and his friends a period of “retreat,” in which their eyes are turned from earthly things to dwell on the eternal. The theory of ideas here assumes its most transcendental aspect, and it is from portions of this dialogue and of the Phaedrus and Timaeus that the popular conception of Platonism has been principally derived. But to understand Plato rightly it is not enough to study isolated passages which happen to charm the imagination; nor should single expressions be interpreted without regard to the manner in which he presents the truth elsewhere.
It has already been shown (1) that Socratic inquiry implied a standard of truth and good, undiscovered but endlessly discoverable, and to be approached inductively; and (2) that in Plato this implicit assumption becomes explicit, in the identification of virtue with knowledge (Lach., Charm.) as an art of measurement (Protag.), and in the vision (towards the end of the Lysis) of an absolute object of desire. The Socratic “self-knowledge” has been developed (Charm.) into a science of mind or consciousness, apart from which no physical studies can be fruitful. (3) Co-ordinate with these theoretical tendencies there has appeared in Plato the determination not to break with experience. In the Phaedo, a long step is made in the direction of pure idealism. The ordinary virtue, which in the Protagoras and Meno was questioned but not condemned, is here rejected as unreal, and the task proposed to the philosopher is less to understand the world than to escape from it. The universal has assumed the form of the ideal, which is supposed, as elsewhere in Plato, to include mathematical as well as moral notions. The only function of perception is to awaken in us some reminiscence of this ideal. By following the clue thus given, and by searching for clearer images of truth in the world of mind, we may hope to be emancipated from sensation, and to lay hold upon the sole object of pure reason.
It is obvious that when he wrote the Phaedo Plato conceived of universals as objective entities rather than as forms of thought. The notion of “ideal colours” (though occurring in the myth) is an indication of his ontological mood. Yet even here the εἴδη are not consistently hypostatized. The notion of “what is best” has a distinctly practical side, and the “knowledge through reminiscence” is in one aspect a process of reflection on experience, turning on the laws of association.[1] It is also said that objects “partake” of the ideas, and some concrete natures are regarded as embodiments or vehicles of some of them. Still if regarded as a whole, notwithstanding the scientific attitude of Socrates, the Phaedo is rather a meditation than an inquiry—a study of the soul as self-existent, and of the mind and truth as coeternal.
IV. Symposium, Phaedrus, Cratylus.—Socrates is again imagined as in the fullness of life. But the real Socrates is becoming more and more inextricably blended with Platonic thought and fancy. In the Apology there is a distinct echo of the voice of Socrates; the Phaedo gives many personal traits of him; but the dialogues which are now to follow are replete with original invention, based in part, no doubt, on personal recollections.
The Symposium admits both of comparison and of contrast with the Phaedo. Both dialogues are mystical, both are, spiritual,Symposium. but the spirituality in either is of a different order. That is here immanent which was there transcendent; the beautiful takes the place of the good. The world is not now to be annihilated, but rather transfigured, until particular objects are lost in universal light. Instead of flying from the region of growth and decay, the mind, through intercourse with beauty, is now the active cause of production. Yet the life of contemplation is still the highest life, and philosophy the truest μουσική.
The leading conception of the Symposium has been anticipated in the Lysis, where it was said that “the indifferent loves the good, because of the presence of evil.”
The banqueters (including Socrates), who are met to celebrate the tragic victory of Agathon, happen not to be disposed for hard drinking. They send away the flute-girl and entertain each other with the praise of Love. Phaedrus tells how Love inspires to honourable deeds, and how Alcestis and Achilles died for Love. Pausanias rhetorically distinguishes the earthly from the heavenly Love. The physician Eryximachus, admitting the distinction, yet holds that Love pervades all nature, and that art consists in following the higher Love in each particular sphere. So Empedocles had spoken of Love as overcoming previous discord. For opposites cannot, as Heraclitus fancied, coexist. Aristophanes, in a comic myth, describes the origin of Love as an imperfect creature's longing for completion. The original double human beings were growing impious, and Zeus split them in twain, ever since which act the bereaved halves wander in search of one another. Agathon speaks, or rather sings, of Love and his works. He is the youngest, not the eldest of gods, living and moving delicately wherever bloom is and in the hearts of men—the author of all virtue and of all good works, obeyed by gods, fair and causing all things fair, making men to be of one mind at feasts—pilot, defender, saviour, in whose footsteps all should follow, chanting strains of love.
Socrates will not attempt to rival the poet, and begins by stipulating that he may tell the truth. He accepts the distinction between Love and his works, but points out that, since desire implies want, and the desire of Love is toward beauty, Love, as wanting beauty, is not beautiful. So much being established in the Socratic manner, he proceeds to unfold the mystery once revealed to him by Diotima, the Mantinean wise woman. Love is neither beautiful nor ugly, neither wise nor foolish, neither god nor mortal. Between gods and mortals is the world of mediating spirits (τὸ δαιμόνιον). And Love is a great spirit, child of Resource (the son of Prudence) and Poverty the beggar maid, who conceived him at the birthday feast of Aphrodite. He is far from living “delicately,” but is ragged and shoeless, always in difficulties, yet always brimming with invention, a mighty hunter after wisdom and all things fair; sometimes “all full with feasting” on them, the next moment “clean starved” for lack; never absolutely knowing nor quite ignorant. That is to say, he is a “philosopher.” For knowledge is the most beautiful thing, and love is of the beautiful.
But what does love desire of the beautiful? The possession is enough. But there is one kind of love—called “being in love”—which desires beauty for a peculiar end. The lover is seeking, not his “other half,” but possession of the beautiful and birth in beauty. For there is a season of puberty both in body and mind, when human nature longs to create, and it cannot, save in presence of beauty. This yearning is the earnest of immortality. Even in the bird's devotion to its mate and to its young there is a craving after continued being. In individual lives there is a flux, not only of the body, but in the mind. Nay the sciences themselves also come and go (here the contrast to the Phaedo is at its height). But in mortal things the shadow of continuity is succession.
The love of fame is a somewhat brighter image of immortality than the love of offspring. Creative souls would bring into being not children of their body, but good deeds. And such a one is readiest to fall in love with a fair mind in a fair body, and then is filled with enthusiasm and begets noble thoughts. Homer, Hesiod, Lycurgus, Solon, were such genial minds. But they stopped at the threshold (cf. Prot., Meno), and saw not the higher mysteries, which are reserved for those who rise from noble actions, institutions, laws, to universal beauty. The true order is to advance from one to all fair forms, then to fair practices, fair thoughts, and lastly to the single thought of absolute beauty. In that communion only, beholding beauty with the eye of the mind, one shall bring forth realities and become the friend of God and be immortal, if mortal man may.
Alcibiades here breaks in and is vociferously welcomed. He is crowning Agathon, when, on perceiving Socrates, he declares that he will crown him too. Then he announces himself king of the feast, and insists upon hard drinking (though this will make no difference to Socrates). Eryximachus demands from the newcomer a speech in praise of love. But Alcibiades will praise no one else when Socrates is near. And with the freedom of one who is deep in wine he proceeds with his strange encomium of “this Marsyas.” “In face and outward bearing he is like a Satyr or Silenus, and by his voice he charms more powerfully than they do by their pipings. The eloquence of Pericles has no effect in comparison with his. His words alone move Alcibiades to shame, and fascinate him until he stops his ears and runs from him.”—“I often wish him dead. Yet that would break my heart. He brings me to my wit's end.”—“And, as carved Sileni are made to encase images of gods, so this Silenus-mask entreasures things divine. He affects ignorance and susceptibility to beauty. Thus he mocks mankind. But he cares nothing for outward shows, and his temperance (σωφροσύνη) is wonderful.” To prove this Alcibiades reveals his own heart-secret. (He is not ashamed to speak it amongst others who have felt the pang which Socrates inflicts). And he makes it abundantly manifest that in their widely rumoured intercourse (cf. Protag. init.) Socrates had never cared for anything but what was best for his younger friend. Alcibiades then relates as an eyewitness the endurance shown by Socrates at Potidaea, his strange persistence in solitary meditation—standing absorbed in thought for a day and a night together—and his intrepid conduct in the retreat from Delium (cf. Laches). “The talk of Socrates is of pack-asses and
- ↑ Cf. Theaet. 184-186.
