Why have you come at this hour, Crito?

it must be quite early?

Yes, certainly.

What is the exact time?

The dawn is breaking.

I wonder that the keeper of the prison would let you in.

He knows me, because I often come, Socrates; moreover, I have done him a kindness.

And are you only just arrived?

No, I came some time ago.

Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead of at once awakening me?

I should not have liked myself, Socrates, to be in such great trouble and unrest as you are—indeed I should not: I have been watching with amazement your peaceful slumbers; and for that reason I did not awake you, because I wished to minimize the pain.

I have always thought you to be of a happy disposition; but never did I see anything like the easy, tranquil manner in which you bear this calamity.

Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age he ought not to be repining at the approach of death.

And yet other old men find themselves in similar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from repining.

That is true.

But you have not told me why you come at this early hour.

I come to bring you a message which is sad and painful; not, as I believe, to yourself, but to all of us who are your friends, and saddest of all to me.

What?

Has the ship come from Delos, on the arrival of which I am to die?

No, the ship has not actually arrived, but she will probably be here to-day, as persons who have come from Sunium tell me that they have left her there; and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life.

Very well, Crito; if such is the will of God, I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a delay of a day.

Why do you think so?

I will tell you.

I am to die on the day after the arrival of the ship?

Yes; that is what the authorities say.

But I do not think that the ship will be here until to-morrow; this I infer from a vision which I had last night, or rather only just now, when you fortunately allowed me to sleep.

And what was the nature of the vision?

There appeared to me the likeness of a woman, fair and comely, clothed in bright raiment, who called to me and said: O Socrates,

What a singular dream, Socrates!

There can be no doubt about the meaning, Crito, I think.

Yes; the meaning is only too clear.

But, oh!

my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more to take my advice and escape.

For if you die I shall not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but there is another evil: people who do not know you and me will believe that I might have saved you if I had been willing to give money, but that I did not care.

Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this—that I should be thought to value money more than the life of a friend?

For the many will not be persuaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you refused.

But why, my dear Crito, should we care about the opinion of the many?

Good men, and they are the only persons who are worth considering, will think of these things truly as they occurred.

But you see, Socrates, that the opinion of the many must be regarded, for what is now happening shows that they can do the greatest evil to anyone who has lost their good opinion.

I only wish it were so, Crito; and that the many could do the greatest evil; for then they would also be able to do the greatest good—and what a fine thing this would be!

But in reality they can do neither; for they cannot make a man either wise or foolish; and whatever they do is the result of chance.

Well, I will not dispute with you; but please to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out of regard to me and your other friends: are you not afraid that if you escape from prison we may get into trouble with the informers for having stolen you away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our property; or that even a worse evil may happen to us?

Now, if you fear on our account, be at ease; for in order to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say.

Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you mention, but by no means the only one.

Fear not—there are persons who are willing to get you out of prison at no great cost; and as for the informers, they are far from being exorbitant in their demands—a little money will satisfy them.

My means, which are certainly ample, are at your service, and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought a large sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and many others are prepared to spend their money in helping you to escape.

I say, therefore, do not hesitate on our account, and do not say, as you did in the court 4 that you will have a difficulty in knowing what to do with yourself anywhere else.

For men will love you in other places to which you may go, and not in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thessaly, if you like to go to them, who will value and protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any trouble.

Nor can I think that you are at all justified, Socrates, in betraying your own life when you might be saved; in acting thus you are playing into the hands of your enemies, who are hurrying on your destruction.

And further I should say that you are deserting your own children; for you might bring them up and educate them; instead of which you go away and leave them, and they will have to take their chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate of orphans, there will be small thanks to you.

No man should bring children into the world who is unwilling to persevere to the end in their nurture and education.

But you appear to be choosing the easier part, not the better and manlier, which would have been more becoming in one who professes to care for virtue in all his actions, like yourself.

And indeed, I am ashamed not only of you, but of us who are your friends, when I reflect that the whole business will be attributed entirely to our want of courage.

The trial need never have come on, or might have been managed differently; and this last act, or crowning folly, will seem to have occurred through our negligence and cowardice, who might have saved you, if we had been good for anything; and you might have saved yourself, for there was no difficulty at all.

See now, Socrates, how sad and discreditable are the consequences, both to us and you.

Make up your mind then, or rather have your mind already made up, for the time of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to be done, which must be done this very night, and, if we delay at all, will be no longer practicable or possible; I beseech you therefore, Socrates, be persuaded by me, and do as I say.

Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater the danger; and therefore we ought to consider whether I shall or shall not do as you say.

For I am and always have been one of those natures who must be guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now that this chance has befallen me, I cannot repudiate my own words: the principles which I have hitherto honoured and revered I still honour, and unless we can at once find other and better principles, I am certain not to agree with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin terrors.

5 What will be the fairest way of considering the question?

Shall I return to your old argument about the opinions of men?—we were saying that some of them are to be regarded, and others not.

Now were we right in maintaining this before I was condemned?

And has the argument which was once good now proved to be talk for the sake of talking—mere childish nonsense?

That is what I want to consider with your help, Crito: —whether, under my present circumstances, the argument appears to be in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by me or disallowed.

That argument, which, as I believe, is maintained by many persons of authority, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opinions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men not to be regarded.

Now you, Crito, are not going to die to-morrow—at least, there is no human probability of this—and therefore you are disinterested and not liable to be deceived by the circumstances in which you are placed.

Tell me then, whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and that other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are not to be valued.

I ask you whether I was right in maintaining this?

Certainly.

The good are to be regarded, and not the bad?

Yes.

And the opinions of the wise are good, and the opinions of the unwise are evil?

Certainly.

And what was said about another matter?

Is the pupil who devotes himself to the practice of gymnastics supposed to attend to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, or of one man only—his physician or trainer, whoever he may be?

Of one man only.

And he ought to fear the censure and welcome the praise of that one only, and not of the many?

Clearly so.

And he ought to act and train, and eat and drink in the way which seems good to his single master who has understanding, rather than according to the opinion of all other men put together?

True.

And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of the many who have no understanding, will he not suffer evil?

Certainly he will.

And what will the evil be, whither tending and what affecting, in the disobedient person?

Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is destroyed by the evil.

Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of other things which we need not separately enumerate?

In questions of just and unjust, fair and foul, good and evil, which are the subjects of our present consultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who has understanding?

ought we not to fear and reverence him more than all the rest of the world: and if we desert him shall we not destroy and injure that principle in us which may be assumed to be improved by justice and deteriorated by injustice—there is such a principle?

Certainly there is, Socrates.

Take a parallel instance: —if, acting under the advice of those who have no understanding, we destroy that which is improved by health and is deteriorated by disease, would life be worth having?

And that which has been destroyed is—the body?

Yes.

Could we live, having an evil and corrupted body?

Certainly not.

And will life be worth having, if that higher part of man be destroyed, which is improved by justice and depraved by injustice?

Do we suppose that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the body?

Certainly not.

More honourable than the body?

Far more.

Then, my friend, we must not regard what the many say of us; but what he, the one man who has understanding of just and unjust, will say, and what the truth will say.

And therefore you begin in error when you advise that we should regard the opinion of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, honourable and dishonourable.—‘Well,’ someone will say, ‘but the many can kill us.’

Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer.

And it is true; but still I find with surprise that the old argument is unshaken as ever.

And I should like to know whether I may say the same of another proposition—that not life, but a good life, is to be chiefly valued?

Yes, that also remains unshaken.

And a good life is equivalent to a just and honourable one—that holds also?

Yes, it does.

From these premises I proceed to argue the question whether I ought or ought not to try and escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the attempt; but if not, I will abstain.

The other considerations which you mention, of money and loss of character and the duty of educating one’s children, are, I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would be as ready to restore people to life, if they were able, as they are to put them to death—and with as little reason.

But now, since the argument has thus far prevailed, the only question which remains to be considered is whether we shall do rightly either in escaping or in suffering others to aid in our escape and paying them in money and thanks, or whether in reality we shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation.

I think that you are right, Socrates; how then shall we proceed?

Let us consider the matter together, and do you either refute me if you can, and I will be convinced; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of the Athenians: for I highly value your attempts to persuade me to do so, but I may not be persuaded against my own better judgment.

And now please to consider my first position, and try how you can best answer me.

I will.

Are we to say that we are never intentionally to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing wrong always evil and dishonourable, as I was just now saying, and as has been already acknowledged by us?

Are all our former admissions which were made within a few days to be thrown away?

And have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with one another all our life long only to discover that we are no better than children?

Or, in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of consequences whether better or worse, shall we insist on the truth of what was then said, that injustice is always an evil and dishonour to him who acts unjustly?

Shall we say so or not?

Yes.

Then we must do no wrong?

Certainly not.

Nor, when injured, injure in return, as the many imagine; for we must injure no one at all?

6

Clearly not.

Again, Crito, may we do evil?

Surely not, Socrates.

And what of doing evil in return for evil, which is the morality of the many—is that just or not?

Not just.

For doing evil to another is the same as injuring him?

Very true.

Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil for evil to anyone, whatever evil we may have suffered from him.

But I would have you consider, Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying.

For this opinion has never been held, and never will be held, by any considerable number of persons; and those who are agreed and those who are not agreed upon this point have no common ground, and can only despise one another when they see how widely they differ.

Tell me, then, whether you agree with and assent to my first principle, that neither injury nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever right.

And shall that be the premise of our argument?

Or do you decline and dissent from this?

For so I have ever thought, and continue to think; but, if you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have to say.

If, however, you remain of the same mind as formerly, I will proceed to the next step.

You may proceed, for I have not changed my mind.

Then I will go on to the next point, which may be put in the form of a question: —Ought a man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he to betray the right?

He ought to do what he thinks right.

But if this is true, what is the application?

In leaving the prison against the will of the Athenians, do I wrong any?

or rather do I not wrong those whom I ought least to wrong?

Do I not desert the principles which were acknowledged by us to be just—what do you say?

I cannot tell, Socrates; for I do not know.

Then consider the matter in this way: —Imagine that I am about to play truant (you may call the proceeding by any name which you like), and the laws and the government come and interrogate me: ‘Tell us, Socrates,’ they say; ‘what are you about?

are you not going by an act of yours to overturn us—the laws, and the whole state, as far as in you lies?

Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no power, but are set aside and trampled upon by individuals?’ What will be our answer, Crito, to these and the like words?

Anyone, and especially a rhetorician, will have a good deal to say on behalf of the law which requires a sentence to be carried out.

He will argue that this law should not be set aside; and shall we reply, ‘Yes; but the state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.’ Suppose I say that?

Very good, Socrates.

‘And was that our agreement with you?’ the law would answer; ‘or were you to abide by the sentence of the state?’ And if I were to express my astonishment at their words, the law would probably add: ‘Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your eyes—you are in the habit of asking and answering questions.

Tell us,—What complaint have you to make against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy us and the state?

In the first place did we not bring you into existence?

Your father married your mother by our aid and begat you.

Say whether you have any objection to urge against those of us who regulate marriage?’ None, I should reply.

‘Or against those of us who after birth regulate the nurture and education of children, in which you also were trained?

Were not the laws, which have the charge of education, right in commanding your father to train you in music and gymnastic?’ Right, I should reply.

‘Well then, since you were brought into the world and nurtured and educated by us, can you deny in the first place that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were before you?

And if this is true you are not on equal terms with us; nor can you think that you have a right to do to us what we are doing to you.

Would you have any right to strike or revile or do any other evil to your father or your master, if you had one, because you have been struck or reviled by him, or received some other evil at his hands?

You would not say this.

And because we think right to destroy you, do you think that you have any right to destroy us in return, and your country as far as in you lies?

Will you, O professor of true virtue, pretend that you are justified in this?

Has a philosopher like you failed to discover that our country is more to be valued and higher and holier far than mother or father or any ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the gods and of men of understanding?

also to be soothed, and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even more than a father, and either to be persuaded, or if not persuaded, to be obeyed?

And when we are punished by her, whether with imprisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured in silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may anyone yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he must do what his city and his country order him; or he must change their view of what is just: and if he may do no violence to his father or mother, much less may he do violence to his country.’ What answer shall we make to this, Crito?

Do the laws speak truly, or do they not?

I think that they do.

Then the laws will say: ‘Consider, Socrates, if we are speaking truly that in your present attempt you are going to do us an injury.

For, having brought you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, and given you and every other citizen a share in every good which we had to give, we further proclaim to any Athenian by the liberty which we allow him, that if he does not like us when he has become of age and has seen the ways of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go where he pleases and take his goods with him.

None of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him.

Anyone who does not like us and the city, and who wants to emigrate to a colony or to any other city, may go where he likes, retaining his property.

But he who has experience of the manner in which we order justice and administer the state, and still remains, has entered into an implied contract that he will do as we command him.

And he who disobeys us is, as we maintain, thrice wrong; first, because in disobeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, because we are the authors of his education; thirdly, because he has made an agreement with us that he will duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them nor convinces us that our commands are unjust; and we do not rudely impose them, but give him the alternative of obeying or convincing us;—that is what we offer, and he does neither.

These are the sort of accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; you, above all other Athenians.’

We cannot help it, Socrates.

Then will they not say: ‘You, Socrates, are breaking the covenants and agreements which you made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under any compulsion or deception, but after you have had seventy years to think of them, during which time you were at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be unfair.

You had your choice, and might have gone either to Lacedaemon or Crete, both which states are often praised by you for their good government, or to some other Hellenic or foreign state.

Whereas you, above all other Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in other words, of us, her laws (and who would care about a state which has no laws?

), that you never stirred out of her; the halt, the blind, the maimed were not more stationary in her than you were.

And now you run away and forsake your agreements.

Not so, Socrates, if you will take our advice; do not make yourself ridiculous by escaping out of the city.

I have nothing to say, Socrates.

Leave me then, Crito, to fulfil the will of God, and to follow whither he leads.