Table of Contents
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:
| Name | Photo |
|---|---|
| Apollodorus |  |
| Phaedrus |  |
| Pausanias |  |
| Eryximachus |  |
| Aristophanes |  |
| Agathon |  |
| Socrates |  |
| Alcibiades |  |
| A Troop of Revellers |  |
Apollodorus repeats to his companion the dialogue which he had heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to Glaucon.
SCENE: The House of Agathon.
Bald Apollodorus, halt! I want to ask you about the speeches in praise of love, which were delivered by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, at Agathon’s supper.
Phoenix, the son of Philip, told another person who told me of them; his narrative was very indistinct, but he said that you knew, and I wish that you would give me an account of them. Who, if not you, should be the reporter of the words of your friend? And first tell me, he said, were you present at this meeting?
Your informant, Glaucon must have been very indistinct if you imagine that the occasion was recent; or that I was part of it.
For many years, Agathon has not resided at Athens. Not three have elapsed since I became acquainted with Socrates, and have made it my daily business to know all that he says and does.
There was a time when I was running about the world, fancying myself to be well employed, but I was really a most wretched being, no better than you are now. I thought that I ought to do anything rather than be a philosopher.
No, but the same person who told Phoenix;—he was a little fellow, who never wore any shoes, Aristodemus, of the deme of Cydathenaeum.
He had been at Agathon’s feast; and I think that in those days there was no one who was a more devoted admirer of Socrates.
Moreover, I have asked Socrates about the truth of some parts of his narrative, and he confirmed them.
Then, said Glaucon, let us have the tale over again; is not the road to Athens just made for conversation?
And so we walked, and talked of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I said at first, I am not ill-prepared to comply with your request, and will have another rehearsal of them if you like.
For to speak or to hear others speak of philosophy always gives me the greatest pleasure, to say nothing of the profit. But when I hear another strain, especially that of you rich men and traders, such conversation displeases me; and I pity you who are my companions, because you think that you are doing something when in reality you are doing nothing.
You pity me in return, whom you regard as an unhappy creature, and very probably you are right. But I certainly know of you what you only think of me—there is the difference.
I see that you are just the same—always speaking evil of yourself, and of others.
I do believe that you pity all mankind, with the exception of Socrates, yourself first of all, true in this to your old name, which, however deserved, I know not how you acquired, of Apollodorus the madman; for you are always raging against yourself and everybody but Socrates.
Yes. I am said to be mad and out of my wits just because I have these notions of myself and you; no other evidence is required.
Well, the tale of love was on this wise:—But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning, and endeavour to give you the exact words of Aristodemus:
To a banquet at Agathon’s. I refused his invitation to his sacrifice of victory yesterday, fearing a crowd. I promised that I would come today instead. Follow me and let us demolish the proverb: ‘To the feasts of inferior men the good unbidden go;’
Instead of which our proverb will be: ‘To the feasts of the good the good unbidden go;’
This change may be supported by the authority of Homer himself, who not only demolishes but literally outrages the proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon as the most valiant of men, he makes Menelaus, who is but a fainthearted warrior, come unbidden (Iliad) to the banquet of Agamemnon, who is feasting and offering sacrifices, not the better to the worse, but the worse to the better.
This was the style of their conversation as they went along. Socrates dropped behind in a fit of abstraction. He wanted Aristodemus, who was waiting, to go on before him.
When he reached Agathon’s house, he found the doors wide open, and a comical thing happened.
A servant coming out met him and led him at once into the banqueting-hall in which the guests were reclining, for the banquet was about to begin.
The servant then assisted him to wash, and he lay down. Another servant came in and reported that Socrates had retired into the portico of the neighbouring house.
Well, if you think so, I will leave him.
[to the servants] Let us have supper without waiting for him. Serve up whatever you please, for there is no one to give you orders.
Hitherto I have never left you to yourselves. But on this occasion imagine that you are our hosts, and that I and the company are your guests; treat us well, and then we shall commend you.'
After this, supper was served, but still no Socrates. During the meal, Agathon several times expressed a wish to send for him, but Aristodemus objected.
At last when the feast was about half over—for the fit, as usual, was not of long duration—Socrates entered.
Agathon, who was reclining alone at the end of the table, begged that he would take the place next to him.
Socrates took his place on the couch, and supped with the rest. Then libations were offered, and after a hymn had been sung to the god, and there had been the usual ceremonies, they were about to commence drinking.
I am not equal to it, said Agathon.
Then, the weak heads like myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and others who never can drink, are fortunate in finding that the stronger ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include Socrates, who is able either to drink or to abstain, and will not mind, whichever we do.)
Well, as of none of the company seem disposed to drink much, I may be forgiven for saying, as a physician, that drinking deep is a bad practice, which I never follow, if I can help, and certainly do not recommend to another, least of all to any one who still feels the effects of yesterday’s carouse.
It was agreed that drinking was not to be the order of the day, but that they were all to drink only so much as they pleased.
I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe in Euripides,
‘Not mine the word’
which I am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus. For often he says to me in an indignant tone:—‘What a strange thing it is, Eryximachus, that, whereas other gods have poems and hymns made in their honour, the great and glorious god, Love, has no encomiast among all the poets who are so many.
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