“We were discussing,” said I, “that very thing for which we found you praying—namely, truth, and what it might be.”
“Perhaps you went a worse way toward discovering it than I did. But let us hear. Whence did the discussion arise?”
“From something,” said Alcibiades, “which Protagoras said in his lecture yesterday—How truth was what each man troweth, or believeth, to be true. ‘So that,’ he said, ‘one thing is true to me, if I believe it true, and another opposite thing to you, if you believe that opposite. For,’ continued he, ‘there is an objective and a subjective truth; the former, doubtless, one and absolute, and contained in the nature of each thing; but the other manifold and relative, varying with the faculties of each perceiver thereof.’ But as each man’s faculties, he said, were different from his neighbour’s, and all more or less imperfect, it was impossible that the absolute objective truth of anything could be seen by any mortal, but only some partial approximation, and, as it were, sketch of it, according as the object was represented with more or less refraction on the mirror of his subjectivity. And therefore, as the true inquirer deals only with the possible, and lets the impossible go, it was the business of the wise man, shunning the search after absolute truth as an impious attempt of the Titans to scale Olympus, to busy himself humbly and practically with subjective truth, and with those methods—rhetoric, for instance—by which he can make the subjective opinions of others either similar to his own, or, leaving them as they are—for it may be very often unnecessary to change them—useful to his own ends.”
Then Socrates, laughing:
“My fine fellow, you will have made more than one oration in the Pnyx to-day. And indeed, I myself felt quite exalted, and rapt aloft, like Bellerophon on Pegasus, upon the eloquence of Protagoras and you. But yet forgive me this one thing; for my mother bare me, as you know, a man-midwife, after her own trade, and not a sage.”
ALCIBIADES. “What then?”
SOCRATES. “This, my astonishing friend—for really I am altogether astonished and struck dumb, as I always am whensoever I hear a brilliant talker like you discourse concerning objectivities and subjectivities, and such mysterious words; at such moments I am like an old war-horse, who, though he will rush on levelled lances, shudders and sweats with terror at a boy rattling pebbles in a bladder; and I feel altogether dizzy, and dread lest I should suffer some such transformation as Scylla, when I hear awful words, like incantations, pronounced over me, of which I, being no sage, understand nothing. But tell me now, Alcibiades, did the opinion of Protagoras altogether please you?”
A. “Why not? Is it not certain that two equally honest men may differ in their opinions on the same matter?”
S. “Undeniable.”
A. “But if each is equally sincere in speaking what he believes, is not each equally moved by the spirit of truth?”
S. “You seem to have been lately initiated, and that not at Eleusis merely, nor in the Cabiria, but rather in some Persian or Babylonian mysteries, when you discourse thus of spirits. But you, Phaethon” (turning to me), “how did you like the periods of Protagoras?”
“Do not ask me, Socrates,” said I, “for indeed we have fought a weary battle together ever since sundown last night, and all that I had to say I learnt from you.”
S. “From me, good fellow?”
PHAETHON. “Yes, indeed. I seemed to have heard from you that truth is simply ‘facts as they are.’ But when I urged this on Alcibiades, his arguments seemed superior to mine.”
A. “But I have been telling him, drunk and sober, that it is my opinion also as to what truth is. Only I, with Protagoras, distinguish between objective fact and subjective opinion.”
S. “Doing rightly, too, fair youth. But how comes it then that you and Phaethon cannot agree?”
“That,” said I, “you know better than either of us.”
“You seem both of you,” said Socrates, “to be, as usual, in the family way. Shall I exercise my profession on you?”
“No, by Zeus!” answered Alcibiades, laughing; “I fear thee, thou juggler, lest I suffer once again the same fate with the woman in the myth, and after I have conceived a fair man-child, and, as I fancy, brought it forth; thou hold up to the people some dead puppy, or log, or what not, and cry: ‘Look what Alcibiades has produced!’”
S. “But, beautiful youth, before I can do that, you will have spoken your oration on the bema, and all the people will be ready and able to say ‘Absurd! Nothing but what is fair can come from so fair a body.’ Come, let us consider the question together.”
I assented willingly; and Alcibiades, mincing and pouting, after his fashion, still was loath to refuse.
S. “Let us see, then. Alcibiades distinguishes, he says, between objective fact and subjective opinion?”
A. “Of course I do.”
S. “But not, I presume, between objective truth and subjective truth, whereof Protagoras spoke?”
A. “What trap are you laying now? I distinguish between them also, of course.”
S. “Tell me, then, dear youth, of your indulgence, what they are; for I am shamefully ignorant on the matter.”
A. “Why, do they not call a thing objectively true, when it is true absolutely in itself; but subjectively true, when it is true in the belief of a particular person?”
S. “—Though not necessarily true objectively, that is, absolutely and in itself?”
A. “No.”
S. “But possibly true so?”
A. “Of course.”
S. “Now, tell me—a thing is objectively true, is it not, when it is a fact as it is?”
A. “Yes.”
S. “And when it is a fact as it is not, it is objectively false; for such a fact would not be true absolutely, and in itself, would it?”
A. “Of course not.”
S. “Such a fact would be, therefore, no fact, and nothing.”
A. “Why so?”
S. “Because, if a thing exists, it can only exist as it is, not as it is not; at least my opinion inclines that way.”
“Certainly not,” said I; “why do you haggle so, Alcibiades?”
S. “Fair and softly, Phaethon! How do you know that he is not fighting for wife and child, and the altars of his gods? But if he will agree with you and me, he will confess that a thing which is objectively false does not exist at all, and is nothing.”
A. “I suppose it is necessary to do so. But I know whither you are struggling.”
S. “To this, dear youth, that, therefore, if a thing subjectively true be also objectively false, it does not exist, and is nothing.”
“It is so,” said I.
S. “Let us, then, let nothing go its own way, while we go on ours with that which is only objectively true, lest coming to a river over which it is subjectively true to us that there is a bridge, and trying to walk over that work of our own mind, but no one’s hands, the bridge prove to be objectively false, and we, walking over the bank into the water, be set free from that which is subjectively on the farther bank of Styx.”
Then I, laughing: “This hardly coincides, Alcibiades, with Protagoras’s opinion, that subjective truth was alone useful.”
“But rather proves,” said Socrates, “that undiluted draughts of it are of a hurtful and poisonous nature, and require to be tempered with somewhat of objective truth, before it is safe to use them—at least in the case of bridges.”
“Did I not tell you,” interrupted Alcibiades, “how the old deceiver would try to put me to bed of some dead puppy or log? Or do you not see how, in order, after his custom, to raise a laugh about the whole question by vulgar examples, he is blinking what he knows as well as I?”
S. “What then, fair youth?”
A. “That Protagoras was not speaking about bridges, or any other merely physical things, on which no difference of opinion need occur, because every one can satisfy himself by simply using his senses; but concerning moral and intellectual matters, which are not cognisable by the senses, and therefore permit, without blame, a greater diversity of opinion. Error on such points, he told us—on the subject of religion, for example—was both pardonable and harmless; for no blame could be imputed to the man who acted faithfully up to his own belief, whatsoever that might be.”
S. “Bravely spoken of him, and worthily of a free state. But tell me, Alcibiades, with what matters does religion deal?”
A. “With the Gods.”
S. “Then it is not hurtful to speak false things of the Gods?”
A. “Not unless you know them to be false.”
S. “But answer me this, Alcibiades. If you made a mistake concerning numbers, as that twice two made five, might it not be hurtful to you?”
A. “Certainly; for I might pay away five obols instead of four.”
S. “And so be punished, not by any anger of two and two against you, but by those very necessary laws of number, which you had mistaken?”
A. “Yes.”
S. “Or if you made a mistake concerning music, as that two consecutive notes could produce harmony, that opinion also, if you acted upon it, would be hurtful to you?”
A. “Certainly; for I should make a discord, and pain my own ears, and my hearers’.”
S. “And in this case also, be punished, not by any anger of the lyre against you, but by those very necessary laws of music which you had mistaken?”
A. “Yes.”
S. “Or if you mistook concerning a brave man, believing him to be a coward, might not this also be hurtful to you? If, for instance, you attacked him carelessly, expecting him to run away, and he defended himself valiantly, and conquered you; or if you neglected to call for his help in need, expecting him falsely, as in the former case, to run away; would not such a mistake be hurtful to you, and punish you, not by any anger of the man against you, but by your mistake itself?”
A. “It is evident.”
S. “We may assume, then, that such mistakes at least are hurtful, and that they are liable to be punished by the very laws of that concerning which we mistake?”
A. “We may so assume.”
S. “Suppose, then, we were to say: ‘What argument is this of yours, Protagoras?—that concerning lesser things, both intellectual and moral, such as concerning number, music, or the character of a man, mistakes are hurtful, and liable to bring punishment, in proportion to our need of using those things: but concerning the Gods, the very authors and lawgivers of number, music, human character, and all other things whatsoever, mistakes are of no consequence, nor in any way hurtful to man, who stands in need of their help, not only in stress of battle, once or twice in his life, as he might of the brave man, but always and in all things both outward and inward? Does it not seem strange to you, for it does to me, that to make mistakes concerning such beings should not bring an altogether infinite and daily punishment, not by any resentment of theirs, but, as in the case of music or numbers, by the very fact of our having mistaken the laws of their being, on which the whole universe depends?’—What do you suppose Protagoras would be able to answer, if he faced the question boldly?”
A. “I cannot tell.”
S. “Nor I either. Yet one thing more it may be worth our while to examine. If one should mistake concerning God, will his error be one of excess, or defect?”
A. “How can I tell?”
S. “Let us see. Is not Zeus more perfect than all other beings?”
A. “Certainly, if it be true that, as they say, the perfection of each kind of being is derived from him; he must therefore be himself more perfect than any one of those perfections.”
S. “Well argued. Therefore, if he conceived of himself, his conception of himself would be more perfect than that of any man concerning him?”
A. “Assuredly; if he have that faculty, he must needs have it in perfection.”
S. “Suppose, then, that he conceived of one of his own properties, such as his justice; how large would that perfect conception of his be?”
A. “But how can I tell, Socrates?”
S. “My good friend, would it not be exactly commensurate with that justice of his?”
A. “How then?”
S. “Wherein consists the perfection of any conception, save in this, that it be the exact copy of that whereof it is conceived, and neither greater nor less?”
A. “I see now.”
S. “Without the Pythia’s help, I should say. But, tell me—We agree that Zeus’s conception of his own justice will be exactly commensurate with his justice?”
A. “We do.”
S. “But man’s conception thereof, it has been agreed, would be certainly less perfect than Zeus’s?”
A. “It would.”
S. “Man, then, it seems, would always conceive God to be less just than God conceives himself to be?”
A. “He would.”
S. “And therefore to be less just, according to the argument, than he really is?”
A. “True.”
S. “And therefore his error concerning Zeus, would be in this case an error of defect?”
A. “It would.”
S. “And so on of each of his other properties?”
A. “The same argument would likewise, as far as I can see, apply to them.”
S. “So that, on the whole, man, by the unassisted power of his own faculty, will always conceive Zeus to be less just, wise, good, and beautiful than he is?”
A. “It seems probable.”
S. “But does not that seem to you hurtful?”
A. “Why so?”
S. “As if, for instance, a man believing that Zeus loves him less than he really does, should become superstitious and self-tormenting. Or, believing that Zeus will guide him less than he really will, he should go his own way through life without looking for that guidance: or if, believing that Zeus cares about his conquering his passions less than he really does, he should become careless and despairing in the struggle: or if, believing that Zeus is less interested in the welfare of mankind than he really is, he should himself neglect to assist them, and so lose the glory of being called a benefactor of his country: would not all these mistakes be hurtful ones?”
“Certainly,” said I: but Alcibiades was silent.
S. “And would not these mistakes, by the hypothesis, themselves punish him who made them, without any resentment whatsoever, or Nemesis of the Gods being required for his chastisement?”
“It seems so,” said I.
S. “But can we say of such mistakes, and of the harm which may accrue from them, anything but that they must both be infinite; seeing that they are mistakes concerning an infinite Being, and his infinite properties, on every one of which, and on all together, our daily existence depends?”
P. “It seems so.”
S. “So that, until such a man’s error concerning Zeus, the source of all things, is cleared up, either in this life or in some future one, we cannot but fear for him infinite confusion, misery, and harm, in all matters which he may take in hand?”
Then Alcibiades, angrily: “What ugly mask is this you have put on, Socrates? You speak rather like a priest trying to frighten rustics into paying their first-fruits, than a philosopher inquiring after that which is beautiful. But you shall never terrify me into believing that it is not a noble thing to speak out whatsoever a man believes, and to go forward boldly in the spirit of truth.”
S. “Feeling first, I hope, with your staff, as would be but reasonable in the case of the bridge, whether your belief was objectively or only subjectively true, lest you should fall through your subjective bridge into objective water. Nevertheless, leaving the bridge and the water, let us examine a little what this said spirit of truth may be. How do you define it?”
A. “I assert that whosoever says honestly what he believes, does so by the spirit of truth.”
S. “Then if Lyce, patting those soft cheeks of yours, were to say: ‘Alcibiades, thou art the fairest youth in Athens,’ she would speak by the spirit of truth?”
A. “They say so.”
S. “And they say rightly. But if Lyce, as is her custom, wished, by so saying, to cheat you into believing that she loved you, and thereby to wheedle you out of a new shawl, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”
A. “I suppose so.”
S. “But if, again, she said the same thing to Phaethon, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”
“By no means, Socrates,” said I, laughing.
S. “Be silent, fair boy; you are out of court as an interested party. Alcibiades shall answer. If Lyce, being really mad with love, like Sappho, were to believe Phaethon to be fairer than you, and say so, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”
A. “I suppose so.”
S. “Do not frown; your beauty is in no question. Only she would then be saying what is not true?”
“I must answer for him after all,” said I.
S. “Then it seems, from what has been agreed, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth, whether it speak truth or not. The spirit seems to be of an enviable serenity. But suppose again, that I believed that Alcibiades had an ulcer on his leg, and were to proclaim the same now to the people, when they come into the Pnyx, should I not be speaking by the spirit of truth?”
A. “But that would be a shameful and blackguardly action.”
S. “Be it so. It seems, therefore, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth whether that which it affirms be honourable or blackguardly. Is it not so?”
A. “It seems so, most certainly, in that case at least.”
S. “And in others, as I think. But tell me—Is not the man who does what he believes, as much moved by this your spirit of truth as he who says what he believes?”
A. “Certainly he is.”
S. “Then if I believed it right to lie or steal, I, in lying or stealing, should lie or steal by the spirit of truth?”
A. “Certainly: but that is impossible.”
S. “My fine fellow, and wherefore? I have heard of a nation among the Indians who hold it a sacred duty to murder every one not of their own tribe, whom they can waylay: and when they are taken and punished by the rulers of that country, die joyfully under the greatest torments, believing themselves certain of an entrance into the Elysian fields, in proportion to the number of murders which they have committed.”