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THE STRESS OF STORMS THE FLIGHT |
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THE STRESS OF STORMS THE FLIGHT |
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SOCRATES
(470-399 B.C.)
Greek philosopher, born in Athens around the year 470-399
B.C. Socrates is almost a literary character. He is
the protagonist of the immortal dialogues of Plato and
he was poor, stubborn and irritant.
He was the son of the sculptor Sophroniscus and of Phaenarete, a midwife.
He learned his mother’s craft: the art of helping to bring forth through testing and dialogue the ideas men have inside. He named this philosophical method Mayeutics (obstetrics).
On one occasion, his friend Xenophon asked the Oracle of Delos, “Who is the wisest and most virtuous of all the Athenians?” And the Oracle answered without hesitation “Socrates!”
When the midwife’s son heard the news, he said, “I guess that is because I, at least, know that I do not now anything.”
In spite of that trick and the paradox, the oracle also brought upon him the envy of all who thought they had been called ignorant. Anytus, Meletus and Lycon were among them. They urged Aristophanes to mock the wise man, and so the comic playwright ridiculed Socrates on stage. Nevertheless, derision was not enough for them, so they actively participated in the fabrication of slanders, and they made possible the unfair public trial against Socrates which resulted in his death sentence. With his own hands, Socrates carried out the sentence by drinking hemlock poison after rejecting all plans of escape.
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THE FLIGHT
The restless boy clung to the handrail of the dock. His boyish glance, so dry
and filled with worries, was lost in the vastness of the Aegean Sea. In the distance, the growing outline of the returning ship destroyed his hope, knot by knot.
He drew his fingers away from the worn wood, his strength failed him and he
fell onto the old boards of the pier. Sitting together with the winds, he secretly
whispered to the gods, “Oh, merciless Chronos! A month has passed since the ship sailed for Delos to celebrate the Minotaur’s death by the hand of our hero, Theseus.
Oh Hours, Themis’ terrible daughters! The ship is returning home. My people will welcome her with feasts, songs and garlands as I once did when I was a small boy.
But today, oh Selene! It seems more like Charon’s death boat coming for my master. “Have the Furies injected their venom into the minds of each and every one of the three hundred and sixty judges, who have sentenced him to an unfair death with their arrogant verdict? Oh supreme father of the Olympus, place another ocean between me and the holy envoy from Delos so they will not make shore today and the terrible sacrifice of my guide does not take place!”
The young philosopher prays to the gods knowing that his people’s custom is
to postpone all executions until the holy envoy arrives at the Athenian port.
When he had seen it sail away, he had thought that a month was enough time
to free his master. Today the vessel was returning, and they still could not persuade the old mentor of the importance of an escape.
Everything was ready beforehand. Many of the philosopher’s followers had
used their own resources to finance the flight. The jailers had been bought, the
informant’s mouths were silenced with a few coins, the carriage for Socrates’ wife, Xanthippe, and his three children, was waiting confidently, and a house in Thessalia was ready to accommodate the family in their exile. Everything was ready! Everything except the compliance of the stubborn old man who boasted he had never left Athens except for his heroic presence in the Peloponnesian War against the Spartans.
“Oh Zeus, Crito! You have finally returned,” cried out Plato, rising form the
ground with his spirit full of hope. “We do not have much time, the ship will make it to shore soon. Have you convinced the master this time?”
“No, young man,” Crito answered, avoiding the boy’s anxious look. “I did not
have more luck today than you had with the judges the day of the trial.”
Plato’s legs suddenly started to fail, so he grabbed onto the rail again as he
remembered the accusations pronounced in the court: “This man breaks the laws; he denies the existence of the Gods. He has even introduced new ones such as his sacred Daimon. He preaches against the people’s morals and he corrupts our youth. Death is the just sentence.”
Maybe the decision need not have been so strict. However, that philosopher,
who called himself the god’s wasp, hearing the judges’ decision after they could not agree if it was better to sentence him to death or to just punish him, had said irreverently, “I judge that the penalty I should be sentenced to for my actions is to be supported by the state with a large income so I can continue with my activities free of care.” Socrates’ imprudent and deliberate comment not only infuriated the judges: it also deprived him of any further chance to defend himself and brought the death sentence upon him.
“It was an unfair decision,” complained the young man throwing himself again
on the ground. “Why did he challenge the archons when the accusations were
already very serious? Why did he mock the judges? Why?”
“Plato, today this is very clear to me,” said the old man without any intention of
comforting him, “Your master has prepared his own death with eagerness and
treachery. This is going to be his last mayeutic delivery.”
“Shut up, Crito, shut up!” cried the boy. “You know better. You know that
Aristophanes is a coward and the author of this misfortune. That vulgar writer of
comedies should have been the one accused of being corrupt and of no faith.”
“Plato, don’t you understand? Don’t you see? We were both present at his
trial. Remember! Remember how he condemned himself.”
Plato grabbed his head with his hands. The words his master had uttered to
the magistrates were still drilling into his memory: “Send me then to the dwelling of Hades. At last, free of you, who call yourselves judges, I will find my true arbitrates:
Minos, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus and Triptolemus; and all the semi-gods who were pious during life. Will my stay in that place be unpleasant? I would rather die a thousand deaths than stand one more minute before your blindness.”
“Besides,” added Crito, still upset, “by bribing his jailers I have reached his cell
four times and four times my attempts to convince him to escape have failed. They have removed his shackles and left the door open. Don’t you see, my friend? He seeks to become the first martyr of all philosophers. This is not an execution; it is going to be a suicide! A cowardly suicide that your teacher is covering with the veil of his own morals.”
“Are you insulting our master, Crito? If that is so, go and join Crithias and the
thirty tyrants and all the slandering fools against our mentor!”
“I feel ashamed of him,” replied the old man. “He is the one who is betraying
us by choosing an easy path. Even the judges and the executioners have helped with the escape. They wanted Socrates’ exile more than his death because that would have satisfied their voracious vanity.” Crito grabbed Plato by the shoulder with his gouty hands and started to shake him with an unusual rage. He shouted, “Yes!
Yes! I do curse Socrates. I curse his lack of manhood in order to save himself from a stupid death and I will turn away from any teacher who blasphemes as he has done.
Listen to me, stupid boy, and decide for yourself if what I am about to tell you isn’t the worst of all blasphemies!” He let go of the boy with contempt and added, “Before I
abandoned him in that unworthy dungeon, Socrates said to me: ‘Oh Crito! Gea has infected me with this illness called life. Tomorrow Asclepius will put in my mouth the redeeming nectar of the hemlock and I will be healed from this disease.’ Those were his words and today I curse him, but I will not join his detractors. I will not! I will return to the gods of Athens, for whom life is not a disease that only death can cure.”
“No, Crito, no!” yelled the boy. “You are returning to the most archetypal
ignorance. You are the one who is taking the easy way by choosing the rags of this world over a supreme ideal.”
The old renegade hid under his garments and ran away to take shelter in the
gods.
On the other side, the ship reached port amidst the crowd’s joy. Plato watched
as she made shore and a big smile lighted up his face, washing away all his worries.
Yes! Now he understood: his teacher, Socrates, who had taught him how to give birth to an idea, was about to give birth to his own immortality.
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| ANTERIOR | ÍNDICE | SIGUIENTE |
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© Alberto Sibaja Álvarez. San José, Costa Rica
® The Stress of Storms
