The Deeper Wretchedness of the Wicked

Then I said: "I admit it, and I see that not unjustly are the vicious said — though they keep the shape of a human body — to be changed into beasts in the quality of their souls. But those whose savage and criminal mind rages for the destruction of good men — I should have wished that this very thing were not permitted them."

"Nor is it permitted," she said, "as will be shown in a fitting place. But still, if that very thing which they are believed to be permitted were taken away, the punishment of criminal men would be relieved in great part. For — though it may perhaps seem incredible to anyone — it is necessary that the bad be more unhappy when they have accomplished what they craved than if they could not fulfill what they crave. For if it is wretched to have willed evil things, it is more wretched to have been able to do them, without which the effect of the wretched will would languish. And so, since each of these has its own wretchedness, those whom you see willing crime, able to commit it, and accomplishing it, must necessarily be pressed by a threefold misfortune."

"I agree," I said, "but I vehemently long that they may quickly be free of this misfortune, deprived of the possibility of committing crime."

"They will be free of it," she said, "sooner than perhaps either you would wish, or they themselves reckon that they will be. For there is nothing so late within the so brief limits of life that an immortal soul, especially, should think it long to wait for it. Their great hope and the lofty machinery of their crimes is often destroyed by a sudden and unhoped-for end — and this indeed sets a limit to their misery. For if wickedness makes men wretched, the longer one is wicked the more wretched he must be; and I would judge them most unhappy of all, if at least their final death did not put an end to their wickedness. For if we have concluded truly about the misfortune of depravity, it is plain that the misery is infinite which is agreed to be eternal."

Then I said: "Wonderful indeed, and hard to grant, is this inference; but I recognize that it agrees all too well with what was granted before."

"Rightly do you judge," she said; "but whoever thinks it hard to accept the conclusion, it is fair that he either show that something false has gone before, or that the arrangement of the propositions does not amount to the necessary conclusion. Otherwise, with the premises granted, there is absolutely nothing to dispute about the inference. For this too, which I shall say, may seem no less wonderful, yet from what has been assumed it is equally necessary."

"What, then?" I said.

"That the wicked," she said, "are happier when they pay penalties than if no punishment of justice should restrain them. And I am not now urging what would come into anyone's mind — that depraved characters are corrected by retribution, and led to the right by the terror of punishment, and that they are an example to others of fleeing what is blameworthy. Rather, I judge that the wicked who go unpunished are more unhappy in some other way, even if no account is taken of correction, and no regard had for example."

"And what will that other way be," I said, "besides these?"

And she said: "Have we not granted that the good are happy, but the bad wretched?"

"That is so," I said.

"If, then," she said, "something good is added to someone's misery, is he not happier than the one whose misery is pure and solitary, without any admixture of any good?"

"So it seems," I said.

"What if to that same wretched man, who lacks all goods, there were attached — besides those things by which he is wretched — yet another evil: is he not to be judged far more unhappy than the one whose misfortune is relieved by a share of good?"

"How could it be otherwise?" I said.

"But it is manifest that it is just for the wicked to be punished, and unjust for them to escape unpunished."

"Who would deny it?"

"But neither," she said, "will anyone deny this: that everything which is just is good, and, on the contrary, that what is unjust is evil."

"It is clear," I answered.

"The wicked, then, when indeed they are punished, have something good attached to them — namely the punishment itself, which by the principle of justice is good; and the same men, when they lack punishment, have something further in them — an evil, the very impunity, which you have confessed to be an evil by reason of its injustice."

"I cannot deny it."

"Far more unhappy, then, are the wicked endowed with unjust impunity than those punished by just retribution."

Then I said: "These things indeed follow from what was concluded a little while ago. But I beg you," I said, "do you leave no punishments of souls after the body has died in death?"

"Great ones indeed," she said, "of which some, I think, are exercised with penal harshness, others with cleansing mercy. But it is not my plan now to discuss these. What we have been doing so far is this: that the power of the bad, which seemed to you most unworthy, you might recognize to be no power at all; that those whom you complained went unpunished, you might see never to be free from the punishments of their own wickedness; that the license which you prayed might quickly be ended, you might learn is not long, and would be more unhappy the longer it lasts, and most unhappy of all if it were eternal; and after this, that the wicked released by unjust impunity are more wretched than those punished by just retribution. From which judgment it follows that they are then at last pressed by heavier punishments, when they are believed to be unpunished."

Then I said: "When I consider your reasonings, I think nothing could be said more truly. But if I turn back to the judgments of men, who is there to whom these things would seem not merely worthy of belief, but even of a hearing?"

"So it is," she said. "For they cannot lift eyes accustomed to darkness up to the light of clear truth, and they are like birds whose sight the night illuminates and the day blinds. For while they look not at the order of things but at their own feelings, they think that the license or impunity of crimes is happiness. But see what the eternal law decrees. If you have conformed your mind to the better, there is no need of a judge to bestow a reward — you have added yourself to the more excellent. If you have turned your pursuit toward the worse, do not seek an avenger outside — you yourself have thrust yourself into worse things; just as, if you should look by turns at the filthy ground and at the sky, with all things outside ceasing, by the very faculty of seeing you would seem to be now in the mire, now among the stars. But the crowd does not look at these things. What, then? Shall we side with those whom we have shown to be like beasts? What if someone, having entirely lost his sight, should also forget that he ever had vision, and should think that nothing was lacking to him for human perfection — would we who see think the blind man sees the same as we? For they will not even agree to this, which rests on equally strong supports of reasoning: that those who do an injury are more unhappy than those who suffer it."

"I should like," I said, "to hear these very reasonings."

"Do you deny," she said, "that every wicked man deserves punishment?"

"Not at all."

"And that those who are wicked are unhappy is plain in many ways."

"So it is," I said.

"Those, then, who deserve punishment, you do not doubt are wretched?"

"That agrees," I said.

"If, then, you were sitting as judge," she said, "on whom would you think punishment should be inflicted — on the one who had done, or on the one who had suffered, the injury?"

"I do not hesitate," I said, "to make satisfaction by the suffering of the one who did the wrong, through his pain."

"The one who inflicted the injury, then, would seem to you more wretched than the one who received it."

"That follows," I said.

"For this reason, then, and for others resting on this same root — that baseness by its own nature makes men wretched — it appears that an injury inflicted on anyone is the wretchedness not of the one who receives it, but of the one who inflicts it."

"And yet," she said, "orators now do the contrary. For on behalf of those who have suffered something grave and bitter they try to rouse the pity of the judges, when pity is more justly due to those who commit the wrong — who ought to be led to judgment not by angry accusers but rather by kindly and pitying ones, as the sick are led to a physician, so that they might cut away the diseases of their guilt by punishment. By which arrangement the work of defenders would either grow wholly cold, or, if it preferred to benefit men, would be turned into the manner of accusation. The wicked themselves, too, if it were granted them to glimpse through some little chink the virtue they had abandoned, and if they saw that they would lay aside the filth of their vices by the torments of punishment, would not count these torments to be torments, weighing against them the uprightness to be gained, and would refuse the work of defenders and surrender themselves wholly to accusers and judges. By which it comes about that among the wise there is left no place at all for hatred. For who but the most foolish would hate the good? And to hate the bad is contrary to reason. For if, just as bodily weakness is a kind of sickness, so viciousness is a kind of disease of souls — since we judge those who are sick in body by no means worthy of hatred, but rather of pity — much more are those to be pitied, not pursued, whose minds a wickedness more savage than any bodily weakness oppresses."

Then said I: 'This is very true. I see that the vicious, though they keep the outward form of man, are rightly said to be changed into beasts in respect of their spiritual nature; but, inasmuch as their cruel and polluted minds vent their rage in the destruction of the good, I would this license were not permitted to them.'

'Nor is it,' said she, 'as shall be shown in the fitting place. Yet if that license which thou believest to be permitted to them were taken away, the punishment of the wicked would be in great part remitted. For verily, incredible as it may seem to some, it needs must be that the bad are more unfortunate when they have accomplished their desires than if they are unable to get them fulfilled. If it is wretched to will evil, to have been able to accomplish evil is more wretched; for without the power the wretched will would fail of effect. Accordingly, those whom thou seest to will, to be able to accomplish, and to accomplish crime, must needs be the victims of a threefold wretchedness, since each one of these states has its own measure of wretchedness.'

'Yes,' said I; 'yet I earnestly wish they might speedily be quit of this misfortune by losing the ability to accomplish crime.'

'They will lose it,' said she, 'sooner than perchance thou wishest, or they themselves think likely; since, verily, within the narrow bounds of our brief life there is nothing so late in coming that anyone, least of all an immortal spirit, should deem it long to wait for. Their great expectations, the lofty fabric of their crimes, is oft overthrown by a sudden and unlooked-for ending, and this but sets a limit to their misery. For if wickedness makes men wretched, he is necessarily more wretched who is wicked for a longer time; and were it not that death, at all events, puts an end to the evil doings of the wicked, I should account them wretched to the last degree. Indeed, if we have formed true conclusions about the ill fortune of wickedness, that wretchedness is plainly infinite which is doomed to be eternal.'

Then said I: 'A wonderful inference, and difficult to grant; but I see that it agrees entirely with our previous conclusions.'

'Thou art right,' said she; 'but if anyone finds it hard to admit the conclusion, he ought in fairness either to prove some falsity in the premises, or to show that the combination of propositions does not adequately enforce the necessity of the conclusion; otherwise, if the premises be granted, nothing whatever can be said against the inference of the conclusion. And here is another statement which seems not less wonderful, but on the premises assumed is equally necessary.'

'What is that?'

'The wicked are happier in undergoing punishment than if no penalty of justice chasten them. And I am not now meaning what might occur to anyone—that bad character is amended by retribution, and is brought into the right path by the terror of punishment, or that it serves as an example to warn others to avoid transgression; but I believe that in another way the wicked are more unfortunate when they go unpunished, even though no account be taken of amendment, and no regard be paid to example.'

'Why, what other way is there beside these?' said I.

Then said she: 'Have we not agreed that the good are happy, and the evil wretched?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Now, if,' said she, 'to one in affliction there be given along with his misery some good thing, is he not happier than one whose misery is misery pure and simple without admixture of any good?'

'It would seem so.'

'But if to one thus wretched, one destitute of all good, some further evil be added besides those which make him wretched, is he not to be judged far more unhappy than he whose ill fortune is alleviated by some share of good?'

'It could scarcely be otherwise.'

'Surely, then, the wicked, when they are punished, have a good thing added to them—to wit, the punishment which by the law of justice is good; and likewise, when they escape punishment, a new evil attaches to them in that very freedom from punishment which thou hast rightly acknowledged to be an evil in the case of the unrighteous.'

'I cannot deny it.'

'Then, the wicked are far more unhappy when indulged with an unjust freedom from punishment than when punished by a just retribution. Now, it is manifest that it is just for the wicked to be punished, and for them to escape unpunished is unjust.'

'Why, who would venture to deny it?'

'This, too, no one can possibly deny—that all which is just is good, and, conversely, all which is unjust is bad.'

Then I answered: 'These inferences do indeed follow from what we lately concluded; but tell me,' said I, 'dost thou take no account of the punishment of the soul after the death of the body?'

'Nay, truly,' said she, 'great are these penalties, some of them inflicted, I imagine, in the severity of retribution, others in the mercy of purification. But it is not my present purpose to speak of these. So far, my aim hath been to make thee recognise that the power of the bad which shocked thee so exceedingly is no power; to make thee see that those of whose freedom from punishment thou didst complain are never without the proper penalties of their unrighteousness; to teach thee that the license which thou prayedst might soon come to an end is not long-enduring; that it would be more unhappy if it lasted longer, most unhappy of all if it lasted for ever; thereafter that the unrighteous are more wretched if unjustly let go without punishment than if punished by a just retribution—from which point of view it follows that the wicked are afflicted with more severe penalties just when they are supposed to escape punishment.'

Then said I: 'While I follow thy reasonings, I am deeply impressed with their truth; but if I turn to the common convictions of men, I find few who will even listen to such arguments, let alone admit them to be credible.'

'True,' said she; 'they cannot lift eyes accustomed to darkness to the light of clear truth, and are like those birds whose vision night illumines and day blinds; for while they regard, not the order of the universe, but their own dispositions of mind, they think the license to commit crime, and the escape from punishment, to be fortunate. But mark the ordinance of eternal law. Hast thou fashioned thy soul to the likeness of the better, thou hast no need of a judge to award the prize—by thine own act hast thou raised thyself in the scale of excellence; hast thou perverted thy affections to baser things, look not for punishment from one without thee—thine own act hath degraded thee, and thrust thee down. Even so, if alternately thou turn thy gaze upon the vile earth and upon the heavens, though all without thee stand still, by the mere laws of sight thou seemest now sunk in the mire, now soaring among the stars. But the common herd regards not these things. What, then? Shall we go over to those whom we have shown to be like brute beasts? Why, suppose, now, one who had quite lost his sight should likewise forget that he had ever possessed the faculty of vision, and should imagine that nothing was wanting in him to human perfection, should we deem those who saw as well as ever blind? Why, they will not even assent to this, either—that they who do wrong are more wretched than those who suffer wrong, though the proof of this rests on grounds of reason no less strong.'

'Let me hear these same reasons,' said I.

'Wouldst thou deny that every wicked man deserves punishment?'

'I would not, certainly.'

'And that those who are wicked are unhappy is clear in manifold ways?'

'Yes,' I replied.

'Thou dost not doubt, then, that those who deserve punishment are wretched?'

'Agreed,' said I.

'So, then, if thou wert sitting in judgment, on whom wouldst thou decree the infliction of punishment—on him who had done the wrong, or on him who had suffered it?'

'Without doubt, I would compensate the sufferer at the cost of the doer of the wrong.'

'Then, the injurer would seem more wretched than the injured?'

'Yes; it follows. And so for this and other reasons resting on the same ground, inasmuch as baseness of its own nature makes men wretched, it is plain that a wrong involves the misery of the doer, not of the sufferer.'

'And yet,' says she, 'the practice of the law-courts is just the opposite: advocates try to arouse the commiseration of the judges for those who have endured some grievous and cruel wrong; whereas pity is rather due to the criminal, who ought to be brought to the judgment-seat by his accusers in a spirit not of anger, but of compassion and kindness, as a sick man to the physician, to have the ulcer of his fault cut away by punishment. Whereby the business of the advocate would either wholly come to a standstill, or, did men prefer to make it serviceable to mankind, would be restricted to the practice of accusation. The wicked themselves also, if through some chink or cranny they were permitted to behold the virtue they have forsaken, and were to see that by the pains of punishment they would rid themselves of the uncleanness of their vices, and win in exchange the recompense of righteousness, they would no longer think these sufferings pains; they would refuse the help of advocates, and would commit themselves wholly into the hands of their accusers and judges. Whence it comes to pass that for the wise no place is left for hatred; only the most foolish would hate the good, and to hate the bad is unreasonable. For if vicious propensity is, as it were, a disease of the soul like bodily sickness, even as we account the sick in body by no means deserving of hate, but rather of pity, so, and much more, should they be pitied whose minds are assailed by wickedness, which is more frightful than any sickness.'