Socrates returned from his long campaign abroad and resumed his familiar activities. And with this event, he re-entered the life of Athens, at least in Plato’s portrait of him. Socrates narrates his homecoming:
Yesterday evening we returned from the army at Potidaea, and having been a good while away, I thought that I should like to go and look at my old haunts. So I went into the palaestra of Taureas, which is over against the temple of Basile, and there I found a number of persons, most of whom I knew, but not all. My visit was unexpected, and Chaerephon, who always behaves like a madman, started up from among them and ran to me, seizing my hand and saying, “How did you escape from the battle, Socrates?” An engagement had taken place at Potidaea not long before we came away, of which the news had only just reached Athens.
“Just as you see me now,” I replied.
“There was a report,” he said, “that the engagement was very severe, and that many of our acquaintances had fallen.”
“That,” I replied, “was not far from the truth.”
“I suppose,” he said, “that you were present.”
“I was.”
“Then sit down here, and tell us the whole story, which as yet we have only heard imperfectly.”
So saying, he led me to a place by the side of Critias, the son of Callaeschrus, and when I had sat down and saluted him and the rest of the company, I told them the news from the army, and answered their several inquiries.[1]
The setting is a palaestra, a grounds for exercising, especially wrestling, with a building for dressing and bathing. Socrates sits down upon a bench and asks his friends which boys are most exceptional for wisdom and beauty. The palaestra is a place where schoolboys and men of leisure would spend much of their free time in wrestling and athletics. In a society in which women are segregated, men prize the beauty and attractiveness of boys as much as those qualities in women. But whereas many of his companions are most interested in the physical qualities of boys, Socrates soon turns to consider qualities of wisdom and character.
The mature Critias warmly recommends both the wisdom and beauty of his young cousin Charmides. Both were present at Callias’ house to hear Protagoras; we shall meet them both again later in a dark chapter of Athens’ history, when these relatives of Plato’s (Charmides was Plato’s uncle, his mother’s brother, while Critias was Charmides’ first cousin and Plato’s second cousin)[2] played a shameful part (ch. 21*). But here the focus is on the promise of these gifted persons. Charmides is present, and Socrates asks to meet him. Critias summons him, and he sits down next to Socrates on a crowded bench. The men push back to make way, and those on the end are tumbled to the earth. Charmides has a persistent headache, and Socrates playfully tells him of a cure, consisting of a herbal leaf and a charm. The philosopher confesses to feeling a passionate desire for the young boy. But he gets hold of himself—he must himself exercise temperance—and addresses the medical problem. To heal the body, the physician must heal the soul–and so it is necessary to examine Charmides’ soul. In order to be healed, Charmides must have temperance, sōphrosunē, in his soul. Does Charmides have temperance?, Socrates asks. Charmides blushes, and answers shyly that if he says he does not, he will contradict Critias, who has praised his virtues; if he says he does, he will be boastful and intemperate.
“In order, then,” says Socrates, “that we may form a conjecture whether you have temperance abiding in you or not, tell me what, in your opinion, is temperance?”[3]
“At first he hesitated,” the philosopher observes, “and wasn’t willing to answer. Then he said that he thought temperance was doing all things orderly and quietly–for example, walking in the streets, and talking, and indeed doing everything in that way. ‘In a word,’ he said, ‘I should answer that, in my opinion, temperance is a kind of quietness.’”[4]
Socrates asks if he thinks temperance is a kind of goodness; the boy answers that it is. But is it better to write slowly and quietly, or quickly? Is it better to read slowly or quickly? Is it better to play the lyre slowly or quickly? To wrestle slowly or quickly? To all of these Charmides must answer, quickly. Then quickness must be more of a virtue than slowness and quietness. The definition will not stand up under scrutiny, and Charmides must look for another. “My opinion is, Socrates,” he replies, “that temperance makes a man ashamed or modest, and that temperance is the same as modesty.”
Socrates asks if modesty is not a good thing; it is. Is anything good which does not make men good? It is not. But Homer has said, “Modesty is not good for a needy man.” Well, temperance must always be good, but modesty is not always good, so temperance cannot be the same as modesty.
What, then, can temperance be? Charmides offers something he has heard someone say: “Temperance is doing our own business.” Socrates playfully scolds him for repeating something he has heard from Critias, or some philosopher. Critias denies being the source. The real question is whether it is true or not, so they will examine the new definition.
When you learn to read and write, do you learn to read and write only your own name, or other people’s names? And when a craftsman practices his craft, does he do it only for himself, or for others? Doesn’t the weaver weave coats for other people, the shoemaker make shoes for other people, and so on? What could it mean that temperance is doing one’s own business?
Here Charmides looks over at Critias, who is growing embarrassed at the argument, as though his own theory is being destroyed. Charmides looks for help from his master, who complains that the boy has not done a good job defending the view.
“Why, at his age,” says Socrates, “most excellent Critias, he can hardly be expected to understand; but you, who are older, and have studied, may be assumed to know the meaning [of these things].” He challenges Critias to take up the argument, and he finally agrees.
Now the conversation becomes more earnest and the stakes higher. The philosopher and the sophist are locked in a duel of words. The philosopher asks for a definition, and he asks questions about the meaning and the assumptions of the definition. He brings up problems, inconsistencies, counterexamples, as he has with the boy.
[1].Plato Charmides 153a-d.
[2]. See Nails 2002:244.
[3]. On this virtue in Greek culture, see North 1966.
[4].Plato Charmides 159a-b.