CHAPTER X

 

Why Plato Failed

 

WE have tried in the preceding chapters to discover how Plato would have faced the problems of a world very different from his own.  We have seen his criticism, and sometimes his ridicule of modern institutions, and we have discovered some concrete proposals which he would probably make.  We have, in fact, staged the Republic in modern dress, and it is now for us to consider our own attitude to it and to ask ourselves whether we are convinced by the Platonic analysis and the Platonic solution of our problems.

      Before we do, however, it may be wise to discover how Plato fared in his own Greek world, and how his theories worked out when applied in his own day - to resume, in fact, the story of his life which we broke off in the middle of Chapter V.  There we had reached the moment when in 367 he set sail for Sicily, resolved to turn a kind into a philosopher.  Syracuse, where young Dionysius II ruled, was at this time the largest city in the Western world; three times as big as Athens and the Peiraeus put together.  It was the capital of the Sicilian Greeks and the bulwark of Hellenism against Carthage.  The menace of Carthage had been for the Western Greeks the dominating fact of foreign politics.  In the same year (480) that Athens defeated Persia, Syracuse, under the military dictatorship of Gelon, had defeated Carthage and ensured the independence of the Greek cities for half a century.  From 480 to 420 they too had prospered: Sicily and South Italy had become one of the granaries of the world and the centre of considerable industrial activity too.  Then in 415 had come the attempt by Athens to include Sicily in her Empire, successfully repelled by Syracuse.  But throughout their history the Western Greeks were like their Aegean kinsmen.  Only danger could unite them; when that was passed they quarrelled with each other, and Sicily and South Italy were in a state of intermittent warfare.  Prosperity here, as in the Aegean, brought class-war; democrats and oligarchs struggled for power in each town and wasted their strength in a war of attrition.  It is not surprising therefore that, when in 409 Carthage launched a new attack on Sicily, the Greeks fell an easy prey to a disciplined military power.  In 406 Agrigentum was sacked and its lovely temples ruined: in 405 even Syracuse was threatened.  Once more, as in 480, only one thing could save Hellenism in the west - military dictatorship to put down dissension, to instil order and to build up a united front against Carthage.  In 405 Dionysius I, a young soldier of twenty-five, seized power in Syracuse.  With the help of a highly paid bodyguard and foreign mercenaries he smashed the political factions, gained the support of the people, and set himself up as democratic dictator.  Democracy voted itself out of any but a formal existence.

      Dionysius was a remarkable man, a living example of the Realpolitiker whom Plato portrayed in the character of Callicles.  Power was the only force which he recognized in politics; tradition, liberty, and aristocracy were for him outworn things.  Syracuse must become the centre of the anti-Carthaginian movement and the international anarchy be crushed.  He therefore defeated and destroyed many of the independent Greek cities and moved their populations to new Syracuse, planting in their stead loyal colonies of soldiers.  Money was needed for armaments; he therefore taxed mercilessly, stripped the temples, and scrupled at no means of collecting wealth.  Men were needed to fight; he therefore freed slaves and serfs, smashed the aristocratic reaction, and hammered the Syracusan proletariat into some sort of unity.  Hated by aristocrat, industrialist, moralist, and workman alike, abused by historians and philosophers as a foul and bloody tyrant, he yet succeeded in forging a war machine with which for thirty years he kept Carthage at bay, and at last made a peace by which two-thirds of the island remained in his possession.

      Such was the man whom Plato visited on his first voyage to Sicily in 388 B.C.  The philosopher was deeply shocked by all he saw; the ruthless tyranny and the luxurious life of the court alike disgusted him, and he was bold enough to say so.  Dionysius, in fury, inquired what his business might be in Sicily, to which Plato replied that he came to seek a virtuous man.  'Waste of time,' said the tyrant shortly, and the interview closed.  But Plato could never forget the morose grandeur of the soldier who trusted no friend, lived in terror of assassination and yet had saved Greek independence.  Condemning him as he did, he could not deny his achievements, or the brute fact that force had prevailed to achieve a unity which no gentlemanly discussion of scruples had achieved. [See REPUBLIC, 566 ff., for a description.]

      Moreover, Dion, Plato's favourite pupil, was an influential figure at the court; his sister was one of Dionysius' wives, his father had been one of his best generals, and he himself was a trusted negotiator and a good soldier.  Through Dion therefore Plato could exert a decisive influence on the largest city in the Greek world, the strongest military defender of Hellenic independence.  When in 367 the old tyrant died, Dion had hoped to gain some share of power for his own nephew, but Dionysius II, son of Dionysius' foreign wife, was too quick for him and seized the throne.  Dion, however, remained the most powerful individual in the court and, in spite of the opposition of Philistus, an able general and his rival for power, persuaded the young man to invite the famous philosopher as his adviser.  Dionysius was a shrewd but inexperienced youth, a dilettante by nature, and he was tickled by the idea.  It seemed possible that under Plato's influence he might develop into a true philosopher-king: at least it was clear that here, if anywhere, was an opportunity to test the practicality of Plato's political plans.

      It is essential to discover the nature of Plato's intentions when he sailed for Syracuse in 367.  Fortunately, in the letters which he wrote long afterwards, he has given us some indications.  In the first place, he was resolved to withdraw Dionysius from the corrupting influence of the court, imbue him with the moral ideals of the Academy, and put him through the course of mathematical and philosophical study which he held to be the necessary basis of statesmanship.  Only if the tyrant became a philosopher could the rest of the policy be carried through.  Secondly, he was resolved to relax the iron discipline of the military dictatorship which Dionysius I had exercised over the Sicilian Greeks.  Force must only be used to impose justice, and the philosopher-king must turn his attention to the education of his countrymen and to purging the court of its luxury and self-indulgence.  A voluntary abnegation of wealth must be demanded of it, and a new ruling élite must be developed, drawn from the aristocratic families and devoted tot he cause of law and order.  Thirdly, the Greek cities of Sicily, destroyed by Dionysius, must be rebuilt on the basis of aristocratic institutions, and set under the constitutional monarchy of the young philosopher-king.

      It is probable that at this period the Platonic programme comprised no more than these three points, since Plato believed that once the new philosopher-king were in power, everything else would follow of its own accord.  The new cult was welcomed by Dionysius and philosophy became a royal craze.  Plutarch has given us a picture of this strange phenomenon.

      'This was the state of affairs when Plato came to Sicily, who, at his first arrival, was received with wonderful demonstrations of kindness and respect.  For one of the royal chariots, richly ornamented, was in attendance to receive him when he came on shore; Dionysius himself sacrificed to the gods in thankful acknowledgement for the great happiness which had befallen his government.  The citizens also began to entertain marvellous hopes of a speedy reformation when they observed the modesty which now ruled in the banquets and the general decorum which prevailed in all the court, their tyrant himself also behaving with gentleness and humanity in all the matters of business that came before him.  There was a general passion for reasoning and philosophy, insomuch that the very palace, it is reported, was filled with dust by the concourse of the students in mathematics who were working out their problems there.  Some few days later, it was the time of one of the Syracusan sacrifices; and when the priest, as he was wont, prayed for the long and safe continuance of the tyrant, Dionysius, it is said, as he stood by, cried out, "Leave off praying for evil upon us."  This sensibly vexed Philistus and his party, who conjectured that if Plato, upon such brief acquaintance, had so far transformed and altered the young man's mind, longer converse and greater intimacy would give him such influence and authority that it would be impossible to withstand him.'

      The new policy was bound to raise dismay among Dion's rivals.  Philistus was now banished, and it was suggested that the invitation to Plato was a device to ensure Dion's position at court.  The tactlessness and self-righteous demeanour of Dion did nothing to dispel the suspicion.  The devotee of the ideals of the Academy was something of a prig, and his puritanism had a ruthless flavour to it which suggested that ambition and self-interest were mixed with its idealism.  Dion at least shoed no signs of surrendering his palatial house and princely income, or of sacrificing the pleasures of wealth for pure philosophy.  But there were more serious critics who urged that the reformers were undoing the achievements of Dionysius I.  Sicilian unity had been achieved and maintained by force of arms, and by the support of the commercial interests.  To relax the dictatorship, to oust industry from political control and to entrust power to callow idealists, would break the unity achieved at such terrific cost.  Hastily Philistus, the hard-headed politician of the old school, was recalled, and began to suggest to the young tyrant the dark motives which Dion's idealism might cloak.  Meanwhile Dionysius' enthusiasm for mathematics had cooled and he began to ask why he should pursue these weary studied before beginning the more practical - and glorious - work of reform.  Plato's austerity impressed but also annoyed him, and his high moral tone began to jar.  On the other hand, the eyes of the Greek world were upon him: if he dismissed Plato, it would be said that the great philosopher had found him unworthy.  He decided on a compromise, banished Dion from Sicily, and retained Plato in courteous captivity.  A month or two later a minor war broke out.  Dionysius had no more time for philosophy and bade his friend a polite 'goodbye', extracting a promise from him to return soon, and on the way home to negotiate an alliance between Syracuse and Plato's friend, Archytas the Pythagorean ruler of Tarentum.  Thus the honour of both was saved and Plato within a year was back in Athens, having apparently converted the greatest tyrant in Greece to his philosophy.

      It is possible that Plato might never have returned to Syracuse had it not been for Dion's private affairs.  Dionysius, apprehensive that the latter might use his wealth for counter-revolutionary purposes, confiscated all that Dion had left in Sicily, and to test whether he had given up all hope of return, suggested that he should allow his wife (whom he had left behind) to be married to another courtier.  Dion indignantly refused, whereupon Dionysius began to sell up his estate and, anxious to cause a rift between his rival and the philosopher, invited Plato to resume his position as advisor to Syracuse.  Plato refused, whereon Dionysius, with a polite suggestion of blackmail, hinted that he would only hand over Dion's property if Plato came.  The philosopher hesitated, but a letter from Archytas of Tarentum suggesting that Syracuse might break off diplomatic relations if he refused, tipped the scale in favour of another attempt.  In 361 he reluctantly returned to Sicily.

      It seems probable that Dionysius was really intrigued by Plato's philosophy and anxious to discuss it with him.  But Plato would not allow the noblest of human activities to become the hobby of a tyrant, and sternly demanded that Dionysius should submit himself to the full rigours of the Academic discipline.  Dionysius refused, but neither he nor Plato (for the sake of their reputations) could allow the breach to become public knowledge, and so Plato lived on in the acropolis month after month while Dionysius sold up the rest of Dion's estate and disposed of his wife.  The court and the mercenaries, deceived by the official atmosphere of cordiality, began to suspect Plato of undue influence, and he was nearly killed during a mutiny of soldier demanding higher pay.  At last Archytas sent a ship to rescue him and Plato escaped.

      Left to himself, Dionysius continued his philosophical studies, and tried to carry out the Platonic programme, founding new cities and giving them aristocratic constitutions on Plato's lines.  Idealist dilettantism began to weaken the structure of the military dictatorship and it was clear that soon Sicily would again become a prey to Carthaginian invasion.  But Dion had made up his mind.  Meeting Plato on his return, he informed him that he had decided to conquer Syracuse and himself to impose the rule of the philosopher-kings.  Would Plato help?

      His experiences in Sicily had broken Plato's spirit.  He was close on seventy and the enthusiasm which had inspired the writing of the Republic had faded.  With it had gone the moral certitude which had justified him in his assertion that truth and right should impose themselves by force.  Syracusan politics had given him a distaste for bloodshed and made him wonder if any man were good enough to undertake the responsibilities of absolute dictatorship.  He began to ask himself if the freedom and liberty of the subject which he had so fiercely derided were after all so futile.  At least they gave some protection against tyranny.

      At the breath of these doubts, the Platonic plan for the salvation of Greece collapsed like a pack of cards.  Plato had denounced all constitutional government and advocated the dictatorship of the good.  His disdain for legal forms and the details of legislation had been based on a conviction that the education of the rulers could replace them.  Now that he doubted if such rulers could be produced by his Academy, and began to pin his faith to detailed legislation as a check on absolutism, the political programme of the Republic became a Utopian dream.  When Dion begged Plato to go with him, the philosopher refused, excusing himself on the grounds of old age and friendship with Dionysius, and remarking sagely that it is better to suffer injustice than to practise it.

      But the younger members of the Academy were not of the same temper.  For them the Republic was still a gospel and Dion the man to realize it.  While Plato began sadly to work out a new constitution and legislative programme for the new State, Dion was recruiting among his pupils.  In 357, with a select staff of philosophers and 500 men, he set sail to conquer the greatest city in Greece.  The second attempt to put the dictatorship of the good into practice had begun - but the creator of the plan refused to participate.  Instead, with anxious forebodings and a sense of futile catastrophe, Plato said goodbye to the man he loved more than any other, and then returned to teach in the Academy emptied of many of its finest students.

      The story of Dion's exploits in Sicily is a confusion of romance, intrigue, disillusion, and murder.  The philosophers with just 500 men turned out Dionysius, captured Syracuse, and began once more the attempt to build up a State in which there should be neither military dictatorship nor yet a democracy, but an authoritarian constitutional government.  The experiences of the last ten years had modified Dion's enthusiasm for the tyranny of reason, and he now planned a constitution in which the powers of the king should be largely formal; while legislative, judicial, and executive control should be centred in an elected committee of elder statesmen.  The forms of democracy were also to be preserved in the meetings of the Assembly and of the Council, so that the new constitution was really an attempt to work out a modern system of cabinet responsibility to a popular assembly, and depended (as modern democracy depends) for its success on a social tradition strong enough to enable the cabinet to exert real authority while listening to the wishes of the people.  If the cabinet failed to win the people's confidence, then it would be forced to introduce an open dictatorship: if, on the other hand, it abused its position and showed no respect for the constitution, it had power enough to do so with impunity.

      Dion's ideas pleased no-one.  The advocates of unity and military strength for the war against Carthage saw the reforms as a weakening of central control.  The democrats, observing that the committee of thirty-five was composed of wealthy men and that all measures for the redistribution of wealth were rejected, concluded that this was merely another form of polite oligarchy; and one of Dion's colleagues - Heracleides - became the leader of a popular movement for the redistribution of the land.  Civil war broke out; Dion was forced to rely on his foreign soldiers to quell the disturbances and was finally expelled by the democrats.  After a period of confusion, however, he regained control and patched up a truce with Heracleides.  But it soon became clear that if the democratic party were to be suppressed, open dictatorship was unavoidable.  Heracleides was again at the head of the opposition, and Dion reluctantly gave his consent to the murder of his colleague.

      The murder of Heracleides marks the end of the attempt to put Plato's philosophy into practice.  The idealists had been forced by the pressure of necessity to behave no better and no worse than the old Realpolitiker whose regime they had denounced: the Republic had proved to be not an ideal constitution, but another variant of oligarchy, unwanted by the people, and as little relying on constitutional action or justice as naked tyranny.  Dion was now a common murderer, living the self-same life of fear and apprehension which he had seen in the courts of the older Dionysius, and suppressing with the self-same ruthlessness all popular movements.  In 353 Kallippus, one-time member of the Academy, and trusted minister at Dion's court, put himself at the head of a democratic conspiracy and, breaking into a dinner-party at Dion's palace, murdered his chief in cold blood.

      It is probable that the shock for Plato was not very great.  The mission of the Academy to save Sicily had ended in vulgar intrigue and butchery, and the young men whom he had trained had proved no better than their contemporaries unversed in true philosophy.  The republic, which Plato had resolved to build so perfectly that even Socrates, the conscientious objector, could live there with a good conscience, had proved itself no better than any other oligarchy, and worse than the democratic Athens which he had ridiculed and despised.  All this was true, but Plato had seen it long before Dion's death, and had waited only for the inevitable conclusion.  The blood of Dion was on his head: he had inspired him and sent him to his death, and he had taught and approved his actual murderer.  The application of philosophy to practical life had failed, and Socrates' death was still unatoned for by his disciple.  Plato had made it his life's mission to answer the question Socrates asked and to find the justice which he sought: he had not answered it, and instead of establishing justice he had instigated bloodshed and civil strife.

      Plato was seventy-five when he heard the news of Dion's death.  In his latter years he had turned more and more to pure philosophical speculation and given to the Academy that academic stamp which it was to bear for the thousand years of its life and to impress on all future universities.  He no longer despised politics as vulgar and ridiculous: he feared them as the terrible contaminator of pure and holy lives, and tried to forget his own pangs of conscience in contemplation of eternal reality.  'It is better to suffer injustice than to practise it', and goodness, he now felt, could only be achieved by a complete renunciation of worldly power.  If just government could not be attained by peaceful means, then it was better left unattempted: for the philosopher who put his hand to bloodshed defiles his own soul and his own philosophy.  In the last years of his life Plato was a pacifist.

      But appeals still came from Dion's friends in Sicily, and all over the Greek world the rumour of the failure of the Academy was rife.  Plato could not renounce politics even now and, summoning together all his failing strength, he composed two open letters to his former pupils in Sicily, at once advising them on future policy and defending himself against the charge that he was responsible for the catastrophe at Syracuse.

      These letters are among the most pathetic historical documents which we possess.  Rambling and discursive in style, they are the work of an old and broken spirit which feebly takes up one defence only to throw it away in disgust and pick up another, and, seeing that the main charge is irrefutable, seeks to divert attention to points of detail.  Now he tried to persuade himself that Kallippus was not a real friend of Dion's, and that for this reason the murder was not so reprehensible: now suddenly, in the middle of narrating his own experiences in Syracuse, he launches into a bitter attack on Dionysius for publishing a book which purported to be an account of Platonic philosophy, and goes on to concentrate in three or four pages a brilliant summary of his views on the relations between language, thought, and reality.  But always in the end he returns to his main theme, the salvation of Greek city-life and the cure of international and domestic anarchy which must be found if Carthage is to be beaten back.  He feebly suggests to a Sicily, marred once more by a civil war, that unless men seek justice and obey law, no true happiness is available - could comfort for men struggling for their lives, who realized too late that it was easier to break down the unity which military dictatorship had given them than to replace it with the rule of law; and who, remembering the Academy, held Plato responsible not only for the murder of Dion but also for the inevitable victory of barbarian powers which time must bring.

      In 347, at the age of eighty-one, Plato died.  The years later the Macedonians conquered Greece; the age of Greek independence ended and the Alexandrian epoch began.

      At the end of his life Plato knew that he had failed.  Despite his eminence as a philosopher, he had not achieved the one thing on which he had set his heart.  His researches in logic, in astronomy, and in mathematics could satisfy his thirst for knowledge and ensure him lasting fame: they could not console him for his failure to solve the problem which Socrates had set.  For it was precisely the application of theory to practice, and of philosophy to everyday life, which Socrates had demanded and for which he had died.  Plato had suppressed his natural inclination to wash his hands of politics because he felt himself to be Socrates' disciple; he had dedicated the Academy to the memory of Socrates; and the failure of the Academy to win its way to the control of the city-state meant that Socrates' death was still unatoned.  The spirit of disinterested criticism and scientific inquiry seemed to have contributed nothing to the elimination of social evils.  It had diagnosed the disease, but the cure which it applied had been completely ineffective.

      But does this mean that wisdom and reason can never be of practical use to the community?  If so, the Academy must and should remain academic, the cloistered refuge of the few who prefer truth to the other pleasures of life: and the politician, the banker, and the craftsman must or should reject the advice of the philosopher as useless or positively harmful.

      If we do not accept this conclusion, then we must admit that Plato failed, not because he was a philosopher, but because there was something wrong with the methods which he employed and the plan upon which he worked; and it becomes of vital importance to discover these flaws in the programme of the Republic.  For by discovering these, we shall be able to base our own political theory upon sound principles and to avoid the catastrophe which overwhelmed the Platonic statesmen.

      In this chapter, then, I shall try to suggest some of the chief defects in Plato's theory and to show their relevance to our modern problems.  Plato has criticized us: now it is for us in turn to criticize him.

      When we examine a great philosophical system it is the very simplest axioms which are most easily attacked, and the most 'obvious' propositions which can most usefully be questioned.  One such axiom of Plato's thought - and it is the justification of the whole political structure of the Republic - is that the common man is unreasonable.  Let us start by a consideration of this assumption.  Of course it is partly true.  Human beings are often short-sighted, sentimental, and greedy, and if Plato had gone no further than this, he could not be gainsaid.  But Plato assumed (1) that most men are naturally so deficient that they are incapable of self-government; (2) that there do exist potential rulers of such supreme wisdom that absolute government can be safely entrusted to them; and (3) that these potential rulers will mostly be found not among the peasants and artisans, but in the ranks of the gentry.  Disregarding (3) - clearly the most questionable - we must admit that the first two propositions are clearly true.  Mankind is stupid and from time to time men do arise so pre-eminent in virtue that power could be entrusted to them.  But it does not follow that we can build the State on this assumption.  'Statesmanship is the art of the second best': it takes men as it finds them, and it cannot presume that the man of genius will always be to hand.  If we could rely upon a constant supply of supremely wise statesmen, we could disregard all questions of constitutional forms and political organization.  It is precisely because we cannot do this that the problem of government is all-important.  Thus though Plato's two propositions are true, they are irrelevant to politics because the class of 'wise men' is not large enough or compact enough to become a permanent ruling élite in any city or nation-state.

      When, however, we add the third proposition, we reach a conclusion which is not only irrelevant but frankly partisan.  The presumption that wise men are not often found among the 'working classes' transforms the Republic from an ideal aristocracy in the literal sense - the rule of the best - to an aristocracy of birth.  The academic proposition, 'the best should rule', becomes a practical proposition, 'the best of the existing aristocracy should become dictators' and the Platonic classes of rulers and civilians merge into the Greek political factions of aristocrats and democrats. [This point deserves fuller treatment than I can give it here.  Plato does in REPUBLIC 415 admit the bare possibility that a 'civilian' might be found worthy of promotion to the ruling elite.  This admission occurs, however, in a parenthesis and is nowhere elaborated.  Since the education of the ruler begins at birth, it is difficult to see how a craftsman could ever show himself worthy of promotion.  Plato, with his beliefs about the degrading effects of 'banausic' occupations, can hardly have considered it likely that he ever would.]

      Plato could defend this suggestion as sound practical politics: he could say that in his opinion and from his experience 'the people' had thrown up few leaders and that the aristocracy still retained its traditions of public service.  But in so doing he surrendered his claim to base the Republic on philosophical principles and self-evident axioms: he spoke no longer as a philosopher but as a citizen, and his judgement can properly be questions by anyone else with political experience.  For he was advocating the claims of a certain social class - the dictatorship not of the best, but of the best members of the aristocracy - and assuming the latter to be identical with the former.

      Thus there are two objections to Plato's argument.  In the first place there will never be a sufficient number of pre-eminent men to form a ruling class in whom we can have complete confidence; and even if there were, it would be impossible to select from the citizen population and to ensure that they alone should have political control.  Plato himself often admitted this.  He confessed that 'good men' are corrupted by power, and he had seen enough of politics to know that irresponsible dictatorship - however carefully the dictators are selected and trained - always ends in disaster.  And yet he advocated dictatorship!

      In the second place his bias in favour of aristocracy led him to identify the 'gentleman' with the good man, and he therefore, in searching for his élite, excluded the vast majority of the population from any serious examination.  From the proposition 'most men are incompetent to govern themselves', he glided imperceptibly into the assertion, 'the working classes are incompetent to govern themselves'.

      The Republic is therefore a solution to the problem of government which could only be successful if men were not what they, in fact, are.  Granting to the aristocratic élite absolute freedom of action, it demands of them a virtue far beyond their reach: demanding of the lower orders absolute obedience, it denies to them any possibility of self-realization.  It makes the former divinity incarnate, the latter humanity with only a tiny spark of the divine.  For this reason it is no surprise to discover the Platonic ideal realized in the structure of the Catholic Church.  Substitute the clergy for the philosopher-kings, and the laity for the civilians, and you have the one practical fulfilment of the Platonic programme.  But in the field of government, Platonism, because it is at once too ideal and not ideal enough, becomes the rational apologia for reaction.  A military despot in Greece, a Roman emperor, a medieval monarch, a Renaissance prince or a modern dictator, can all justify themselves as Platonists, claiming special and providential wisdom for themselves and their friends, special and providential stupidity for the masses.  Power will always vest itself in priestly robes to hide the wickedness of tyranny.

      Thus, although he denounced military despotism and aristocratic dictatorship, Plato was the aider and abettor of both, and tacitly countenanced them as the lesser of two evils.  Confronted with the class-war, he dreamt that between the dictatorship of the Left and the dictatorship of the Right there was a third revolutionary alternative - the dictatorship of the 'virtuous Right'.  But when we translate this dream into the sober language of politics, it is seen to be an empty illusion.  For it advocates the formation of a party of good aristocrats opposed equally to the demands of rich and of poor, and the capture by this party of absolute political power.  But since the membership of the party will be drawn almost exclusively from the anti-democratic side, it will be suspect to the working classes: and since it is opposed to the interests of the rich, it will be hated by them as well.  Its government therefore will have no basis of consent and will be forced either to become a military dictatorship, or to concede to one side in the class struggle.  Since it is resolutely anti-democratic, and is tied by bonds of kinship and tradition to the parties of the Right, there can be no doubt of the nature of those concessions.  Resolved to suppress the equalitarian aspirations of the masses, it will rely on the support of the wealthy.  In that case, it will find it impossible to destroy property and privilege as well.  The 'dictatorship of the virtuous Right' is transformed into a polite form of Fascism.

      Plato had envisaged his 'third alternative' as the creation of an impartial State, allotting to each man the life and work which he deserves, favouring no section of the community at the expense of others and harmonizing all interests for the common good.  His ruling class was to be exalted above the clash of interests and, from the lofty heights of dictatorial power, to dispense justice objectively and dispassionately.  This sublime vision neglected two simple facts.  (1) No Government is absolutely supreme: for the power of the Government resides not only in the army and the civil service - its executive organs - but in those sections of the community which tolerate or support it.  Where there is inequality of wealth - as there was in Greece - an absolute Government must be not only the master of all, but the servant of some.  On seizing power the philosopher-kings must come to terms either with the rich or with the poor, in order to retain control.  (2) Whatever the education provided by the Academy, the deep-seated instincts and traditions of the Greek aristocracy, its hatred and fear of proletarian dictatorship, and its exclusive sense of political status would combine to destroy the impartiality of the Platonic élite.  We have seen in the history of Syracuse a terrible instance of these forces at work.  By neglecting them, Plato had encouraged Dion to undertake a revolutionary putsch which could only end in disaster.

      When Plato and Dion saw the impossibility of their philosopher-kings, they at least realized that the escape from class-dictatorship is not another dictatorship but the denial of absolute power to anyone.  The impartial State cannot be constructed from above by any ruling élite, vested with dictatorial authority, and resolute to harmonize conflicting interests.  It must be the product of the harmony of those interests themselves.  Only by the limitation of powers, and by the representation of all interests, is it possible to achieve justice and security.  Impartiality and the rule of law are possible only if sovereignty is denied to any section or group whatsoever and replaced by constitutional government.  This new third alternative was dimly envisaged by Plato and Dion at the end of their lives.  It implied the surrender of the whole programme of the Republic and of the Academy, but it substituted for them an equally fantastic plan.

      For the transformation of the class struggle into party warfare, of absolutism into constitutional government, and of power politics into the rule of law can only be effected where there is a pervasive sense of national unity, a long-standing tradition on the side of peaceful change and an expanding system of production to supply the wealth needed for social reform.  These conditions were present in nineteenth-century England: they were not present in fourth-century Greece.  The city-states had no sense of national cohesion.  The revolutionary upheavals of the previous hundred years made any genuine cooperation of rich and poor impossible.  The steady increase of slave-labour intensified the democratic cry for a capital levy, distribution of land, and an increase of 'bread and circuses' for the citizen population.  And lastly, the menace of Macedonia in the north and Carthage in the west necessitated military dictatorship if Greek independence was to be preserved.  In these conditions the Platonic plan for constitutional monarchy could please no-one.  It was suspected by the democrats as a veiled form of reaction, by the wealthy as a concession to the lower orders, and by the patriot who cared more for Greek independence than for domestic justice as a dangerous weakening of that military discipline which was all-important for his ends.  Plato's second plan for the salvation of Greece failed as signally as the first had failed, since it too tried to construct an impartial state at a time when impartiality and 'justice' were sheerly impossible, and constitutional government was bound to become the instrument of the Right in its struggle to suppress democracy.

      This is perhaps the most valuable lesson which a study of Plato's life can teach us.  The rule of law which allots to each man his due is a dream which can be realized only under certain conditions.  It is the one thing which a revolutionary Government can never achieve, whatever its ideals.  A revolutionary is always the resultant of a gross social maladjustment: and any Government which captures power after a revolution must suppress one side or the other.  Only when society has adjusted itself to the new equilibrium of forces can those conditions of peaceful change arise which are essential both to constitutional government and to the impartial State.  You cannot impose the rule of law or constitutionalism by peaceful discussion upon an economic and social anarchy, and if you try to do so you will merely be giving to one faction a spurious justification for its dictatorship.  On the other hand, granted that a country has the supreme good fortune of achieving the economic and social equilibrium which permits of these things, it cannot retain them as realities unless the social and economic equilibrium is also maintained.  If the system of production and distribution breaks down, no good will or idealism will prevent the destruction of social justice and the conversion of legality and constitutionalism into the instruments of power-politics.  The third alternative once more disappears and decent men and women must once again make their choice between rival dictatorships and competing interests.

      So far we have analysed Plato's conception of the 'dictatorship of the good' and the 'rule of law', and we have tried to show on the one hand that they were unrealizable in the Greek State, and on the other that they were twisted by Plato's aristocratic bias and justifications for counter-revolution.  But this aristocratic bias had still more detrimental effects on Plato's political outlook.  For he not only assumed that political leadership could only be found among the aristocracy, but also that all sound political ideals must be based upon the aristocratic and conservative tradition.  We have seen how he neglected altogether the problem of slavery, and how he presupposed the autonomy of the city-state.  We must now observe how he tried to restore the glories of Greece by returning to a well-nigh feudal economic and social order.  The republic was to be divided into a Homeric order of warrior-kings, and a Homeric demos of craftsmen and peasants.  It was to be economically self-sufficient, and to export only its surplus produce.  Great disparities of income were to be avoided, and wealthy was to be regulated according to need.  Its noble rulers were, in fact, to be Spartan citizens softened by Athenian culture: their subjects, Spartan serfs raised to a higher level by the justice of a benevolent aristocracy.  Plato conceived this social order as the true ideal of the Greek city-state, purged of the accretions which imperialism and commercialism had plastered over it; and in the Republic he tried to strip off the excrescences and display the perfect archetype of the Greek community.  For this archetype he went far back to the days before the age of tyranny and the growth of trade, and claimed that agricultural aristocracy was the 'true' form of Greek life.  Big business, political parties, atheism, working-class unrest - these seemed to Plato blatant evils which must be abolished, and to abolish them he tried to revert to the period before they had arisen.

      In so doing he neglected to observe that if they were evils, they were evils essential to the virtues of Greek civilization.  The culture and the artistic glories of Athens would have been impossible without her commerce and her empire.  Plato's own philosophical speculations were part and parcel of the rationalism which had destroyed the old religion and aristocratic authority.  The independence of mind which caused social unrest had also made Socrates the first conscientious objector.  To abolish these evils by reverting to feudal aristocracy was to abolish also the glories of Greek life.  In the second place the evils which Plato denounced were facts which could not be wished away.  Slavery could not be made to vanish by neglecting its existence.  The will to freedom and self-government among the craftsmen and peasants had been strong enough to sweep away aristocracy: it would not disappear because Plato announced its futility.  The old religion and morality had perished: they could not gain new life by artificial respiration applied by a few philosophers.  The romantic dream of resurrecting the golden age was bound to fail because the social and economic basis of that golden age had gone for ever.

      Moreover, Plato's description of pre-industrial Greece was largely mythical.  Himself an individualist, a product of Athenian civilization, he interpreted history in terms of the present, and read into the past the fulfilment of his present wishes.  Like the German romantics of the early nineteenth century, he first of all imagined an ideal State, then located it in the past, and then called on his countrymen to return to their true national traditions.  Had he really studied history he might have seen that his Athenian ideas of education and culture could not be grafted on to the primitive stock, and that his ideal rulers - self-conscious and sophisticated Athenians, robed in mythological dress - were the products of the very commercialism which he denounced.

      Through all Plato's work there runs the cult of pseudo-history.  It makes the political sections of the Republic a stiff and self-conscious pastiche, just as it made Dion, who felt himself to be a Platonic statesman, a consciously superior person.  It is the cause of Plato's obsession that change is dangerous and that at all costs innovations, even in song and dance and literature, must be suppressed.  Early Sparta was alive, but the new 'Athenian Sparta' of Plato's dream was a rigid and pedantic reconstruction of the past, dead because it could not face that dying of the old and growing of the new which is the essence of life.  Just as Plato the poet denied himself poetry, and let his imagination wither, so the Republic denies itself life, and takes on the stony look of a 'classical' statue, the product of a tired civilization which rejects with senile agitation the vigour of youth and change.

      Plato was a true reflection of one aspect of his epoch; he embodied the ideals of a dying system.  Beyond that system he could not look, and he had no eye for the seeds of the new order which was to replace it.  And so the political programme of the Republic is rooted in the past and is at bottom the rationalization and justification of Reaction.  It is not - as if often supposed - typically Greek, or even typically Athenian: but the unique product of an Athenian aristocratic mind which tried to make sense out of the prejudices of its class, and succeeded in canalizing the activities of its best members into the preservation of a lost cause.

 

      But even admitting all these criticisms, I still find the Republic the greatest book on political philosophy which I have read.  The more I read it, the more I hate it: and yet I cannot help returning to it time after time.  For it is philosophy.  It tries to reach the truth by rational discussion and is itself a pattern of the disinterested research which it extols.  It never bullies or deceives its readers or beguiles him with appeals to sentiment, but treats him as a fellow-philosopher for whom the truth is worth having.

      This characteristic of the Republic forces the third criticism of Plato's programme upon our notice.  Plato demanded that the philosopher should become king and impose justice upon the civilian masses, cajoling them into obedience by the 'noble lie' and even by force.  The seeker after truth must assert his will, and believe his opinions to be eternal truths.  These demands violate the whole spirit of scientific research.  The true scientist is filled with the humility which knowledge of his own ignorance brings.  He knows the impossibility of reaching finality, and he recognizes the fallibility of his own reason.  He cannot ape the self-certainty and presumption of practical men: nor can he call his own opinions knowledge and force them on his fellows.  He cannot be the absolute dictator, as Plato demands, without turning hypothesis into dogma, and persuasion into propaganda.  Socrates, the first conscientious objector to the tyranny of prejudice, could never condemn others to death for holding beliefs different from his own; and so he could never accept the arrogance of dictatorship - even dictatorship of the good.  For only an unphilosophical nature can claim absolute knowledge.

      The concept of the philosopher-king violates the nature of the philosopher as flagrantly as the concept of 'the dictatorship of the virtuous Right' violates the facts of everyday politics.  The spirit of science and philosophy stands in open contradiction to the policy which Plato advocated, and declares that Socrates must die again in the State which his disciple proposed to build.  Plato set his whole hope on the dictatorship of men and women who knew the final and complete truth: but we have already seen how relative and questionable are the truths which Plato propounded and how far his conclusions were conditioned by traditions and instinctive impulses and the prejudices which they instigate.  If a philosopher of Plato's dimensions was so liable to error and self-deception, what confidence can we have that in any State a man will be found capable of perfect knowledge?  Even if he were found, can we not confidently say that he would decline every offer of supreme coercive power?

      Thus the third flaw in the reasoning of the Republic is its suggestion that human reason is capable of infallibility and that the scientific spirit should be prepared to force others to accept it as infallible.  Both these propositions are false and claim for 'Reason' a position which reason must always reject.  The rational man is, above all, aware of his own limitations.  He knows that we are all - philosophers, politicians, priests, and ordinary folk alike - creatures of prejudice and emotion, parts in a social process greater than ourselves.  He abhors the presumption that 'Reason' can or should rule, and admits that his task is to analyse that which is given, to civilize the passions which are the prime motives of action and to admit the incalculability of change.  Philosophy, by itself, can never discover what is right and just: it can only examine what we at any moment find right and just and point out the implications of these assumptions.  For philosophy is the analysis of natural belief, and natural belief is the product of history.  The philosopher who asserts that he has discovered the eternal principles of justice and government is only claiming for the beliefs of his epoch an absolute truth which does not belong to them, and trying to perpetuate something which should pass away as conditions change.  And so all dogmatic philosophies, such as Platonism, become in time instruments of reaction trying vainly to explain the new epoch in terms of the old, and to torture a new society into the straitjacket of an outworn code.  In an era of transition, when one social system is breaking up to be replaced by another, the new ideas which should grow into institutions and moral codes and political forms are inchoate, confused, and vague.  The trained philosopher, if he accepts the established order as the only right order, can ridicule them, expose their inconsistency, and convince educated men and women that they should maintain at any price the framework of thought and life to which they are accustomed.  If he does so, he will be forced, as Plato was forced, to destroy that freedom without which reason must die, and with irrefutable logic he will defend a status quo in which the seeds of revolution are watered by the self-righteous opposition of the educated classes to social change.

      Plato's philosophy was an example of this type of reasoning.  By asserting the existence of an absolute truth, it gave to a dying order the trappings of eternal verity.  It did not discover anything new, but rationalized into a formal system a set of partisan prejudices.  For this reason it contributed nothing to the solution of the problems of Plato's own age.  It was Aristotle, the renegade pupil, who became the tutor of Alexander and set his stamp upon the outlook of the Hellenistic world.