenience of a child’s without its charm; he was ugly too, with a bald brow and wide ears. Some of us had amused ourselves at his expense at first, till Sokrates had taken us aside and made us ashamed. It was true, indeed, that the young man had no false conceit of knowledge, but came with modesty seeking the good he knew not how, as cattle go seeking salt. However, having no self-command, he had now got Euphronios uneasy. Serious gatherings were unwelcome at that time in any shop. Lysis and I, who had had our training in Samos, managed to cover him, pretending he was distraught with some love affair.
Euphronios cheered up, and began setting out his new stock. Presently he looked round. “Why, Aristokles, sir, you came in so quietly I never heard you. And I’ve good news for you. That oil of rosemary you used to order last year, at last it’s in again. The very same pressing, sweet and dry, I’m sure you recall it.” He smeared a bit of linen and held it out. Plato after a moment’s silence said, “Thank you, Euphronios, but not today.”—“I assure you, sir, you’ll find it equal to last year’s in every way.”—“No, thank you, Euphronios.” He strode to the door and said, “Shall we go?” Phaedo came over to him and said quietly, “Not yet, Plato. Sokrates isn’t in.”—“Not in?” said Plato slowly. He drew his brows together, as a man does whose head is aching, if you ask him to think.
Phaedo was beginning, “Kritobulos says …” when he himself appeared in the doorway, coming in from the colonnade. He was a handsome young man, dressed to make the most of it. His mantle had embroidered borders, his sandals were studded with coral and turquoise, and his face was the colour of bleached hemp. “They did send for Sokrates. They were making up a posse for an arrest. For Leon of Salamis, people say. They sent for Sokrates to join it.”
We turned towards the door, to hide our faces from Euphronios and his slaves. I saw Xenophon’s lips move silently, cursing or praying. This was the Thirty’s newest method, with anyone known to be criticaclass="underline" to force him into sharing one of their crimes, so that shame might silence him. Those who refused did not live very long.
Kritobulos said, “Sokrates went to the Porch, when he was summoned, and asked what the charge was. When they wouldn’t tell him, he said, ‘No,’ and went home.”
The silence was broken by Apollodoros, who gave a loud sob. Xenophon took him by the shoulders, and marched him outside. I turned to Plato. He stood still in the shop doorway, staring straight before him at a hetaira who had come buying scent. She pulled her silk dress tight across her buttocks and smiled over her shoulder; then, as his eyes did not move, went shrugging off. I had been going to speak to him; but there are doors at which one does not knock.
At last he turned, and touched Phaedo’s arm, and said, “Don’t wait for me.” Phaedo paused, and looked at his face, and said, “Go with God.” I was surprised, but too disturbed to feel it much. Just then Apollodoros running forward cried out, “Oh, Plato, if you are going to Sokrates, do let me come with you.” At this moment his clumsiness was too much; two or three of us exclaimed in anger. But Plato took hold of him and said, gently and clearly, “Don’t go to Sokrates now, Apollodoros. He will be settling his affairs, perhaps, and speaking to his wife and children. I am not going to Sokrates; I am going to Kritias.”
He walked off along the colonnade. Watching him go, I recalled how the old Attic dynasty had ended; when King Kodros rode out alone to challenge the Dorians, because the omens had promised victory if the king were slain. They thought it impious to give him a successor; they set a priest on his throne, and dedicated it to the gods. I thought, “A man may leave sons behind him, and yet not live long enough to see his heir.”