Book I, 327–334

327a Yesterday I went down to the Piraeus with Glaucon, son of Ariston, to offer a prayer to the goddess and also to see how they would conduct the festival, since this was its first celebration. I thought the procession of the local people was beautiful; yet the procession the Thracians held seemed no less splendid. 327b After praying and watching the spectacle, we set off toward the city. Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, caught sight of us from a distance as we started home, and sent his servant running to ask us to wait for him. The servant caught hold of my cloak from behind and said, “Polemarchus asks you to wait.” I turned around and asked where he was. “He is coming up behind us,” he said. “Please wait.” “We will wait,” said Glaucon.327c A little later Polemarchus arrived, along with Adeimantus, Glaucon’s brother, Niceratus, son of Nicias, and several others coming from the procession.Polemarchus said, “Socrates, you seem to be heading for the city on your way home.”“You are not mistaken,” I said.“Do you see how many of us there are?” he asked.“How could I not?”“Then either prove stronger than all of us,” he said, “or stay here.”“But,” I said, “there is another possibility: we might persuade you to let us go.”“Could you persuade us,” he asked, “if we refused to listen?”“Not at all,” said Glaucon.“Then you had better understand that we will not listen.”

328a “And besides,” Adeimantus said, “don’t you know there will be a torch race on horseback for the goddess this evening?”“On horseback?” I said. “That is new. Will they ride in a race passing torches from one to another? Is that what you mean?”“Yes,” said Polemarchus. “And they will hold an all-night festival, too, well worth seeing. We will get up after dinner and watch it, meet a great many of the young men there, and talk with them. So stay 328b and do not think of doing otherwise.”“Well, it seems we must stay,” said Glaucon.“If that is how it seems,” I said, “then that is what we must do.”So we went to Polemarchus’ house. There we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, and also Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, Charmantides of Paeania, and Clitophon, son of Aristonymus. Polemarchus’ father Cephalus was inside as well. He seemed very old to me, for it had been a long time since 328c I had seen him. He sat crowned with a wreath upon a cushioned chair; he had just performed a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat down beside him, for chairs were set there in a circle.As soon as Cephalus saw me, he welcomed me and said, “Socrates, you do not come down to visit us in the Piraeus often enough. You ought to. If I still had the strength to make the journey into the city easily, you would have no need to come 328d here; we would come to you. But as things are, you must visit us more frequently. Be assured that as my other pleasures, those of the body, fade away, my longing and pleasure in conversation grow in equal measure. So do not refuse: spend time with these young men, and visit us here as friends who are very close to you.”“Indeed, Cephalus,” I said, “I enjoy talking 328e with the very old. I think we should learn from them, as from people who have traveled ahead on a road that we too may have to take: whether it is rough and difficult, or easy and passable. And I would gladly hear what you have to say about it, now that you have reached what the poets call the threshold of old age. Is this a difficult time of life, or how do you describe it?”

329a “By Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “I will tell you how it seems to me. Some of us of roughly the same age often gather together, keeping up the old proverb. Most of us, when we meet, lament their lost youthful pleasures, recalling love affairs, drinking parties, feasts, and all that goes with them. They are distressed, as though robbed of something great, as though then they lived well and now they hardly live at all. 329b Others complain of insults they suffer from their own families on account of their age, and rehearse all the evils for which they hold old age responsible. But I think, Socrates, they are blaming the wrong cause. If age were responsible, I would have suffered the same things by virtue of my age, as would everyone else who had reached it. Yet I have met others who feel quite differently. Once I was with the poet Sophocles when someone asked him, ‘How are things 329c with love, Sophocles? Can you still sleep with a woman?’ He answered, ‘Hush, man! I am delighted to have escaped from that, as though I had fled a savage, frenzied master.’ I thought his answer excellent then, and think so no less now. In old age, at least where such things are concerned, there comes a profound peace and freedom. When desires stop straining at us and relax their hold, Sophocles’ words come entirely true: 329d it is an escape from a host of mad masters. But in these matters, and in troubles with family too, there is one cause, Socrates, and it is not old age but a person’s character. For those who are orderly and contented, even old age is only moderately burdensome; without those qualities, Socrates, both youth and age prove hard to bear.”I admired what he said and, wanting to encourage him 329e to speak further, said, “Cephalus, I imagine that when you say this, most people do not accept it. They suppose you bear old age easily not because of your character but because you possess considerable wealth; the rich, they say, have many consolations.”“You are right,” he said. “They do not accept it. There is something in what they say, but not so much as they think. The answer Themistocles gave was apt: when a man from Seriphus insulted him and said

330a that his fame came not from himself but from his city, he replied that he would not have become famous if he had been a Seriphian, nor would the other man if he had been an Athenian. The same answer serves those who are poor and find old age hard: a decent person could not bear old age with poverty very easily, while an indecent person, even if rich, could never be at ease with himself.”“Cephalus,” I said, “did you inherit most of what you own, or did you acquire it yourself?” 330b“What did I acquire, Socrates?” he said. “As a moneymaker, I stand somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, whose name I bear, inherited about as much as I own now and made it many times greater. My father Lysanias made it smaller still than it is now. I will be satisfied if I can leave these sons of mine not less, but a little more than I inherited.”“The reason I asked,” I said, “is that you do not seem 330c particularly attached to money. That is generally true of people who have not made it themselves. Those who have earned it love it twice as much as others do. Just as poets love their poems and fathers their children, people who have made money care for it as their own work, besides valuing it for its use as others do. They are difficult company, because they will praise nothing but wealth.”“That is true,” he said. 330d“Indeed it is,” I said. “But tell me one thing more: what do you think is the greatest good you have gained from possessing considerable wealth?”“One that I may not convince many people of when I tell them,” he said. “You must know, Socrates, that when a man thinks he is close to death, fears and concerns come upon him that never troubled him before. The stories told about Hades, that anyone who has done wrong here must pay 330e for it there, which he has laughed at until now, then begin to trouble his soul: what if they are true? And he himself—whether from the weakness of age or because, nearing that place, he sees it more clearly—becomes full of suspicion and dread, and starts to reflect and examine whether he has wronged anyone.The man who finds his life filled with wrongs often wakes from sleep in fear like a child,

331a and lives in fearful expectation. But the man who knows he has done no wrong always has sweet hope at his side, a kindly nurse of old age, as Pindar says. For he put it beautifully, Socrates, when he said that a man who has lived in justice and reverencesweet to his heart,cherishing nurse of age, hope attends him;she above all steers the shiftingmind of mortal men.How wonderfully right he was. And it is chiefly with this in mind that I count the possession of wealth of the highest value—not 331b for every man, but for the decent and orderly man. Wealth contributes greatly to his not deceiving or lying to anyone, even unwillingly, and not departing for that other place afraid because he owes sacrifices to a god or money to a person. It has many other uses as well; but weighing one against another, Socrates, I would count this not the least of the ways in which wealth is useful to a man of sense.” 331c“That is beautifully said, Cephalus,” I said. “But as for this very thing, justice: shall we say it is simply telling the truth and returning what one has taken from another? Or can these very acts sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? I mean something like this: everyone would agree that if a man borrowed weapons from a friend who was in his right mind, and the friend went mad and demanded them back, he should not return them. The man who did would not be just, nor would a man who chose to tell someone in that condition the whole truth.” 331d“You are right,” he said.“So telling the truth and returning what one has taken is not the definition of justice.”“It most certainly is, Socrates,” Polemarchus broke in, “if Simonides is to be believed.”“Then I hand over the argument to you,” said Cephalus. “It is time for me to attend to the sacrifices.”“Is Polemarchus, then,” I asked, “your heir?”“He certainly is,” he said with a laugh, and went off to the sacrifices. 331e“Tell me, then,” I said, “you who inherit the argument: what did Simonides say about justice that you think is right?”“That it is just to give each person what is owed to him. In saying that, I think he speaks well.”“Well, it is not easy to disbelieve Simonides, a wise and inspired man. But what he means by this, Polemarchus, you may understand, while I do not. Clearly he cannot mean what we were just saying, that one should return something deposited with one by anyone who demands it when he is not in his right mind.

332a And yet the thing deposited is presumably owed to him, is it not?”“Yes.”“But it must not be returned at all when someone demands it in a state of madness?”“True,” he said.“Then Simonides evidently means something else when he says it is just to return what is owed.”“By Zeus, he certainly does,” he said. “He thinks friends owe friends good deeds, never harm.”“I see,” I said. “A man does not return what is owed if he returns gold someone deposited with him when both its return 332b and its receipt would be harmful, though the man receiving it and the man returning it are friends. Is that what you say Simonides means?”“Exactly.”“And what of enemies? Should one give them back whatever one happens to owe them?”“Certainly,” he said, “whatever is owed to them. And what one enemy owes another, I imagine, is what is fitting for him: some harm.”“So Simonides spoke in riddles, 332c in the manner of a poet, about what justice is,” I said. “For he apparently meant that justice was giving each person what befits him, and called that what is owed.”“What else could he have meant?” he asked.“By Zeus,” I said, “suppose someone asked him, ‘Simonides, what art is called medicine because it gives to what things what is owed and fitting?’ What do you think he would answer?”“Clearly,” he said, “the art that gives bodies drugs, food, and drink.”“And what art is called cookery because it gives to what things what is owed and fitting?” 332d“The art that gives seasoning to dishes.”“Very well. Then what art would be called justice because it gives what things to what people?”“If we are to follow what was said before, Socrates,” he replied, “the art that gives benefits to friends and injuries to enemies.”“Then does he call doing good to friends and harm to enemies justice?”“I think so.”“Who is best able to do good to sick friends and harm to enemies in matters of disease and health?”“A doctor.” 332e“And who can do so for those at sea, facing its dangers?”“A ship’s captain.”“And the just man? In what activity and for what work is he best able to benefit friends and harm enemies?”“In fighting alongside friends and against enemies, I think.”“Very well. Yet a doctor is useless to people who are not sick, my dear Polemarchus.”“True.”“And a captain to people who are not at sea.”“Yes.”“Is the just man, then, useless to people who are not at war?”“I do not think so at all.”“So justice is useful in peacetime too?”

333a “It is.”“And so is farming, is it not?”“Yes.”“For producing crops?”“Yes.”“And shoemaking too?”“Yes.”“For producing shoes, you would say, I suppose?”“Certainly.”“Then tell me: for what use or acquisition in peacetime would you say justice is useful?”“For contracts, Socrates.”“By contracts do you mean partnerships, or something else?”“Partnerships, of course.” 333b“Then is a just man a good and useful partner in placing pieces on a game board, or is a skilled player?”“The skilled player.”“But in setting bricks and stones, is the just man a more useful and better partner than a builder?”“Not at all.”“Then in what partnership is the just man a better partner than a builder or a lyre player, just as the lyre player is better than the just man at playing music?”“In dealing with money, I think.”“Except perhaps, Polemarchus, when the money is to be used: when money must be spent jointly to buy or sell a horse, then 333c I think the horseman is better. Is that so?”“So it seems.”“And when it is a ship, the shipbuilder or captain?”“Apparently.”“Then when gold or silver must be used jointly in what circumstances is the just man more useful than the others?”“When it must be deposited for safekeeping, Socrates.”“You mean when we do not need to use it, but let it lie idle?”“Exactly.”“So when money is useless, justice is useful in relation to it?” 333d“It seems so.”“And when a pruning knife must be stored, justice is useful to people jointly and individually; but when it must be used, the art of tending vines is useful?”“So it seems.”“And you will say that when a shield or a lyre must be stored rather than used, justice is useful; but when it must be used, the arts of war and music are useful?”“I must.”“And in every other case, justice is useless in the use of a thing, useful when the thing is not in use?”“So it seems.” 333e“Then, my friend, justice could hardly be of much importance if it is useful only for things that are useless. But let us consider this: is not the man most capable of striking a blow in a fight, whether a boxing match or any other sort, also most capable of guarding against one?”“Certainly.”“And is not the man best able to ward off a disease also best able to bring it on undetected?”“I think so.”

334a “And is not the best guardian of an army camp the very man best able to steal the enemy’s plans and other operations?”“Certainly.”“So wherever a man is a clever guardian, he is also a clever thief.”“Apparently.”“Then if the just man is clever at guarding money, he is clever at stealing it.”“So the argument indicates,” he said.“Then the just man, it seems, has turned out to be a kind of thief, and you may have learned this from Homer. For Homer loves Autolycus, Odysseus’ grandfather on his mother’s side, 334b and says that he surpassed all men in thievery and in swearing oaths. According to you, Homer, and Simonides, then, justice seems to be a kind of thievery, though for the benefit of friends and the injury of enemies. Is that not what you meant?”“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I no longer know what I meant. But I still believe justice benefits friends and harms enemies.” 334c“Do you call friends those who seem good to each person, or those who really are good even if they do not seem so? And the same question for enemies.”“A man is likely,” he said, “to love those he thinks good and hate those he thinks bad.”“But do people not make mistakes about this, so that many seem good who are not, and many seem the opposite?”“They do.”“Then for such people, the good are enemies and the bad are friends?”“Certainly.”“Yet for them it would then be just to benefit the bad 334d and harm the good?”“Apparently.”“But the good are just and incapable of doing wrong?”“True.”“So by your account it is just to harm those who have done no wrong.”“By no means, Socrates,” he said. “That account seems wicked.”“Then is it just to harm the unjust and benefit the just?” I asked.“That seems better than the other account.”“So for many people who have made mistakes, Polemarchus, it will follow 334e that it is just to harm their friends, since those friends are bad, and benefit their enemies, since those enemies are good. Then we will say exactly the opposite of what we said Simonides meant.”“Yes,” he said, “that is precisely the consequence. But let us revise our definition, for it seems we have not defined friend and enemy correctly.”“How did we define them, Polemarchus?”“We said that someone who seems good is a friend.”“How shall we revise it now?” I asked.“The man who both seems good and is good,” he said, “is a friend;

327a Yesterday I went down to the Piraeus with Glaucon, son of Ariston. I wanted to pray to the goddess and see how they would hold the festival, since this was their first time celebrating it. I thought the local procession was fine. The procession put on by the Thracians looked just as impressive. 327b After praying and watching the festival, we started back toward the city. Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, saw us from a distance heading home. He sent his servant running to ask us to wait for him. The servant caught hold of my cloak from behind. “Polemarchus asks you to wait,” he said. I turned around and asked where Polemarchus was. “He's coming up behind us,” the servant said. “Please wait.” “We will,” said Glaucon. 327c

A little later Polemarchus arrived, along with Glaucon's brother Adeimantus, Niceratus son of Nicias, and some others coming from the procession.

Polemarchus said, “Socrates, it looks to me as though you're on your way back to the city.”

“You're right,” I said.

“Do you see how many of us there are?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Then you'll either have to beat all of us or stay here.”

“There's another possibility,” I said. “What if we persuade you to let us go?”

“Could you persuade people who won't listen?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Glaucon said.

“Then assume we won't listen.”

328a Adeimantus spoke up. “Don't you know there will be a torch race on horseback this evening in honor of the goddess?”

“On horseback?” I said. “That's new. Will they pass torches to one another while racing on horses? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” said Polemarchus. “And they'll hold an all-night celebration that's worth seeing. We'll get up after dinner and watch it. We can spend time with lots of young men there and talk with them. So stay 328b and don't think of doing otherwise.”

“It looks like we have to stay,” Glaucon said.

“If you think so,” I said, “that's what we'll do.”

So we went to Polemarchus's house. We found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus there, as well as Thrasymachus of Chalcedon, Charmantides of Paeania, and Clitophon son of Aristonymus. Polemarchus's father Cephalus was also at home. He looked very old to me; it had been a long time since 328c I had seen him. He was sitting on a cushioned chair, wearing a wreath, because he had just made a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat beside him on some chairs placed in a circle.

Cephalus greeted me as soon as he saw me. “Socrates, you don't come down to see us in the Piraeus very often. You really should. If I were still able to walk easily up to the city, you wouldn't have to come 328d here; we'd go to you. But as things are, you should visit us more often. You can be sure that as my other bodily pleasures fade, my desire for conversation and my enjoyment of it grow stronger. So please spend time with these young men, and keep coming here to see us as close friends and family.”

“Cephalus,” I said, “I do enjoy talking 328e with people who are very old. They've traveled a road we may have to travel ourselves, so I think we should ask them what it's like. Is it rough and difficult, or easy to follow? I'd especially like to hear your view, now that you've reached the age poets call the threshold of old age. Is it a hard part of life? What can you tell me about it?”

329a “By Zeus, Socrates,” he said, “I'll tell you what I think. Some of us who are around the same age often get together, keeping the old proverb alive. Most of the men in our group complain when we meet. They miss the pleasures of youth and recall sex, drinking, feasts, and other pleasures like those. They're upset, as if they'd lost something precious. They say life was good then, while now they're hardly living at all. 329b Some also complain that their families treat them badly because they're old. They blame old age for all the troubles it has brought them. But I don't think they're blaming the real cause, Socrates. If old age were the cause, I would suffer the same troubles, and so would everyone else who has reached this age. I've met other men who don't feel that way. Once I was there when someone asked the poet Sophocles, 329c ‘Sophocles, how are you getting on with sex? Are you still able to sleep with a woman?’ Sophocles replied, ‘Don't even mention it! I'm delighted to have escaped it, as though I'd run away from a wild, raging master.’ I thought he spoke well then, and I still do. In old age there's real peace and freedom from desires like that. When the desires stop pulling hard and finally let go, it's just as Sophocles said: 329d you're free of a whole crowd of mad masters. For these troubles, and for troubles with family too, there's one cause. It isn't old age, Socrates, but a person's character. If people are decent and easygoing, old age isn't too hard to bear. If they aren't, Socrates, both old age and youth are hard for them.”

I admired what he said, and wanted 329e him to keep talking, so I prompted him. “Cephalus, I think most people won't accept that answer. They'll think you bear old age easily because you have a great deal of money, not because of your character. They say rich people have plenty to comfort them.”

“That's true,” he said. “They don't accept it. And they have a point, though not as much of one as they think. Themistocles had the right reply when a man from Seriphus insulted him and said

330a he was famous only because of his city, not because of himself. Themistocles answered that he himself would not have become famous if he had come from Seriphus, and the other man wouldn't have become famous if he had come from Athens. The same reply applies to poor people who have a hard time with old age. A decent man wouldn't find it very easy to grow old in poverty. But a man who wasn't decent would never be at ease with himself even if he became rich.”

“Cephalus,” I said, “did you inherit most of what you have, or did you earn it yourself?” 330b

“What have I earned, Socrates?” he said. “As a moneymaker, I fall somewhere between my grandfather and my father. My grandfather, who had the same name as I do, inherited about as much as I have now and increased it many times over. My father Lysanias reduced it to less than I have now. I'll be satisfied if I leave these sons of mine not less than I inherited, but a little more.”

“The reason I asked,” I said, “is that you didn't seem especially 330c fond of money. People who haven't earned it themselves usually feel that way. Those who have earned it love it twice as much as anyone else. Just as poets love their poems and fathers love their children, moneymakers care about their money as something they've made themselves, as well as for what it can buy, like everyone else. That's why they're hard to be around. They won't praise anything but wealth.”

“That's true,” he said. 330d

“Exactly,” I said. “But tell me one more thing. What do you think is the greatest benefit you've had from owning a lot of money?”

“I may not convince many people with my answer,” he said. “You see, Socrates, when a person begins to think death is near, fears and worries come over him that never bothered him before. Until then he may have laughed at the stories about the world of Hades, which say that someone who does wrong here must pay 330e for it there. Now he begins to worry that the stories might be true. Maybe the weakness of age causes this. Or maybe he can see that other world more clearly as he gets closer to it. In any case, he grows full of fear and suspicion. He starts looking back over his life to see if he's wronged anyone.

“A man who finds many wrongs in his past often wakes from sleep in fear, like a child,

331a and lives with dreadful expectations. But a man who knows he has done no wrong always has a pleasant hope to comfort him in old age. That's what Pindar says. He puts it beautifully, Socrates. Of a man who has lived justly and reverently he says:Sweet hope stays beside him,comforting his heart and caring for him in old age;hope, which above all guides the shiftingthoughts of human beings.He says this wonderfully well. That's why I count money as extremely valuable, 331b not for everyone, but for a decent, orderly person. Money does a great deal to help a man avoid cheating or lying to someone, even by accident. It also helps him avoid going to that other world afraid that he owes sacrifices to a god or money to a person. Money has many other uses too. But if I had to choose one advantage over another, Socrates, I'd say this is one of the most important uses of wealth for a sensible man.” 331c

“That's very well put, Cephalus,” I said. “But what about justice itself? Should we simply say it's telling the truth and giving back whatever we've received from someone? Or might these very actions sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? Take this case. Everyone would agree, I suppose, that if someone borrowed weapons from a friend while the friend was in his right mind, he shouldn't give them back if the friend lost his mind and demanded them. It wouldn't be just to return them, or to insist on telling the whole truth to someone in that state.” 331d

“That's right,” he said.

“So telling the truth and returning what one has received isn't a definition of justice.”

“But it certainly is, Socrates,” Polemarchus broke in, “if Simonides is someone we should trust.”

“Well,” said Cephalus, “I'm handing the discussion over to you. I need to attend to the sacrifices now.”

“So Polemarchus is your heir?” I asked.

“He certainly is,” Cephalus said with a laugh, and went off to the sacrifices. 331e

“Then tell me,” I said to Polemarchus, “as heir to the discussion, what do you think Simonides says correctly about justice?”

“He says it's just to give each person what is owed to him. I think he's right about that.”

“It's hard to distrust Simonides. He was a wise and inspired man. But perhaps you understand what he means, Polemarchus; I don't. He clearly doesn't mean what we just discussed: giving back something entrusted to us when its owner is out of his mind and asks 332a for it. Yet what he entrusted to us is something we owe him, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“But we must never give it back if he asks for it while out of his mind?”

“True,” he said.

“So Simonides apparently means something else when he says it's just to give back what is owed.”

“He certainly does, by Zeus,” he said. “He thinks friends owe their friends something good, not something harmful.”

“I understand,” I said. “If a man returns gold entrusted to him by a friend, he isn't giving back what he owes if giving 332b and receiving it would cause harm to them, even though both men are friends. Is that what you think Simonides means?”

“Exactly.”

“What about enemies? Should we give them whatever we owe them?”

“Absolutely,” he said, “whatever is owed them. And I think one enemy owes another just what he deserves: some harm.”

“So Simonides apparently spoke in the riddling way poets do 332c when he said what justice was,” I said. “It seems he meant that justice is giving each person what is appropriate, but he called that ‘what is owed.’”

“What else do you think he meant?” he asked.

“By Zeus,” I said, “suppose someone asked him, ‘Simonides, what does the art of medicine give, to whom, as what's owed and appropriate?’ What do you think he'd answer?”

“Obviously,” he said, “medicines, food, and drink to bodies.”

“And what does cooking give, to what, as what's owed and appropriate?” 332d

“Seasonings to food.”

“All right. Then what does the art called justice give, and to whom?”

“If we follow what we've said so far, Socrates, it gives benefits to friends and harm to enemies.”

“So by justice he means doing good to friends and harm to enemies?”

“I think so.”

“Who is best able to help sick friends and harm enemies when it comes to disease and health?”

“A doctor.” 332e

“And who can do that for people at sea, when they're in danger there?”

“A ship's captain.”

“What about a just person? In what activity, and for what purpose, is he best able to help friends and harm enemies?”

“In fighting wars and serving as an ally, I think.”

“All right, Polemarchus. But a doctor is no use to people who aren't sick.”

“True.”

“And a captain is no use to people who aren't sailing.”

“Yes.”

“Is a just person, then, no use to people who aren't at war?”

“I don't think so.”

“So justice is useful in peacetime too?”

333a “Yes.”

“And so is farming, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“For producing crops?”

“Yes.”

“And shoemaking too?”

“Yes.”

“For producing shoes, I suppose you'd say?”

“Certainly.”

“Then tell me: what use or acquisition would you say justice helps us with in peacetime?”

“With agreements, Socrates.”

“By agreements, do you mean partnerships, or something else?”

“Partnerships.” 333b

“Now, when people partner to place pieces in a board game, is a just person a good, useful partner, or is an expert player?”

“An expert player.”

“When people partner to lay bricks and stones, is a just person more useful and better than a builder?”

“Not at all.”

“In what partnership, then, is a just person better than a builder or a musician, just as a musician is better than a just person at playing a tune?”

“With money, I think.”

“Unless, Polemarchus, you mean using money together to buy or sell a horse. 333c In that case, I think a horse expert is better. Isn't that right?”

“It seems so.”

“And for a ship, a shipbuilder or a captain?”

“It seems so.”

“So when partners do what with silver or gold is a just person more useful than anyone else?”

“When they deposit it for safekeeping, Socrates.”

“You mean when they don't need to use it, but need to leave it lying there?”

“Exactly.”

“So justice is useful when money is useless?” 333d

“It seems so.”

“And when we need to look after a pruning knife, justice is useful whether it's shared or belongs to one person. But when we need to use it, the art of tending vines is useful?”

“It seems so.”

“And you'd say justice is useful when a shield or a lyre needs to be stored, not used, but military skill and music are useful when they need to be used?”

“I have to.”

“So for everything else too, justice is useless when a thing is being used, but useful when it isn't?”

“It seems so.” 333e

“Then justice wouldn't be very important, my friend, if it's useful only for useless things. But let's look at another point. Isn't the person best at landing a blow in a boxing match, or in any other fight, also best at guarding against one?”

“Certainly.”

“And isn't the person most skilled at guarding against a disease also most skilled at bringing it on without anyone noticing?”

“I think so.”

334a “And isn't the best guardian of an army camp the very person who can steal the enemy's plans and other operations?”

“Certainly.”

“So a person who's good at guarding something is good at stealing it too.”

“It seems so.”

“Then if a just person is good at guarding money, he's good at stealing it.”

“At least that's what the argument shows,” he said.

“So the just person has turned out to be a kind of thief. You may have learned that from Homer. 334b He admires Autolycus, Odysseus's grandfather on his mother's side, and says that he surpassed all men in theft and oath-making. So, according to you, Homer, and Simonides, justice appears to be a kind of thievery, for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn't that what you said?”

“No, by Zeus,” he said. “I no longer know what I was saying. But I still think justice benefits friends and harms enemies.” 334c

“When you say ‘friends,’ do you mean the people who seem good to someone, or those who really are good even if they don't seem so? And do you mean the same thing about enemies?”

“People naturally love those they believe to be good,” he said, “and hate those they believe to be bad.”

“But don't people make mistakes about that? Many seem good to them when they aren't, and many seem bad when they aren't.”

“They do make mistakes.”

“So for those people, good men are enemies and bad men are friends?”

“Yes.”

“Yet on that account it's just for them to benefit bad people 334d and harm good people?”

“It seems so.”

“But good people are just and don't do wrong, aren't they?”

“True.”

“Then by your account it's just to harm people who have done no wrong.”

“Not at all, Socrates,” he said. “There must be something wrong with that argument.”

“So it's just to harm unjust people and help just people?” I asked.

“That sounds better than the other account.”

“Then many people who make mistakes 334e about others will find it just to harm their friends, because those friends are bad, and help their enemies, because those enemies are good. We'll end up saying the exact opposite of what we said Simonides meant.”

“Yes,” he said, “that's exactly what follows. But let's change our definition. It looks as though we didn't define ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’ correctly.”

“How did we define them, Polemarchus?”

“We said a friend is someone who seems good.”

“And how shall we change it?” I asked.

“A friend,” he said, “is someone who both seems good and really is good;