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“Certainly,” said I: but Alcibiades was silent.

S. “And would not these mistakes, by the hypothesis, themselves punish him who made them, without any resentment whatsoever, or Nemesis of the Gods being required for his chastisement?”

“It seems so,” said I.

S. “But can we say of such mistakes, and of the harm which may accrue from them, anything but that they must both be infinite; seeing that they are mistakes concerning an infinite Being, and his infinite properties, on every one of which, and on all together, our daily existence depends?”

P. “It seems so.”

S. “So that, until such a man’s error concerning Zeus, the source of all things, is cleared up, either in this life or in some future one, we cannot but fear for him infinite confusion, misery, and harm, in all matters which he may take in hand?”

Then Alcibiades, angrily: “What ugly mask is this you have put on, Socrates? You speak rather like a priest trying to frighten rustics into paying their first-fruits, than a philosopher inquiring after that which is beautiful. But you shall never terrify me into believing that it is not a noble thing to speak out whatsoever a man believes, and to go forward boldly in the spirit of truth.”

S. “Feeling first, I hope, with your staff, as would be but reasonable in the case of the bridge, whether your belief was objectively or only subjectively true, lest you should fall through your subjective bridge into objective water. Nevertheless, leaving the bridge and the water, let us examine a little what this said spirit of truth may be. How do you define it?”

A. “I assert that whosoever says honestly what he believes, does so by the spirit of truth.”

S. “Then if Lyce, patting those soft cheeks of yours, were to say: ‘Alcibiades, thou art the fairest youth in Athens,’ she would speak by the spirit of truth?”

A. “They say so.”

S. “And they say rightly. But if Lyce, as is her custom, wished, by so saying, to cheat you into believing that she loved you, and thereby to wheedle you out of a new shawl, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”

A. “I suppose so.”

S. “But if, again, she said the same thing to Phaethon, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”

“By no means, Socrates,” said I, laughing.

S. “Be silent, fair boy; you are out of court as an interested party. Alcibiades shall answer. If Lyce, being really mad with love, like Sappho, were to believe Phaethon to be fairer than you, and say so, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?”

A. “I suppose so.”

S. “Do not frown; your beauty is in no question. Only she would then be saying what is not true?”

“I must answer for him after all,” said I.

S. “Then it seems, from what has been agreed, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth, whether it speak truth or not. The spirit seems to be of an enviable serenity. But suppose again, that I believed that Alcibiades had an ulcer on his leg, and were to proclaim the same now to the people, when they come into the Pnyx, should I not be speaking by the spirit of truth?”

A. “But that would be a shameful and blackguardly action.”

S. “Be it so. It seems, therefore, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth whether that which it affirms be honourable or blackguardly. Is it not so?”

A. “It seems so, most certainly, in that case at least.”

S. “And in others, as I think. But tell me-Is not the man who does what he believes, as much moved by this your spirit of truth as he who says what he believes?”

A. “Certainly he is.”