Another time, talking with Clito the sculptor, he said to him, “I wonder not that you make so great a difference between the statue of a man who is running a race and that of one who stands his ground to wait for his antagonist with whom he is to wrestle, or to box, or to play a prize at all sorts of defence; but what ravishes the beholders is, that your statues seem to be alive. I would fain know by what art you imprint upon them this wonderful vivacity?” Clito, surprised at this question, stood considering what to answer, when Socrates went on:—“Perhaps you take great care to make them resemble the living persons, and this is the reason that they seem to live likewise.” “It is so,” said Clito. “You must then,” replied Socrates, “observe very exactly in the different postures of the body what are the natural dispositions of all the parts, for when some of them stoop down, the others raise themselves up; when some are contracted, the others stretch themselves out; when some are stiff with straining, others relax themselves; and when you imitate all this, you make your statues approach very near the life.” “You say true,” said Clito. “Is it not true likewise,” replied Socrates, “that it is a great satisfaction to beholders to see all the passions of a man who is in action well expressed? Thus, in the statue of a gladiator who is fighting, you must imitate the sternness of look with which he threatens his enemy; on the contrary, you must give him, when victor, a look of gaiety and content.” “There is no doubt of what you say.” “We may then conclude,” said Socrates, “that it is the part of an excellent statuary to express the various affections and passions of the soul, by representing such-and-such motions and postures of the body as are commonly exerted in real life whenever the mind is so-and-so affected.”
Another time, Socrates being in the shop of Pistias the armourer, who showed him some corselets that were very well made: “I admire,” said Socrates to him, “the invention of these arms that cover the body in the places where it has most need of being defended, and nevertheless are no hindrance to the motions of the hands and arms; but tell me why you sell the suits of armour you make dearer than the other workmen of the city, since they are not stronger nor of better-tempered or more valuable metal?” “I sell them dearer than others,” answered Pistias, “because they are better made than theirs.” “In what does this make consist?” said Socrates, “in the weight, or in the largeness of the arms? And yet you make them not all of the same weight nor of the same size, but to fit every man.” “They must be fit,” said Pistias, “otherwise they would be of no use.” “But do you not know,” replied Socrates, “that some bodies are well-shaped and others not?” “I know it well.” “How, then,” continued Socrates, “can you make a well-shaped suit of armour for an ill-shaped body?” “It will be sufficient if they are fit for him,” answered Pistias; “for what is fit is well made.” “You are of opinion, then,” added Socrates, “that one cannot judge whether a thing be well made, considering it merely in itself, but in regard to the person who is to use it; as if you said that a buckler is well made for him whom it fits, and in like manner of a suit of clothes and any other thing whatsoever. But I think there is another convenience in having a suit of armour well made.” “What do you take that to be?” said Pistias. “I think,” answered Socrates, “a suit of armour that is well made does not load the bearer so much as one ill made, even though it weigh as much. For ill-made arms, by pressing too much upon the shoulders, or hanging cumbrous on some other part, become almost insupportable, and greatly incommode the person that weareth them. But those arms which, as they ought, distribute an equal weight to all the parts of the body, that join upon the neck, the shoulders, the breast, the back, and the hips, may be said to be glued to the body, and to weigh nothing at all.” “For this,” said Pistias, “I value the arms I make. It is true that some choose rather to part with their money for arms that are gilt and finely carved, but if with all this they fit not easy upon them, I think they buy a rich inconveniency.” Socrates went on:—“But since the body is not always in the same posture, but sometimes bends, and sometimes raises itself straight, how can arms that are very fit be convenient and easy?” “They never can,” said Pistias. “Your opinion therefore is,” said Socrates, “that the best arms are not those that are most fit, and fit closest to the body, but those that do not incommode the person that wears them.” “You, too, are of the same opinion,” replied Pistias, “and you understand the matter aright.”
CHAPTER XI. DISCOURSE OF SOCRATES WITH THEODOTA, AN ATHENIAN LADY, OF NO GOOD CHARACTER; WHEREIN HE ENDEAVOURETH, IN THE MOST ARTFUL AND ENGAGING MANNER, TO WIN HER OVER FROM THE CRIMINAL PLEASURES TO WHICH SHE WAS ADDICTED UNTO THE SUBLIMER AND MORE INNOCENT DELIGHTS OF PHILOSOPHY AND VIRTUE.
There was at Athens a very beautiful lady called Theodota, who had the character of a loose dame. Some person was speaking of her in presence of Socrates, and saying that she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world; that all the painters went to see her, to draw her picture, and that they were very well received at her house. “I think,” said Socrates, “we ought to go see her too, for we shall be better able to judge of her beauty after we have seen her ourselves than upon the bare relation of others.” The person who began the discourse encouraged the matter, and that very moment they all went to Theodota’s house. They found her with a painter who was drawing her picture; and having considered her at leisure when the painter had done, Socrates began thus:—“Do you think that we are more obliged to Theodota for having afforded us the sight of her beauty than she is to us for coming to see her? If all the advantage be on her side, it must be owned that she is obliged to us; if it be on ours, it must be confessed that we are so to her.” Some of the company saying there was reason to think so, Socrates continued in these words:—“Has she not already had the advantage of receiving the praises we have given her? But it will be yet a much greater to her when we make known her merit in all the companies we come into; but as for ourselves, what do we carry from hence except a desire to enjoy the things we have seen? We go hence with souls full of love and uneasiness; and from this time forward we must obey Theodota in all she pleases to enjoin us.” “If it be so,” said Theodota, “I must return you many thanks for your coming hither.” Meanwhile Socrates took notice that she was magnificently apparelled, and that her mother appeared likewise like a woman of condition. He saw a great number of women attendants elegantly dressed, and that the whole house was richly furnished. He took occasion from hence to inform himself of her circumstances in the world, and to ask her whether she had an estate in land or houses in the city, or slaves, whose labour supplied the expenses of her family. “I have nothing,” answered she, “of all this; my friends are my revenue. I subsist by their liberality.”
Upon which Socrates remarked that “friendship was one of the greatest blessings in life, for that a good friend could stand one in stead of all possessions whatever.” And he advised Theodota to try all her art to procure to herself some lovers and friends that might render her happy. The lady asking Socrates whether there were any artifices to be used for that purpose, he answered, “there were,” and proceeded to mention several:—“Some for attracting the regard of the men, some for insinuating into their hearts; others for securing their affections and managing their passions.” Whereupon Theodota, whose soul then lay open to any impression, mistaking the virtuous design of Socrates in the whole of this discourse for an intention of another sort, cried out in raptures, “Ah! Socrates, why will not you help me to friends?” “I will,” replied Socrates, “if you can persuade me to do so.” “And what means must I use to persuade you?” “You must invent the means,” said Socrates, “if you want me to serve you.” “Then come to see me often,” added Theodota. Socrates laughed at the simplicity of the woman, and in raillery said to her, “I have not leisure enough to come and see you; I have both public and private affairs which take up too much of my time. Besides, I have mistresses who will not suffer me to be from them neither day nor night, and who against myself make use of the very charms and sorceries that I have taught them.” “And have you any knowledge in those things, too?” said she. “Why do Apollodorus and Antisthenes,” answered Socrates, “never leave me? why do Cebes and Simmias forsake Thebes for my company? This they would not do if I were not master of some charm.” “Lend it me,” said Theodota, “that I may employ it against you, and charm you to come to me.” “No,” said Socrates, “but I will charm you, and make you come to me.” “I will,” said Theodota, “if you will promise to make me welcome.” “I promise you I will,” answered Socrates, “provided there be nobody with me whom I love better than you.”
CHAPTER XII. OF THE NECESSITY OF EXERCISE TO HEALTH AND STRENGTH OF BODY.
Among others who frequented Socrates, there was a young man whose name was Epigenes, and who was very awkward in his person and behaviour, and had contracted an ill habit of body, having never learnt nor used any exercise. Socrates reproached him for it, and told him that it was unworthy of any man to be so negligent of himself. Epigenes slightly answered that he was under no obligation to do better. “You are no less obliged to it,” replied Socrates, “than they who train themselves up for the Olympic Games. For do you believe that to fight for one’s life against the enemies of the Republic, which we are all obliged to do when the Athenians please to command us, is a less important occasion than to contend with antagonists for a prize? How many men are there who, for want of strength, perish in fights; or have recourse to dishonourable means to seek their safety? Some are taken prisoners, and remain in slavery all the rest of their days, or are forced to pay so great a ransom, as makes them live poor and miserable ever afterwards: others are ill thought of, and their weakness is imputed to cowardice. And do you value so little all these misfortunes, which constantly attend an ill habit of body, and do they seem to you so slight? In my opinion, there are no fatigues in the exercises but what are more easy and more agreeable. But perhaps you despise the advantages of a good disposition of body: nevertheless, they are considerable; for men in that condition enjoy a perfect health, they are robust and active, they come off from combats with honour, they escape from dangers, they succour their friends, they render great services to their country. For these reasons they are well received wherever they come, they are in good reputation with all men, they attain to the highest offices, they live the more honourably and the more at ease, and they leave their posterity the most noble examples. If, therefore, you do not practise the military exercises in public, you ought not to neglect the doing so in private, but to apply yourself to them with all possible diligence.
“To have the body active and healthy can be hurtful to you in no occasions: and since we cannot do anything without the body, it is certain that a good constitution will be of great advantage to us in all our undertakings. Even in study, where there seems to be least need of it, we know many persons who could never make any great progress for want of health. Forgetfulness, melancholy, loss of appetite, and folly, are the diseases that generally proceed from the indisposition of the body; and these diseases sometimes seize the mind with so great violence, that they wipe out even the least remembrance of what we knew before. But in health we have nothing like this to fear, and consequently there is no toil which a judicious man would not willingly undergo to avoid all these misfortunes. And, indeed, it is shameful for a man to grow old before he has tried his own strength, and seen to what degree of dexterity and perfection he can attain, which he can never know if he give himself over for useless; because dexterity and strength come not of themselves, but by practice and exercise.”
CHAPTER XIII. SEVERAL APOPHTHEGMS OF SOCRATES.
A certain man being vexed that he had saluted one who did not return his civility, Socrates said to him, “It is ridiculous in you to be unconcerned when you meet a sick man in the way, and to be vexed for having met a rude fellow.”