I
THE NATURE OF VIRTUE
Epicureanism tells us how to gain pleasure; Stoicism tells us how to bear pain. But life is not so simple as these systems assume. It is not merely the problem of getting all the pleasure we can; nor of taking pain in such wise that it does not hurt. It is a question of the worth of the things in which we find our pleasure, and the relative values of the things we suffer for. Plato squarely attacks that larger problem. He says that the Epicurean is like a musician who tunes his violin as much as he can without breaking the strings. The wise musician, on the contrary, recognises that the tuning is merely incidental to the music; and that when you have tuned it up to a certain point, it is worse than useless to go on tuning it any more. Just as the tuning is for the sake of the music, and when you have reached a point where the instrument gives perfect music, you must stop the tuning and begin to play; so when you have brought any particular pleasure, say that of eating, up to a certain point, you must stop eating, and begin to live the life for the sake of which you eat. To the Stoic Plato gives a similar answer. The Stoic, he says, is like a physician who gives his patient all the medicine he can, and prides himself on being a better physician than others because he gives his patients bigger doses, and more of them. The wise physician gives medicine up to a certain point, and then stops. That point is determined by the health, which the medicine is given to promote. Precisely so, it is foolish to bear all the pain we can, and boast ourselves of our ability to swallow big doses of tribulation and pronounce it good. The wise man will bear pain up to a certain point; and when he reaches that limit, he will stop. What is the point? Where is the limit? Virtue is the point up to which the bearing of pain is good, the limit beyond which the bearing of pain becomes an evil. Virtue, then, is the supreme good, and makes everything that furthers it, whether pleasurable or painful, good. Virtue makes everything that hinders it, whether pleasurable or painful, bad. What, then, is virtue? In what does this priceless pearl consist? We have our two analogies. Virtue is to pleasure what the music is to the tuning of the instrument. Just as the perfection of the music proves the excellence of the tuning, so the perfection of virtue justifies the particular pleasures we enjoy. Virtue stands related to the endurance of pain, as health stands related to the taking of medicine. The perfection of health proves that, however distasteful the medicine may be, it is nevertheless good; and any imperfection of health that may result from either too much or too little medicine shows that in the quantity taken the medicine was bad for us. Precisely so pain is good for us up to the point where virtue requires it. Below or above that point, pain becomes an evil.
Plato spared no pains to disentangle the question of virtue from its complications with rewards and penalties, pleasures and pains. As the virtue of a violin is not in its carving or polish, but in the music it produces; as the virtue of medicine is not in its sweetness or its absence of bitterness, so the virtue of man has primarily nothing to do with rewards and penalties, pleasures or pains. In our study of virtue, he says, we must strip it naked of all rewards, honours, and emoluments; indeed we must go farther and even dress it up in the outer habiliments of vice; we must make the virtuous man poor, persecuted, forsaken, unpopular, distrusted, reviled, and condemned. Then we may be able to see what there is in virtue which, in every conceivable circumstance, makes it superior to vice. He makes one of his characters in the Republic complain that: "No one has ever adequately described either in verse or prose the true essential nature of either righteousness or unrighteousness immanent in the soul, and invisible to any human or divine eye; or shown that of all the things of a man's soul which he has within him, righteousness is the greatest good, and unrighteousness the greatest evil. Therefore I say, not only prove to us that righteousness is better than unrighteousness, but show what either of them do to the possessors of them, which makes the one to be good and the other evil, whether seen or unseen by gods and men." Accordingly he attributes to the unrighteous man skill to win a reputation for righteousness, even while acting most unrighteously. He clothes him with power and glory, and fame, and family, and influence; fills his life with delights; surrounds him with friends; cushions him in ease and security. Over against this man who is really unrighteous, but has all the advantages that come from being supposed to be righteous, he sets the man who is really righteous, and clothes him with all the disabilities which come from being supposed to be unrighteous. "Let him be scourged and racked; let him have his eyes burnt out, and finally, after suffering every kind of evil, let him be impaled." Then, says Plato, when both have reached the uttermost extreme, the one of righteousness treated shamefully and cruelly, the other of unrighteousness treated honourably and obsequiously, let judgment be given which of them is the happier of the two. Translating the language of the "Gorgias" and the "Republic" into modern equivalents: Who would we rather be, a man who by successful manipulation of dishonest financial schemes had come to be a millionnaire, the mayor of his city, the pillar of the church, the ornament of the best society, the Senator from his state, or the Ambassador of his country at a European Court; or a man who in consequence of his integrity had won the enmity of evil men in power, and been sent in disgrace to State prison; a man whom no one would speak to; whom his best friends had deserted, whose own children were being brought up to reproach him? Which of the two men would we rather be? And we must not introduce any consideration of reversals hereafter. Supposing that death ends all, and that there is no God to reverse the decisions of men; suppose these two men were to die as they lived, without hope of resurrection; which of the two would we rather be for the next forty years of our lives, assuming that after that there is nothing?
Plato in a myth puts the case even more strongly than this. Gyges, a shepherd and servant of the king of Lydia, found a gold ring which had the remarkable property of making its wearer visible when he turned the collet one way, and invisible when he turned it the other way. Being astonished at this, he made several trials of the ring, always with the same result; when he turned the collet inwards he became invisible, when outwards he reappeared. Perceiving this he immediately contrived to be chosen messenger to the court, where he no sooner arrived than he seduced the queen, and with her help conspired against the king and slew him, and took the kingdom. Plato asks us what we should do if we had such a ring. We could do anything we pleased and no one would be the wiser. We could become invisible, out of the reach of external consequences, the instant our deed was done. Would we, with such a ring on our finger, stand fast in righteousness? Could we trust ourselves to wear that ring night and day? Would we feel safe if we knew that our next-door neighbour, even our most intimate friend, had such a ring, and could do just what he pleased to us, and yet never get caught? Can we tell why a man with such a ring on his finger should not do any unjust, unkind, impure, or dishonourable deed?
II
RIGHTEOUSNESS WRIT LARGE
The Republic is Plato's answer to this question. Why, you may ask, should he give us a treatise on politics in answer to a question of personal character? Because the state is simply the individual writ large, and as we can read large letters more easily than small letters, we shall get at the principle of righteousness more readily if we first consider what it is in the large letters of the state. In presenting this analogy of the state I shall freely translate Plato's teachings into their modern equivalent. What, then, is the difference between a righteous and unrighteous state?
An unrighteous state is one in which the working-men in each industry are organised into a union which uses its power to force the wages of its members up to an exorbitant level, and uses intimidation and violence to prevent any one else from working for less or producing more than the standards fixed by the union; it is a state in which the owners of capital, in each line of industry, combine into overcapitalised trusts for the purpose of making the small sums which they put into the business, and the larger sums which they do not put in at all, except on paper, earn exorbitant dividends at the expense of the public; it is a state in which the politicians are in politics for their pockets, using the opportunities for advantageous contracts which offices afford, and the opportunities for legislation in favour of private schemes, to enrich themselves out of the public purse; it is a state in which the police intimidate the other citizens, and sell permission to commit crime to the highest bidder; it is a state in which the scholars concern themselves exclusively about their own special and technical interests, and as long as the institutions with which they are connected are supported by the gifts of rich men, care little how the poor are oppressed and the many are made to suffer by the corrupt use of wealth and the selfish misuse of power. Such is the unrighteous state. And wherein does its unrighteousness consist? Obviously in the fact that each of the great classes in the state—working-men, capitalists, police, politicians, scholars—are living exclusively for themselves and are ready to sacrifice the interests of the community as a whole to their private interests. Now a state which should be completely unrighteous, in which everybody should succeed in carrying out his own selfish interests at the expense of everybody else, would be intolerable. United action would be impossible. No one would wish to live in such a state. There must be honour even among thieves; otherwise stealing could not be successful on any considerable scale. The trouble with it is that each part is arrayed in antagonism against every other part, and the whole is sacrificed to the supposed interests of its constituent members.
What, then, in contrast to this would be a righteous state? It would be a state in which each of these classes fulfils its part well, with a view to the good of the whole. It would be a state where labour would be organised into unions, which would not insist on having the greatest possible wages for the least possible work, but which would maintain a high standard of efficiency, and intelligence, and character in the members, with a view to doing the best possible work in their trade, at such wages as the resources and needs of the community, as indicated by the normal action of demand and supply, would warrant. It would be a state in which the capitalists would organise their business in such a way that they might invite public inspection of the relation between the capital, enterprise, skill, economy, and industry expended, and the prices they charge for commodities furnished and services rendered. It would be a state in which the police would maintain that order and law which is the equal interest of the rich and poor alike. It would be a state in which the men in political offices would use their official positions and influence for the protection of the lives and promotion of the interests of the whole people whom they represent and profess to serve. It would be a state in which the colleges and universities would be intensely alive to economic, social, and public questions, and devote their learning to the maintenance of healthful material conditions, just distribution of wealth, sound morals, and wise determination of public policy.
Wherein, then, does the difference between an unrighteous and a righteous state consist? Simply in this—that in the unrighteous state each class in the community is playing for its own hand and regarding the community as a mere means to its own selfish interests as the supreme end,—while a righteous state on the contrary is one in which each class in the community is doing its own work as economically and efficiently as possible, with a view to the interests of the community as a whole. In the unrighteous state the whole is subordinated to each separate part; in the righteous state each part is subordinated to the common interests of the whole. If, then, we ask as did Adeimantus in the Republic, "Where, then, is righteousness, and in which particular part of the state is it to be found," our answer will be that given by Socrates, "that each individual man shall be put to that use for which nature designs him, and every man will do his own business so that the whole city will be not many but one." Righteousness, then, in the state consists in having each class mind its own business with a view to the good of the whole. On this, which is Plato's fundamental principle, we can all agree.
As to the method by which the righteous state is to be brought about probably we should all profoundly differ from him. His method for securing the subordination of what he calls the lower class of society to what he calls the higher class is that of repression, force, and fraud. The obedience of the working-men is to be secured by intimidation; the devotion of the higher classes is to be secured partly by suppression of natural instincts and interests, partly by an elaborate and prolonged education. The rulers are to have no property and no wives and families that they can call their own. He attempts to get devotion to the whole by suppressing those more individual and special forms of devotion which spring from private property and family affection. In all these details of his scheme we must frankly recognise that Plato was profoundly wrong. The working classes cannot and ought not to be driven like dumb cattle to their tasks by a force external to themselves. The ruling class, the scholars and statesmen, can never be successfully trained for disinterested public life by taking away from them those fundamental interests and affections out of which, in the long run, all public spirit takes its rise and draws its inspiration. In opposition to this communism based on repression and suppression by force and fraud, the modern democracy sets a community of interest and a devotion of personal resources, be they great or small, to the common good on the part of every citizen of every class. The utter inadequacy and impracticability of the details of Plato's communistic schemes about the wives and property of his ruling class should not blind us to the profound truth of his essential definition of righteousness in a state: That each class shall "do the work for which they draw the wage" with a view to the effect it will have, not on themselves alone, but primarily on the welfare of the whole state, of which each class is a serving and contributing member. This essential truth of Plato our modern democracy has taken up. The difference is that, while Plato proposed to have intelligence and authority in one, and obedience and manual labour in another class, the problem of modern democracy is to give an intelligent and public-spirited outlook to the working-man, and a spirit of honest work to the scholar and the statesman.