We arrived yesterday evening from the army at Potidaea,¹ and I sought with delight, after an absence of some time, my wonted conversations. Accordingly I went into the wrestling-school of Taureas,² opposite the Queen’s shrine,³ and there I came upon quite a number of people, some of whom were unknown to me, but most of whom I knew. And as soon as they saw me 153b appear thus unexpectedly, they hailed me from a distance on every side; but Chaerephon, like the mad creature that he is, jumped up from their midst and ran to me, and grasping me by the hand—

Socrates, he said, how did you survive the battle? (Shortly before we came away there had been a battle at Potidaea, of which the people here had only just had news.)

In the state in which you see me, I replied.

It has been reported here, you know, said he, that the battle was very 153c severe, and that many of our acquaintance have lost their lives in it.

Then the report, I replied, is pretty near the truth.

You were present, he asked, at the fighting?

I was present.

Then sit down here, he said, and give us a full account; for as yet we have had no clear report of it all. And with that he led me to a seat by Critias, son of Callaeschrus. So I sat down there and greeted Critias and the rest, and gave them all the news from the battlefield, in answer to their various questions; each had his inquiry to make. 153d When we had had enough of such matters, I in my turn began to inquire about affairs at home, how philosophy was doing at present, and whether any of the rising young men had distinguished themselves for wisdom or beauty or both.

Then Critias, looking towards the door, 154a for he saw some young fellows who were coming in with some railing at each other, and a crowd of people following on behind them, said—Concerning the beauties, Socrates, I expect you will get your knowledge at once: for these who are coming in are in fact forerunners and lovers of the person who is held, for the moment at least, to be the greatest beauty; and he himself, I imagine, must by now be nearly upon us.

Who is he, I asked, and whose son?

You must know, he replied, but he was not yet grown up when you went away,—Charmides, son of 154b our uncle Glaucon, and my cousin.

I do know, to be sure, I said; for he was not to be despised even then, when he was still a child, and now, I suppose, he will be quite a youth by this time.

You will know this moment, he said, both how much and to what purpose he has grown. And just as he spoke these words, Charmides entered.

Now I, my good friend, am no measurer: I am a mere “white line” ⁴ in measuring beautiful people, for almost everyone who has just grown up appears beautiful to me. Nay and this time, moreover, the young man appeared to me 154c a marvel of stature and beauty; and all the rest, to my thinking, were in love with him, such was their astonishment and confusion when he came in, and a number of other lovers were following in his train. On the part of men like us it was not so surprising; but when I came to observe the boys I noticed that none of them, not even the smallest, had eyes for anything else, but that 154d they all gazed at him as if he were a statue. Then Chaerephon called me and said—How does the youth strike you, Socrates? Has he not a fine face?

Immensely so, I replied.

Yet if he would consent to strip, he said, you would think he had no face, he has such perfect beauty of form.

And these words of Chaerephon were repeated by the rest. Then,—By Heracles! I said, what an irresistible person you make him out to be, if he has but one more thing—a little thing—besides.

What? said Critias. 154e If in his soul, I replied, he is of good grain. And I should think, Critias, he ought to be, since he is of your house.

Ah, he said, he is right fair and good in that way also.

Why then, I said, let us strip that very part of him and view it first, instead of his form; for anyhow, at that age, I am sure he is quite ready to have a discussion.

Very much so, said Critias; for, I may say, he is in fact 155a a philosopher, and also—as others besides himself consider—quite a poet.

That, my dear Critias, I said, is a gift which your family has had a long while back, through your kinship with Solon. But why not call the young man here and show him to me? For surely, even if he were younger still, there could be no discredit in our having a talk with him before you, who are at once his guardian and his cousin.

You are quite right he said, and we will call him. 155b Thereupon he said to his attendant,—Boy, call Charmides; tell him I want him to see a doctor about the ailment with which he told me he was troubled yesterday. Then, turning to me,—You know, he has spoken lately of having a headache, said Critias, on getting up in the morning: now why should you not represent to him that you know a cure for headache?

Why not? I said: only he must come.

Oh, he will be here, he said.

And so it was; for he came, and caused much laughter, because each of us who were seated 155c made room for him by pushing hard at his neighbor so as to have him sitting beside himself, until at either end of the seat one had to stand up, and we tumbled the other off sideways; and he came and sat down between me and Critias. But here, my friend, I began to feel perplexed, and my former confidence in looking forward to a quite easy time in talking with him had been knocked out of me. And when, on Critias telling him that it was I who knew the cure, 155d he gave me such a look with his eyes as passes description, and was just about to plunge into a question, and when all the people in the wrestling-school surged round about us on every side—then, ah then, my noble friend, I saw inside his cloak and caught fire, and could possess myself no longer; and I thought none was so wise in love-matters as Cydias, ⁵ who in speaking of a beautiful boy recommends someone to beware of coming as a fawn before the lion, and being seized as his portion of flesh; for I too felt 155e I had fallen a prey to some such creature. However, when he had asked me if I knew the cure for headache, I somehow contrived to answer that I knew.

Then what is it? he asked.

So I told him that the thing itself was a certain leaf, but there was a charm to go with the remedy; and if one uttered the charm at the moment of its application, the remedy made one perfectly well; but without the charm there was no efficacy in the leaf.

Then I will take down the charm, said he, from you in writing.

Do you prefer, I asked, to get my consent first, or to do without it?

This made him laugh, and he said: To get your consent, Socrates.

Very well, I said; and are you certain of my name?

Unless I misjudge, he replied; for there is no little talk of you. among the set of our age, and I remember as a mere child the sight of you in company with Critias here.

That is a good thing, I said: for I shall speak more freely to you 156b about the charm, and its real nature; just now I was at a loss for the way to apprise you of its power. For it is of such a nature, Charmides, that it cannot cure the head alone; I daresay you have yourself sometimes heard good doctors say, you know, when a patient comes to them with a pain in his eyes, that it is not possible for them to attempt a cure of his eyes alone, but that it is necessary to treat his head too at the same time, 156c if he is to have his eyes in good order; and so again, that to expect ever to treat the head by itself, apart from the body as a whole, is utter folly. And on this principle they apply their regimen to the whole body, and attempt to treat and heal the part along with the whole; or have you not observed that this is what they say, and is done in fact?

Certainly I have, he said.

And you consider it well said, and accept the principle?

Most assuredly, he said. 156d Then I, on hearing his approval, regained my courage; and little by little I began to muster up my confidence again, and my spirit began to rekindle. So I said,—Such, then, Charmides, is the nature of this charm. I learnt it on campaign over there, from one of the Thracian physicians of Zalmoxis, ⁶ who are said even to make one immortal. This Thracian said that the Greeks were right in advising as I told you just now: “but Zalmoxis,” he said, 156e “our king, who is a god, says that as you ought not to attempt to cure eyes without head, or head without body, so you should not treat body without soul”; and this was the reason why most maladies evaded the physicians of Greece—that they neglected the whole, on which they ought to spend their pains, for if this were out of order it was impossible for the part to be in order.