Laches (194-197)

Soc.

That which enjoins endurance. And, if you please, let us too be steadfast and enduring in our inquiry, so as not to be ridiculed by courage herself for failing to be courageous in our search for her, when we might perchance find after all that this very endurance is courage.

Lach.

For my part I am ready, Socrates, to continue without faltering; and yet I am unaccustomed to discussions of this sort. But a certain ambitious ardour has got hold of me at hearing what has been said,

and I am truly vexed at finding myself unable to express offhand what I think. For I feel that I conceive in thought what courage is, but somehow or other she has given me the slip for the moment, so that I fail to lay hold of her in speech and state what she is.

Soc.

Well, my dear sir, the good huntsman must follow the hounds and not give up the chase.

Lach.

Yes, indeed, by all means.

Soc.

Then do you agree to our inviting Nicias here to join in our hunt? He may be more resourceful than we are.

Lach.

I agree, of course.

Soc.

Come now, Nicias, and use what powers you have to assist your friends, who are caught in a storm of argument and are quite perplexed. You see the perplexity of our case; you must now tell us what you think courage is, and so at once set us free from our perplexity and give your own thoughts the stability of speech.

Nic.

Well, for some time I have been thinking, Socrates, that you two are not defining courage in the right way; for you are not acting upon an admirable remark which I have formerly heard you make.

Soc.

What is that, Nicias?

Nic.

I have often heard you say that every man is good in that wherein he is wise, and bad in that wherein he is unlearned.

Soc.

Well, that is true, Nicias, I must say.

Nic.

And hence, if the brave man is good, clearly he must be wise.

Soc.

Do you hear him, Laches?

Lach.

I do, without understanding very well what he says.

Soc.

But I think I understand it: our friend appears to me to mean that courage is a kind of wisdom.

Lach.

What kind of wisdom, Socrates?

Soc.

Well, will you put that question to your friend here?

Lach.

I do.

Soc.

Come now, tell him, Nicias, what kind of wisdom courage may be, by your account. Not that, I presume, of flute-playing.

Nic.

Not at all.

Soc.

Nor yet that of harping.

Nic.

Oh, no.

Soc.

But what is this knowledge then, or of what?

Lach.

I must say you question him quite correctly, Socrates, so let him just tell us what he thinks it is.

Nic.

I say, Laches, that it is this—the knowledge of what is to be dreaded or dared,

either in war or in anything else.

Lach.

How strangely he talks, Socrates!

Soc.

What is it that makes you say that, Laches?

Lach.

What is it? Why, surely wisdom is distinct from courage.

Soc.

Well, Nicias denies that.

Lach.

He does indeed, to be sure: that is where he just babbles.

Soc.

Then let us instruct and not abuse him.

Nic.

No, it seems to me, Socrates, that Laches wants to have it proved that I am talking nonsense, because he was proved

a moment ago to be in the same case himself.

Lach.

Quite so, Nicias, and I will try to make it evident. You are talking nonsense: for instance, do not doctors know what is to be dreaded in disease? Or do you suppose that the courageous know this? Or do you call doctors courageous

Nic.

No, not at all.

Lach.

Nor, I fancy, farmers either. And yet they, I presume, know what is to be dreaded in farming, and every other skilled worker knows what is to be dreaded and dared in his own craft; but they are none the more

courageous for that.

Soc.

What is Laches saying, in your opinion, Nicias? There does seem to be something in it.

Nic.

Yes, there is something, only it is not true.

Soc.

How so?

Nic.

Because he thinks that doctors know something more, in treating sick persons, than how to tell what is healthy and what diseased. This, I imagine, is all that they know: but to tell whether health itself is to be dreaded by anyone rather than sickness, —do you suppose, Laches, that this is within a doctor’s knowledge? Do you not think that for many it is better

that they should never arise from their bed of sickness? Pray tell me, do you say that in every case it is better to live? Is it not often preferable to be dead?

Lach.

I do think that is so.

Nic.

And do you think that the same things are to be dreaded by those who were better dead, as by those who had better live?

Lach.

No, I do not.

Nic.

Well, do you attribute the judgement of this matter to doctors or to any other skilled worker except him who has knowledge of what is to be dreaded and what is not—the man whom I call courageous?

Soc.

Do you comprehend his meaning, Laches?

Lach.

I do: it seems to be the seers whom he calls the courageous: for who else can know for which of us it is better to be alive than dead? And yet, Nicias, do you avow yourself to be a seer, or to be neither a seer nor courageous?

Nic.

What! Is it now a seer, think you, who has the gift of judging what is to be dreaded and what to be dared?

Lach.

That is my view: who else could it be?

Nic.

Much rather the man of whom I speak, my dear sir: for the seer’s business is to judge only the signs of what is yet to come—whether a man is to meet with death or disease or loss of property,

or victory or defeat in war or some other contest; but what is better among these things for a man to suffer or avoid suffering, can surely be no more for a seer to decide than for anyone else in the world.

Lach.

Well, I fail to follow him, Socrates, or to see what he is driving at; for he points out that neither a seer nor a doctor nor anybody else is the man he refers to as the courageous, unless perchance he means it is some god. Now it appears to me

that Nicias is unwilling to admit honestly that he has no meaning at all, but dodges this way and that in the hope of concealing his own perplexity. Why, you and I could have dodged in the same way just now, if we wished to avoid the appearance of contradicting ourselves. Of course, if we were arguing in a law-court, there would be some reason for so doing; but here, in a meeting like this of ours, why waste time in adorning oneself with empty words?

Soc.

I agree that it is out of place, Laches: but let us see:

perhaps Nicias thinks he does mean something, and is not talking just for the sake of talking. So let us ask him to explain more clearly what is in his mind; and if we find that he means something, we will agree with him; if not, we will instruct him.

Lach.

Then, Socrates, if you would like to ask him, please do so: I daresay I have done enough asking.

Soc.

Well, I see no objection, since the question will be on behalf of us both.

Lach.

Very well, then.

Soc.

Now tell me, Nicias, or rather, tell us—for Laches and I are sharing the argument between us—do you say that courage is knowledge

of what is to be dreaded or dared?

Nic.

I do.

Soc.

And that it is not every man that knows it, since neither a doctor nor a seer can know it, and cannot be courageous unless he add this particular knowledge to his own? This was your statement, was it not?

Nic.

Yes, it was.

Soc.

And so in fact this is not a thing which, as the proverb says, any pig would know; and thus a pig cannot be courageous.

Nic.

I think not.

Soc.

Indeed it is obvious, Nicias, that you at least do not believe that even the Crommyonian sow [*] could have been courageous. I say this not in jest, but because I conceive it is necessary for him who states this theory to refuse courage to any wild beast, or else to admit that a beast like a lion or a leopard or even a boar is so wise as to know what only a few men know because it is so hard to perceive. Why, he who subscribes to your account of courage must needs agree that a lion, a stag, a bull, and a monkey have all an equal share of courage in their nature.

Lach.

Heavens, Socrates, how admirably you argue! Now answer us sincerely, Nicias, and say whether those animals, which we all admit to be courageous, are wiser than we are; or whether you dare, in contradiction of everyone else, describe them as not even courageous.

Nic.

No, Laches, I do not describe animals, or anything else that from thoughtlessness has no fear of the dreadful, as courageous, but rather as fearless and foolish. Or do you suppose I describe all children

as courageous, that have no fear because they are thoughtless? I rather hold that the fearless and the courageous are not the same thing. In my opinion very few people are endowed with courage and forethought, while rashness, boldness, and fearlessness, with no forethought to guide it, are found in a great number of men, women, children, and animals. So you see, the acts that you and most people call courageous, I call rash, and it is the prudent acts which I speak of that are courageous.

Lach.

Mark you, Socrates, how finely, as he fancies, my friend decks himself out with his words! And how he attempts to deprive of the distinction of courage those whom everyone admits to be courageous!

Nic.

I am not referring to you, Laches, so do not be fiightened: for I grant that you, and Lamachus also, are wise, since you are courageous, and I say the same of numerous other Athenians.

Lach.

I will not say what I could say in answer to that, lest you call me a true son of Aexone. [*]

Soc.

No, say nothing, Laches: for in fact you seem to me to have failed to perceive that he has acquired his wisdom from Damon, our good friend; and Damon constantly associates with Prodicus, who is supposed to be the cleverest of the sophists at distinguishing terms like these.

Lach.

Yes, for it is more suitable, Socrates, for a sophist to make a show of such refinements than for a man whom the State thinks worthy to govern her.

Soc.

Indeed it is suitable, I presume, my amiable friend, for a man in the highest seat of government to be gifted with the highest degree of wisdom. But it seems to me that Nicias is worthy of further attention, so that we may learn in what connexion he uses this word courage.

Lach.

Then attend to him yourself, Socrates.

Soc.

That is what I propose to do, my good sir: still, you are not to think that I will release you from your due share of the argument. No, you must put your mind to it and join in weighing well what is said.

Lach.

Well, so be it, if you think that I ought.