The Complete Works of Plato

...[they] pine for the pleasures of love, for drinking parties and feasts, and other things that follow upon such things; and they are vexed, as if they had been deprived of some great things—those who lived well then, but are not even living now. And some even lament the insults of their relatives regarding old age, and on this account they hymn old age as the cause of all the evils for them. But to me, Socrates, these people do not seem to blame the true cause. For if this were the cause, I too would have suffered these same things, at least on account of old age, and all others who have arrived at this stage of life. But as it is, I have already encountered others who are not in this state. Indeed, I was once present when the poet Sophocles was asked by someone: “How do you feel, Sophocles, toward the pleasures of love? Are you still able to have intercourse with a woman?” And he replied, “Hush, man! Most gladly have I escaped it, as if I had escaped from a certain mad and savage master.” It seemed to me then that he spoke well, and it seems no less so now. For in old age there comes a great peace and freedom from such things. For when the desires cease to strain and relax, it happens exactly as Sophocles said: it is possible to have been released from many masters, and those completely mad ones. But regarding these things, and those concerning one’s relatives, there is one cause, Socrates: not old age, but the character of the people. For if they are orderly and easy-going, even old age is moderately burdensome; but if not, then both old age and youth, Socrates, turn out to be difficult for such a person.

And I, admiring him for saying these things, and wishing him to speak still more, stirred him on and said: “Cephalus, I suspect that the majority of people, when you say these things, do not accept it, but believe that you bear old age easily, not because of your character, but because you possess great wealth. For they say that for the rich there are many consolations.”

“You speak truly,” he said. “They do not accept it; and while they say something, it is not as much as they think. But the saying of Themistocles holds well, who, when a Seriphian was mocking him and saying that he gained fame not because of himself but because of his city, replied that neither would he himself have become famous if he had been a Seriphian, nor would the other if he had been an Athenian. And the same argument holds well for those who are not wealthy but bear old age with difficulty: that neither would the decent man bear old age with poverty quite easily, nor would the indecent man, even having become wealthy, ever become easy-going with himself.”

“Tell me, Cephalus, did you inherit the greater part of what you possess, or did you acquire it?”

“What, acquire it?” he said, “Socrates, I have become a sort of middle-man in money-making between my grandfather and my father. For my grandfather, who bears the same name as I, inherited nearly as much substance as I now possess and made it many times over; while Lysanias, my father, made it even less than it is now. I am satisfied if I leave it to these here no less, but perhaps a trifle more, than I inherited.”

“I asked you this,” said I, “because you seemed to me not to be overly fond of money. This is generally the case with those who have not acquired it themselves. But those who have acquired it cherish it twice as much as others. For just as poets love their own poems, and fathers their children, in this way those who have made money are zealous about their money as their own work, and also according to its use, just as other people are. Thus they are difficult to associate with, being unwilling to praise anything but wealth.”

“You speak truly,” he said.

“Entirely so,” said I. “But tell me still this much: what do you think is the greatest good you have enjoyed from possessing a great substance?”

“It is something,” he said, “that perhaps I would not persuade many people of by saying it. For know well, Socrates, that when someone thinks he is near the end, fear and worry enter into him regarding things that did not enter into him before. For the myths told about those in Hades—that the one who has done injustice here must pay the penalty there—which were mocked until then, at that point twist his soul with fear that they might be true. And he himself, either because of the weakness of old age or because he is now closer to the things there, perceives them somewhat more clearly. He becomes full of suspicion and dread, and he begins to reflect and consider whether he has wronged anyone. The one who finds in his life many injustices, and often, like children, wakes up from sleep and is terrified, lives with a bad hope. But for the one who has no...