The Symposium — Socrates questions Agathon

Socrates questions Agathon

6 min read

At the end of Agathon’s speech, as Aristodemus told me, there was tumultuous applause from all present, at hearing the youngster speak in terms so appropriate to himself and to the god. Then Socrates, with a glance at Eryximachus, said: Son of Acumenus, do you really call it an unfearful fear that has all this while affrighted me, and myself no prophet in saying just now that Agathon would make a marvellous speech, and I be hard put to it?

In one part of your statement, that he would speak finely, replied Eryximachus, I think you were a true prophet; but as to your being hard put to it, I do not agree.

But surely, my good sir, said Socrates, I am bound to be hard put, I or anyone else in the world who should have to speak after such a fine assortment of eloquence. The greater part of it was not so very astounding; but when we drew towards the close, the beauty of the words and phrases could not but take one’s breath away. For myself, indeed, I was so conscious that I should fail to say anything half as fine, that for very shame I was on the point of slinking away, had I had any chance. For his speech so reminded me of Gorgias that I was exactly in the plight described by Homer: I feared that Agathon in his final phrases would confront me with the eloquent Gorgias’ head, and by opposing his speech to mine would turn me thus dumbfounded into stone. And so in that moment I realized what a ridiculous fool I was to fall in with your proposal that I should take my turn in your eulogies of Love, and to call myself an expert in love-matters, when really I was ignorant of the method in which eulogies ought to be made at all. For I was such a silly wretch as to think that one ought in each case to speak the truth about the person eulogized; on this assumption I hoped we might pick out the fairest of the facts and set these forth in their comeliest guise. I was quite elated with the notion of what a fine speech I should make, for I felt that I knew the truth. But now, it appears that this is not what is meant by a good speech of praise; which is rather an ascription of all the highest and fairest qualities, whether the case be so or not; it is really no matter if they are untrue. Our arrangement, it seems, was that each should appear to eulogize Love, not that he should make a real eulogy. Hence it is, sirs, I suppose, that you muster every kind of phrase for your tribute to Love, declaring such and such to be his character and influence, in order to present him in the best and fairest light; successfully, of course, before those who do not know him, though it must be otherwise before those who do; your praise has such a fine impressive air! No, I find I was quite mistaken as to the method required; it was in ignorance that I agreed to take my turn in the round of praising. The tongue, you see, undertook, the mind did not; so good-bye to my bond. I am not to be called upon now as an eulogist in your sense; for such I cannot be. Nevertheless I am ready, if you like, to speak the mere truth in my own way; not to rival your discourses, and so be your laughing-stock. Decide then, Phaedrus, whether you have any need of such a speech besides, and would like to hear the truth told about Love in whatsoever style of terms and phrases may chance to occur by the way.

So Phaedrus and the others bade him speak, just in any manner he himself should think fit.

Then allow me further, Phaedrus, to put some little questions to Agathon, so as to secure his agreement before I begin my speech.

You have my leave, said Phaedrus; so ask him. After that, my friend told me, Socrates started off in this sort of way:

I must say, my dear Agathon, you gave your speech an excellent introduction, by stating that your duty was first to display the character of Love, and then to treat of his acts. Those opening words I thoroughly admire. So come now, complete your beautiful and magnificent description of Love, and tell me this: Are we so to view his character as to take Love to be love of some object, or of none? My question is not whether he is love of a mother or a father—how absurd it would be to ask whether Love is love of mother or father —but as though I were asking about our notion of father, whether one’s father is a father of somebody or not. Surely you would say, if you cared to give the proper answer, that the father is father of son or of daughter, would you not?

Yes, of course, said Agathon.

And you would say the same of the mother? He agreed to this too.

Then will you give me just a few more answers, said Socrates, so that you may the better grasp my meaning? Suppose I were to ask you, Well now, a brother, viewed in the abstract, is he brother of somebody or not?

He is, said Agathon.

That is, of brother or of sister? He agreed.

Now try and tell me about Love: is he a love of nothing or of something?

Of something, to be sure.

Now then, said Socrates, keep carefully in mind what is the object of Love, and only tell me whether he desires the particular thing that is his object.

Yes, to be sure, he replied.

Has he or has he not the object of his desire and love when he desires and loves it?

He does not have it, most likely, he said.

Not as a likelihood, said Socrates, but as a necessity, consider if the desiring subject must have desire for something it lacks, and again, no desire if it has no lack. I at least, Agathon, am perfectly sure it is a necessity. How does it strike you?

I am sure of it also, said he.

Very good. Now could a tall man wish to be tall, or a strong man to be strong?

By what has been admitted, this is impossible.

Since, I suppose, the man in each case would not be lacking the quality mentioned.

True.

For if, being strong, he should wish to be strong, said Socrates, or being swift, to be swift, or being healthy, to be healthy,—since we are apt to suppose in these and all such cases that men of this or that sort, possessing these qualities, do also desire what they have already: I put this in, to prevent any misconception; these men, Agathon, if you consider, are bound to have at the very moment each thing that they have whether they wish it or not; and how, I ask, is a man going to desire that? No, when a person says, I being healthy, want to be healthy; being rich, I want to be rich; I desire the very things that I have—we shall tell him, My good sir, riches you possess, and health and strength, which you would like to possess in the future also: for the time now present you have them whether you would or no. When you say, I desire these present things, we suggest you are merely saying I wish these things now present to be present also in the future. Would he not admit our point? To this Agathon assented.

And so, continued Socrates, a man may be said to love a thing not yet provided or possessed, when he would have the presence of certain things secured to him for ever in the future.

Certainly, he said.

Then such a person, and in general all who feel desire, feel it for what is not provided or present; for something they have not or are not or lack and that sort of thing is the object of desire and love?

Assuredly, he said.

Now then, said Socrates, let us agree to what we have so far concluded. First, is not Love directed to certain things of which, in the second place, he has a want?

Yes, he said.