The Last Hour
The sun is going down. The prison guard comes in. What follows is one of the most moving scenes in all of ancient literature: a man facing death with complete calm, and the people who love him falling apart around him.
As the afternoon light began to fade, the guard came in.
He was visibly upset. He stood in the doorway for a moment before speaking.
“Socrates,” he said, “I have come to know you over these weeks. You are the most decent person I have ever seen in this place. I know this is not your doing. Please do not be angry at me for what I have to do.”
He began to cry and left the room.
“What a kind man,” Socrates said. “He has been like this the whole time I have been here. Now please bring what needs to be brought.”
Crito tried one last time. “Socrates, the sun is still above the horizon. You could wait a little longer. Men have delayed before.”
“And gained what?” Socrates asked. “The appearance of caring about a few more hours? I do not want that.”
When the cup was brought, Socrates looked at it calmly. One of his friends asked if he wanted to say a prayer before he drank.
“Of course,” Socrates said. He held up the cup. “I pray that this journey to the other world goes well.” He paused. “I think it will.”
He drank. Simply. Without hesitation. Without ceremony.
His friends had been holding themselves together all day. They could not hold any longer. Even the ones who had promised themselves they would be strong were weeping. The room broke apart.
Socrates looked at them with an expression they would remember for the rest of their lives.
“What is this?” he said, gently. “I asked the women to leave so we would not have this. Be still. Be strong. There is no reason for this.”
They tried.
He walked around the cell, as the guard had instructed, until his legs felt heavy. Then he lay down on his back and closed his eyes.
The coldness moved slowly up from his feet. He continued to talk as it moved. He answered questions. He stayed himself until near the end.
His last words were to Crito.
“We owe a sacrifice to the god of healing,” he said. “A rooster. Do not forget.”
“It will be done,” Crito said. “Is there anything else?”
There was no answer.
Plato was not in the room that day. He was ill. He wrote about it years later, from what his friends told him.
He ended his account with this:
Of all the men of his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and most just and best.