Plato — Dialogues III

Contents — 81 sections

1. Section 447
2. Section 448
3. Section 449
4. Section 450
5. Section 451
6. Section 452
7. Section 453
8. Section 454
9. Section 455
10. Section 456
11. Section 457
12. Section 458
13. Section 459
14. Section 460
15. Section 461
16. Section 462
17. Section 463
18. Section 464
19. Section 465
20. Section 466
21. Section 467
22. Section 468
23. Section 469
24. Section 470
25. Section 471
26. Section 472
27. Section 473
28. Section 474
29. Section 475
30. Section 476
31. Section 477
32. Section 478
33. Section 479
34. Section 480
35. Section 481
36. Section 482
37. Section 483
38. Section 484
39. Section 485
40. Section 486
41. Section 487
42. Section 488
43. Section 489
44. Section 490
45. Section 491
46. Section 492
47. Section 493
48. Section 494
49. Section 495
50. Section 496
51. Section 497
52. Section 498
53. Section 499
54. Section 500
55. Section 501
56. Section 502
57. Section 503
58. Section 504
59. Section 505
60. Section 506
61. Section 507
62. Section 508
63. Section 509
64. Section 510
65. Section 511
66. Section 512
67. Section 513
68. Section 514
69. Section 515
70. Section 516
71. Section 517
72. Section 518
73. Section 519
74. Section 520
75. Section 521
76. Section 522
77. Section 523
78. Section 524
79. Section 525
80. Section 526
81. Section 527

Section 447

To join in a fight or a fray, as the saying is, Socrates, you have chosen your time well enough.

Do you mean, according to the proverb, we have come too late for a feast?

Yes, a most elegant feast; for Gorgias gave us a fine and varied display but a moment ago.

But indeed, Callicles, it is Chaerephon here who must take the blame for this; he forced us to spend our time in the market-place.

No matter, Socrates I will take the curing of it too for Gorgias is a friend of mine, so that he will give us a display now, if you think fit, or if you prefer, on another occasion.

What, Chaerephon? Has Socrates a desire to hear Gorgias?

Yes, it is for that very purpose we are here.

Then whenever you have a mind to pay me a call—Gorgias is staying with me, and he will give you a display.

Thank you, Callicles: but would he consent to discuss with us? For I want to find out from the man what is the function of his art, and what it is that he professes and teaches. As for the rest of his performance, he must give it us, as you suggest, on another occasion.

The best way is to ask our friend himself, Socrates: for indeed that was one of the features of his performance. Why, only this moment he was pressing for whatever questions anyone in the house might like to ask, and saying he would answer them all.

What a good idea! Ask him, Chaerephon.

What am I to ask?

What he is.

How do you mean?

Just as, if he chanced to be in the shoe-making business, his answer would have been, I presume, a shoemaker. Now, don’t you see my meaning?

I see, and will ask him. Tell me, Gorgias, is Callicles here correct in saying that you profess to answer any questions one may ask you?

Section 448

He is, Chaerephon; indeed, I was just now making this very profession, and I may add that nobody has asked me anything new for many years now.

So I presume you will easily answer, Gorgias.

You are free to make trial of that, Chaerephon.

Yes, to be sure; and, if you like, Chaerephon, of me. For I think Gorgias must be quite tired out, after the long discourse he has just delivered.

Why, Polus, do you suppose you could answer more excellently than Gorgias?

And what does that matter, if I should satisfy you?

Not at all; since it is your wish, answer.

Ask.

Then I ask you, if Gorgias chanced to be skilled in the same art as his brother Herodicus, what should we be justified in calling him? What we call his brother, should we not?

Certainly.

Then we should make a right statement if we described him as a doctor.

Yes.

And if he were expert in the same art as Aristophon, son of Aglaophon, or his brother, what name should we rightly give him?

Obviously that of painter.

But as it is, we would like to know in what art he is skilled, and hence by what name we should rightly call him.

Chaerephon, there are many arts amongst mankind that have been discovered experimentally, as the result of experiences: for experience conducts the course of our life according to art, but inexperience according to chance. Of these several arts various men partake in various ways, and the best men of the best. Gorgias here is one of these, and he is a partner in the finest art of all.

Fine, at any rate, Gorgias, is the equipment for discourse that Polus seems to have got: but still he is not performing his promise to Chaerephon.

How exactly, Socrates ?

He does not seem to me to be quite answering what he is asked.

Well, will you please ask him?

No, if you yourself will be so good as to answer, why, I would far rather ask you. For I see plainly, from what he has said, that Polus has had more practice in what is called rhetoric than in discussion.

How so, Socrates ?

Because, Polus, when Chaerephon has asked in what art Gorgias is skilled, you merely eulogize his art as though it were under some censure, instead of replying what it is.

Why, did I not reply that it was the finest?

Section 449

You certainly did: but nobody asked what was the quality of his art, only what it was, and by what name we ought to call Gorgias. Just as Chaerephon laid out the lines for you at first, and you answered him properly in brief words, in the same way you must now state what is that art, and what we ought to call Gorgias; or rather, Gorgias, do you tell us yourself in what art it is you are skilled, and hence, what we ought to call you.

Rhetoric, Socrates.

So we are to call you a rhetorician ?

Yes, and a good one, if you would call me what—to use Homer’s phrase—I vaunt myself to be.

Well, I shall be pleased to do so.

Then call me such.

And are we to say that you are able to make others like yourself?

Yes, that is what I profess to do, not only here, but elsewhere also.

Then would you be willing, Gorgias, to continue this present way of discussion, by alternate question and answer, and defer to some other time that lengthy style of speech in which Polus made a beginning? Come, be true to your promise, and consent to answer each question briefly.

There are some answers, Socrates, that necessitate a lengthy expression: however, I will try to be as brief as possible; for indeed it is one of my claims that no one could express the same thing in briefer terms than myself.

That is just what I want, Gorgias: give me a display of this very skill—in brevity of speech; your lengthy style will do another time.

Well, I will do that, and you will admit that you never heard anyone speak more briefly.

Come then; since you claim to be skilled in rhetorical art, and to be able to make anyone else a rhetorician, tell me with what particular thing rhetoric is concerned: as, for example, weaving is concerned with the manufacture of clothes, is it not?

Yes.

And music, likewise, with the making of tunes?

Yes.

Upon my word, Gorgias, I do admire your answers! You make them as brief as they well can be.

Yes, Socrates, I consider myself a very fair hand at that.

You are right there. Come now, answer me in the same way about rhetoric: with what particular thing is its skill concerned?

With speech.

What kind of speech, Gorgias? Do you mean that which shows sick people by what regimen they could get well?

No.

Then rhetoric is not concerned with all kinds of speech.

No, I say.

Yet it does make men able to speak.

Yes.

And to understand also the things about which they speak.

Of course.

Section 450

Now, does the medical art, which we mentioned just now, make men able to understand and speak about the sick?

It must.

Hence the medical art also, it seems, is concerned with speech.

Yes.

That is, speech about diseases?

Certainly.

Now, is gymnastic also concerned with speech about the good and bad condition of our bodies?

Quite so.

And moreover it is the same, Gorgias, with all the other arts; each of them is concerned with that kind of speech which deals with the subject matter of that particular art.

Apparently.

Then why, pray, do you not give the name rhetorical to those other arts, when they are concerned with speech, if you call that rhetoric which has to do with speech?

Because, Socrates, the skill in those other arts is almost wholly concerned with manual work and similar activities, whereas in rhetoric there is no such manual working, but its whole activity and efficacy is by means of speech. For this reason I claim for the rhetorical art that it is concerned with speech, and it is a correct description, I maintain.

Now, do I understand what sort of art you choose to call it? Perhaps, however, I shall get to know this more clearly. But answer me this: we have arts, have we not?

Yes.

Then amongst the various arts some, I take it, consist mainly of work, and so require but brief speech; while others require none, for the art’s object may be achieved actually in silence, as with painting, sculpture, and many other arts. It is to such as these that I understand you to refer when you say rhetoric has no concern with them; is not that so?

Your supposition is quite correct, Socrates.

But there is another class of arts which achieve their whole purpose through speech and—to put it roughly—require either no action to aid them, or very little; for example, numeration, calculation, geometry, draught-playing, and many other arts: some of these have the speech in about equal proportion to the action, but most have it as the larger part, or absolutely the whole of their operation and effect is by means of speech. It is one of this class of arts that I think you refer to as rhetoric.

You are right.

But, mind you, I do not think it is any one of these that you mean to call rhetoric; though, so far as your expression went, you did say that the art which has its effect through speech is rhetoric, and one might retort, if one cared to strain at mere words: So, Gorgias, you call numeration rhetoric! But I do not believe it is either numeration or geometry that you call rhetoric.

Section 451

Your belief is correct, Socrates, and your supposition just.

Come now, and do your part in finishing off the answer to my question. Since rhetoric is in fact one of these arts which depend mainly on speech, and there are likewise other arts of the same nature, try if you can tell me with what this rhetoric, which has its effect in speech, is concerned. For instance, suppose some one asked me about one or other of the arts which I was mentioning just now: Socrates, what is the art of numeration? I should tell him, as you did me a moment ago, that it is one of those which have their effect through speech. And suppose he went on to ask: With what is its speech concerned? I should say: With the odd and even numbers, and the question of how many units there are in each. And if he asked again: What art is it that you call calculation? I should say that this also is one of those which achieve their whole effect by speech. And if he proceeded to ask: With what is it concerned? I should say— in the manner of those who draft amendments in the Assembly—that in most respects calculation is in the same case as numeration, for both are concerned with the same thing, the odd and the even; but that they differ to this extent, that calculation considers the numerical values of odd and even numbers not merely in themselves but in relation to each other. And suppose, on my saying that astronomy also achieves its whole effect by speech, he were to ask me: And the speech of astronomy, with what is it concerned? I should say: With the courses of the stars and sun and moon, and their relative speeds.

And you would be right, Socrates.

Come then and do your part, Gorgias: rhetoric is one of those arts, is it not, which carry out their work and achieve their effect by speech.

That is so.

Then tell me what they deal with: what subject is it, of all in the world, that is dealt with by this speech employed by rhetoric?

The greatest of human affairs, Socrates, and the best.

But that also, Gorgias, is ambiguous, and still by no means clear. I expect you have heard people singing over their cups the old catch, in which the singers enumerate the best things in life,—first health, then beauty, and thirdly, as the maker of the catch puts it, wealth got without guile.

Yes, I have heard it; but what is the point of your quotation?

Section 452

I mean that, supposing the producers of those blessings which the maker of the catch commends—namely, the doctor, the trainer, and the money-getter—were to stand before you this moment, and the doctor first should say: Gorgias is deceiving you, Socrates for it is not his art, but mine, that deals with man’s greatest good. Then supposing I were to ask him: And who are you, to say so? He would probably reply: A doctor. Well, what do you mean? That the work of your art is the greatest good? What else, Socrates, I expect he would reply, is health? What greater good is there for men than health? And supposing the trainer came next and said: I also should be surprised indeed, Socrates, if Gorgias could show you a greater good in his art than I can in mine. Again I should say to him in his turn: And who are you, sir? What is your work? A trainer, he would reply, and my work is making men’s bodies beautiful and strong. After the trainer would come the money-getter, saying— with, I fancy, a fine contempt for every one: Pray consider, Socrates, if you can find a good that is greater than wealth, either in Gorgias’ view or in that of anyone else at all. Why then, we should say to him, are you a producer of that? Yes, he would say. And who are you? A money-getter. Well then, we shall say to him, do you judge wealth to be the greatest good for men? Of course, he will reply. But look here, we should say; our friend Gorgias contends that his own art is a cause of greater good than yours. Then doubtless his next question would be: And what is that good? Let Gorgias answer. Now come, Gorgias; imagine yourself being questioned by those persons and by me, and tell us what is this thing that you say is the greatest good for men, and that you claim to produce.

A thing, Socrates, which in truth is the greatest good, and a cause not merely of freedom to mankind at large, but also of dominion to single persons in their several cities.

Well, and what do you call it?

I call it the ability to persuade with speeches either judges in the law courts or statesmen in the council-chamber or the commons in the Assembly or an audience at any other meeting that may be held on public affairs. And I tell you that by virtue of this power you will have the doctor as your slave, and the trainer as your slave; your money-getter will turn out to be making money not for himself, but for another,—in fact for you, who are able to speak and persuade the multitude.

Section 453

I think now, Gorgias, you have come very near to showing us the art of rhetoric as you conceive it, and if I at all take your meaning, you say that rhetoric is a producer of persuasion, and has therein its whole business and main consummation. Or can you tell us of any other function it can have beyond that of effecting persuasion in the minds of an audience?

None at all, Socrates; your definition seems to me satisfactory; that is the main substance of the art.

Then listen, Gorgias: I, let me assure you, for so I persuade myself—if ever there was a man who debated with another from a desire of knowing the truth of the subject discussed, I am such a man; and so, I trust, are you.

Well, what then, Socrates?

I will now tell you. What the real nature of the persuasion is that you speak of as resulting from rhetoric, and what the matters are with which persuasion deals, I assure you I do not clearly understand; though I may have my suspicions as to what I suppose you to mean by it, and with what things you think it deals. But nevertheless I will ask you what you do mean by the persuasion that results from rhetoric, and with what matters you think it deals. Now why is it that, having a suspicion of my own, I am going to ask you this, instead of stating it myself? It is not on your account, but with a view to the argument, and to such a progress in it as may best reveal to us the point we are discussing. Just see if you do not think it fair of me to press you with my question: suppose I happened to ask you what Zeuxis was among painters, and you said a figure painter, would it not be fair of me to ask you what sort of figures he painted, and where?

Certainly.

Would this be the reason—that there are also other painters who depict a variety of other figures?

Yes.

But if no one besides Zeuxis were a painter, your answer would have been right?

Yes, of course.

Come then, tell me now about rhetoric: do you think rhetoric alone effects persuasion, or can other arts do it as well? I mean, for example, when a man teaches anything, does he persuade in his teaching? Or do you think not?

No, to be sure, Socrates, I think he most certainly does persuade.

Then let us repeat our question with reference to the same arts that we spoke of just now: does not numeration, or the person skilled in numeration, teach us all that pertains to number?

Certainly.

And persuades also?

Yes.

So that numeration also is a producer of persuasion?

Apparently.

Section 454

Then if we are asked what kind of persuasion, and dealing with what, we shall reply, I suppose: The instructive kind, which deals with the amount of an odd or an even number; and we shall be able to demonstrate that all the other arts which we mentioned just now are producers of persuasion, and what kind it is, and what it deals with, shall we not?

Yes.

Hence rhetoric is not the only producer of persuasion.

You are right.

Since then it is not the only one that achieves this effect, but others can also, we should be justified in putting this further question to the speaker, as we did concerning the painter: Then of what kind of persuasion, and of persuasion dealing with what, is rhetoric the art? Or do you not consider that such a further question would be justified?

Yes, I do.

Then answer me, Gorgias, since you agree with me on that.

Well then, I mean that kind of persuasion, Socrates, which you find in the law-courts and in any public gatherings, as in fact I said just now; and it deals with what is just and unjust.

I, too, I may tell you, had a suspicion that it was this persuasion that you meant, and as dealing with those things, Gorgias; but you must not be surprised if I ask you by-and-by some such question as may seem to be obvious, though I persist in it; for, as I say, I ask my questions with a view to an orderly completion of our argument—I am not aiming at you, but only anxious that we do not fall into a habit of snatching at each other’s words with a hasty guess, and that you may complete your own statement in your own way, as the premises may allow.

And I think you are quite right in doing so, Socrates.

Come then, let us consider another point. Is there something that you call having learnt.

There is.

And again, having believed?

Yes.

Then do you think that having learnt and having believed, or learning and belief, are the same thing, or different?

In my opinion, Socrates, they are different.

And your opinion is right, as you can prove in this way: if some one asked you—Is there, Gorgias, a false and a true belief?—you would say, Yes, I imagine.

I should.

But now, is there a false and a true knowledge?

Surely not.

So it is evident again that they are not the same.

You are right.

But yet those who have learnt have been persuaded, as well as those who have believed.

That is so.

Then would you have us assume two forms of persuasion—one providing belief without knowledge, and the other sure knowledge?

Certainly.

Now which kind of persuasion is it that rhetoric creates in law courts or any public meeting on matters of right and wrong? The kind from which we get belief without knowledge, or that from which we get knowledge?

Obviously, I presume, Socrates, that from which we get belief.

Section 455

Thus rhetoric, it seems, is a producer of persuasion for belief, not for instruction in the matter of right and wrong.

Yes.

And so the rhetorician’s business is not to instruct a law court or a public meeting in matters of right and wrong, but only to make them believe; since, I take it, he could not in a short while instruct such a mass of people in matters so important.

No, to be sure.

Come then, let us see what actually is our account of rhetoric: for I confess I am not yet able to distinguish what my own account of it is. When the city holds a meeting to appoint doctors or shipbuilders or any other set of craftsmen, there is no question then, is there, of the rhetorician giving advice? And clearly this is because in each appointment we have to elect the most skilful person. Again, in a case of building walls or constructing harbors or arsenals, our only advisers are the master-builders; or in consulting on the appointment of generals, or on a manoeuvre against the enemy, or on a military occupation, it is the general staff who will then advise us, and not the rhetoricians. Or what do you say, Gorgias, to these instances? For as you claim to be an orator yourself and to make orators of others, it is proper to inquire of you concerning your own craft. And here you must regard me as furthering your own interest: for it is quite likely that some one within these walls has a wish to become your pupil—indeed I fancy I perceive more than one, yes, a number of them, who, perhaps, would be ashamed to press you with questions. So, when you are being pressed with mine, consider that you are being questioned by them as well: What shall we get, Gorgias, by coming to hear you? On what matters shall we be enabled to give advice to the state? Will it be only on right and wrong, or on those things besides which Socrates was mentioning just now? So try to give them an answer.

Well, I will try, Socrates, to reveal to you clearly the whole power of rhetoric: and in fact you have correctly shown the way to it yourself. You know, I suppose, that these great arsenals and walls of Athens, and the construction of your harbors, are due to the advice of Themistocles, and in part to that of Pericles, not to your craftsmen.

So we are told, Gorgias, of Themistocles; and as to Pericles, I heard him myself when he was advising us about the middle wall.

Section 456

So whenever there is an election of such persons as you were referring to, Socrates, you see it is the orators who give the advice and get resolutions carried in these matters.

That is just what surprises me, Gorgias, and has made me ask you all this time what in the world the power of rhetoric can be. For, viewed in this light, its greatness comes over me as something supernatural.

Ah yes, if you knew all, Socrates,—how it comprises in itself practically all powers at once! And I will tell you a striking proof of this: many and many a time have I gone with my brother or other doctors to visit one of their patients, and found him unwilling either to take medicine or submit to the surgeon’s knife or cautery; and when the doctor failed to persuade him I succeeded, by no other art than that of rhetoric. And I further declare that, if a rhetorician and a doctor were to enter any city you please, and there had to contend in speech before the Assembly or some other meeting as to which of the two should be appointed physician, you would find the physician was nowhere, while the master of speech would be appointed if he wished. And if he had to contend with a member of any other profession whatsoever, the rhetorician would persuade the meeting to appoint him before anyone else in the place: for there is no subject on which the rhetorician could not speak more persuasively than a member of any other profession whatsoever, before a multitude. So great, so strange, is the power of this art. At the same time, Socrates, our use of rhetoric should be like our use of any other sort of exercise. For other exercises are not to be used against all and sundry, just because one has learnt boxing or wrestling or fighting in armour so well as to vanquish friend and foe alike: this gives one no right to strike one’s friends, or stab them to death. Nor, in all conscience, if a man took lessons at a wrestling-school, and having got himself into good condition and learnt boxing he proceeded to strike his father and mother, or some other of his relations or friends, should that be a reason for hating athletic trainers and teachers of fighting in armour, and expelling them from our cities. For they imparted their skill with a view to its rightful use against enemies and wrongdoers, in self-defence, not provocation; whereas the others have perverted their strength and art to an improper use.

Section 457

So it is not the teachers who are wicked, nor is the art either guilty or wicked on this account, but rather, to my thinking, those who do not use it properly. Now the same argument applies also to rhetoric: for the orator is able, indeed, to speak against every one and on every question in such a way as to win over the votes of the multitude, practically in any matter he may choose to take up: but he is no whit the more entitled to deprive the doctors of their credit, just because he could do so, or other professionals of theirs; he must use his rhetoric fairly, as in the case of athletic exercise. And, in my opinion, if a man becomes a rhetorician and then uses this power and this art unfairly, we ought not to hate his teacher and cast him out of our cities. For he imparted that skill to be used in all fairness, whilst this man puts it to an opposite use. Thus it is the man who does not use it aright who deserves to be hated and expelled and put to death, and not his teacher.

I expect, Gorgias, that you as well as I have had no small practice in arguments, and have observed the following fact about them, that it is not easy for people to define to each other the matters which they take in hand to discuss, and to make such exchange of instruction as will fairly bring their debate to an end: no, if they find that some point is in dispute between them, and one of them says that the other is speaking incorrectly or obscurely, they are annoyed and think the remark comes from jealousy of themselves, and in a spirit of contention rather than of inquiry into the matter proposed for discussion. In some cases, indeed, they end by making a most disgraceful scene, with such abusive expressions on each side that the rest of the company are vexed on their own account that they allowed themselves to listen to such fellows. Well, what is my reason for saying this? It is because your present remarks do not seem to me quite in keeping or accord with what you said at first about rhetoric. Now I am afraid to refute you, lest you imagine I am contentiously neglecting the point and its elucidation, and merely attacking you.

Section 458

I therefore, if you are a person of the same sort as myself, should be glad to continue questioning you: if not, I can let it drop. Of what sort am I? One of those who would be glad to be refuted if I say anything untrue, and glad to refute anyone else who might speak untruly; but just as glad, mind you, to be refuted as to refute, since I regard the former as the greater benefit, in proportion as it is a greater benefit for oneself to be delivered from the greatest evil than to deliver some one else. For I consider that a man cannot suffer any evil so great as a false opinion on the subjects of our actual argument. Now if you say that you too are of that sort, let us go on with the conversation; but if you think we had better drop it, let us have done with it at once and make an end of the discussion.

Nay, I too, Socrates, claim to be of the sort you indicate; though perhaps we should have taken thought also for the wishes of our company. For, let me tell you, some time before you and your friend arrived, I gave the company a performance of some length; and if we now have this conversation I expect we shall seriously protract our sitting. We ought, therefore, to consider their wishes as well, in case we are detaining any of them who may want to do something else.

You hear for yourselves, Gorgias and Socrates, the applause by which these gentlemen show their desire to hear anything you may say; for my own part, however, Heaven forbid that I should ever be so busy as to give up a discussion so interesting and so conducted, because I found it more important to attend to something else.

Yes, by all that’s holy, Chaerephon; and let me say, moreover, for myself that among the many discussions which I have attended in my time I doubt if there was one that gave me such delight as this present one. So, for my part, I shall count it a favor even if you choose to continue it all day long.

Why, Callicles, I assure you there is no hindrance on my side, if Gorgias is willing.

After that, Socrates, it would be shameful indeed if I were unwilling, when it was I who challenged everybody to ask what questions they pleased. But if our friends here are so minded, go on with the conversation and ask me anything you like.

Hark you then, Gorgias, to what surprises me in your statements: to be sure, you may possibly be right, and I may take your meaning wrongly. You say you are able to make a rhetorician of any man who chooses to learn from you?

Yes.

Section 459

Now, do you mean, to make him carry conviction to the crowd on all subjects, not by teaching them, but by persuading?

Certainly I do.

You were saying just now, you know, that even in the matter of health the orator will be more convincing than the doctor.

Yes, indeed, I was—meaning, to the crowd.

And to the crowd means to the ignorant? For surely, to those who know, he will not be more convincing than the doctor.

You are right.

And if he is to be more convincing than the doctor, he thus becomes more convincing than he who knows?

Certainly.

Though not himself a doctor, you agree?

Yes.

But he who is not a doctor is surely without knowledge of that whereof the doctor has knowledge.

Clearly.

So he who does not know will be more convincing to those who do not know than he who knows, supposing the orator to be more convincing than the doctor. Is that, or something else, the consequence?

In this case it does follow.

Then the case is the same in all the other arts for the orator and his rhetoric: there is no need to know the truth of the actual matters, but one merely needs to have discovered some device of persuasion which will make one appear to those who do not know to know better than those who know.

Well, and is it not a great convenience, Socrates, to make oneself a match for the professionals by learning just this single art and omitting all the others?

Whether the orator is or is not a match for the rest of them by reason of that skill, is a question we shall look into presently, if our argument so requires: for the moment let us consider first whether the rhetorician is in the same relation to what is just and unjust, base and noble, good and bad, as to what is healthful, and to the various objects of all the other arts; he does not know what is really good or bad, noble or base, just or unjust, but he has devised a persuasion to deal with these matters so as to appear to those who, like himself, do not know to know better than he who knows. Or is it necessary to know, and must anyone who intends to learn rhetoric have a previous knowledge of these things when he comes to you? Or if not, are you, as the teacher of rhetoric, to teach the person who comes to you nothing about them—for it is not your business—but only to make him appear in the eyes of the multitude to know things of this sort when he does not know, and to appear to be good when he is not? Or will you be utterly unable to teach him rhetoric unless he previously knows the truth about these matters? Or what is the real state of the case, Gorgias? For Heaven’s sake, as you proposed just now, draw aside the veil and tell us what really is the function of rhetoric.

Section 460

Why, I suppose, Socrates, if he happens not to know these things he will learn them too from me.

Stop there: I am glad of that statement. If you make a man a rhetorician he must needs know what is just and unjust either previously or by learning afterwards from you.

Quite so.

Well now, a man who has learnt building is a builder, is he not?

Yes.

And he who has learnt music, a musician?

Yes.

Then he who has learnt medicine is a medical man, and so on with the rest on the same principle; anyone who has learnt a certain art has the qualification acquired by his particular knowledge?

Certainly.

And so, on this principle, he who has learnt what is just is just?

Absolutely, I presume.

And the just man, I suppose, does what is just.

Yes.

Now the just man must wish to do what is just?

Apparently.

Hence the just man will never wish to act unjustly?

That must needs be so.

But it follows from our statements that the rhetorician must be just.

Yes.

Hence the rhetorician will never wish to do wrong.

Apparently not.

Then do you remember saying a little while ago that we ought not to complain against the trainers or expel them from our cities, if a boxer makes not merely use, but an unfair use, of his boxing? So in just the same way, if an orator uses his rhetoric unfairly, we should not complain against his teacher or banish him from our city, but the man who does the wrong and misuses his rhetoric. Was that said or not?

It was.

But now we find that this very person, the rhetorician, could never be guilty of wrongdoing, do we not?

We do.

And in our first statements, Gorgias, we said that rhetoric dealt with speech, not on even and odd, but on the just and unjust, did we not?

Yes.

Section 461

Well then, I supposed at the time when you were saying this that rhetoric could never be an unjust thing, since the speeches it made were always about justice but when a little later you told us that the orator might make even an unjust use of his rhetoric, that indeed surprised me, and thinking the two statements were not in accord I made those proposals,—that if, like myself, you counted it a gain to be refuted, it was worth while to have the discussion, but if not, we had better have done with it. And now that we have come to examine the matter, you see for yourself that we agree once more that it is impossible for the rhetorician to use his rhetoric unjustly or consent to do wrong. Now, to distinguish properly which way the truth of the matter lies will require, by the Dog, Gorgias, no short sitting.

How is this, Socrates? Is that really your opinion of rhetoric, as you now express it? Or, think you, because Gorgias was ashamed not to admit your point that the rhetorician knows what is just and noble and good, and will himself teach these to anyone who comes to him without knowing them; and then from this admission I daresay there followed some inconsistency in the statements made—the result that you are so fond of—when it was yourself who led him into that set of questions! For who do you think will deny that he has a knowledge of what is just and can also teach it to others? I call it very bad taste to lead the discussion in such a direction.

Ah, sweet Polus, of course it is for this very purpose we possess ourselves of companions and sons, that when the advance of years begins to make us stumble, you younger ones may be at hand to set our lives upright again in words as well as deeds. So now if Gorgias and I are stumbling in our words, you are to stand by and set us up again—it is only your duty; and for my part I am willing to revoke at your pleasure anything that you think has been wrongly admitted, if you will kindly observe one condition.

What do you mean by that?

That you keep a check on that lengthy way of speaking, Polus, which you tried to employ at first.

Why, shall I not be at liberty to say as much as I like?

It would indeed be a hard fate for you, my excellent friend, if having come to Athens, where there is more freedom of speech than anywhere in Greece, you should be the one person there who could not enjoy it.

Section 462

But as a set-off to that, I ask you if it would not be just as hard on me, while you spoke at length and refused to answer my questions, not to be free to go away and avoid listening to you. No, if you have any concern for the argument that we have carried on, and care to set it on its feet again, revoke whatever you please, as I suggested just now; take your turn in questioning and being questioned, like me and Gorgias; and thus either refute or be refuted. For you claim, I understand, that you yourself know all that Gorgias knows, do you not?

I do.

Then are you with him also in bidding us ask at each point any questions we like of you, as one who knows how to answer?

Certainly I am.

So now, take whichever course you like: either put questions, or answer them.

Well, I will do as you say. So answer me this, Socrates: since you think that Gorgias is at a loss about rhetoric, what is your own account of it?

Are you asking what art I call it?

Yes.

None at all, I consider, Polus, if you would have the honest truth.

But what do you consider rhetoric to be?

A thing which you say—in the treatise which I read of late—made art.

What thing do you mean?

I mean a certain habitude.

Then do you take rhetoric to be a habitude?

I do, if you have no other suggestion.

Habitude of what?

Of producing a kind of gratification and pleasure.

Then you take rhetoric to be something fine—an ability to gratify people?

How now, Polus? Have you as yet heard me tell you what I say it is, that you ask what should follow that—whether I do not take it to be fine?

Why, did I not hear you call it a certain habitude?

Then please—since you value gratification—be so good as gratify me in a small matter.

I will.

Ask me now what art I take cookery to be.

Then I ask you, what art is cookery ?

None at all, Polus.

Well, what is it ? Tell me.

Then I reply, a certain habitude.

Of what? Tell me.

Then I reply, of production of gratification and pleasure, Polus.

So cookery and rhetoric are the same thing?

Not at all, only parts of the same practice.

What practice do you mean?

Section 463

I fear it may be too rude to tell the truth; for I shrink from saying it on Gorgias’ account, lest he suppose I am making satirical fun of his own profession. Yet indeed I do not know whether this is the rhetoric which Gorgias practices, for from our argument just now we got no very clear view as to how he conceives it; but what I call rhetoric is a part of a certain business which has nothing fine about it.

What is that, Socrates? Tell us, without scruple on my account.

It seems to me then, Gorgias, to be a pursuit that is not a matter of art, but showing a shrewd, gallant spirit which has a natural bent for clever dealing with mankind, and I sum up its substance in the name flattery. This practice, as I view it, has many branches, and one of them is cookery; which appears indeed to be an art but, by my account of it, is not an art but a habitude or knack. I call rhetoric another branch of it, as also personal adornment and sophistry—four branches of it for four kinds of affairs. So if Polus would inquire, let him inquire: he has not yet been informed to what sort of branch of flattery I assign rhetoric; but without noticing that I have not yet answered that, he proceeds to ask whether I do not consider it a fine thing. But I am not going to reply to the question whether I consider rhetoric a fine or a base thing, until I have first answered what it is; for it would not be fair, Polus: but if you want the information, ask me what sort of branch of flattery I assert rhetoric to be.

I ask you then; so answer, what sort of branch it is.

Now, will you understand when I answer? Rhetoric, by my account, is a semblance of a branch of politics.

Well then, do you call it a fine or a base thing?

A base one, I call it—for all that is bad I call base—since I am to answer you as though you had already understood my meaning.

Nor do I myself, upon my word, Socrates, grasp your meaning either.

And no wonder, Gorgias, for as yet my statement is not at all clear; but Polus here is so young and fresh!

Ah, do not mind him; but tell me what you mean by rhetoric being a semblance of a branch of politics.

Section 464

Well, I will try to express what rhetoric appears to me to be: if it is not in fact what I say, Polus here will refute me. There are things, I suppose, that you call body and soul?

Of course.

And each of these again you believe to have a good condition?

I do.

And again, a good condition that may seem so, but is not? As an example, let me give the following: many people seem to be in good bodily condition when it would not be easy for anyone but a doctor, or one of the athletic trainers, to perceive that they are not so.

You are right.

Something of this sort I say there is in body and in soul, which makes the body or the soul seem to be in good condition, though it is none the more so in fact.

Quite so.

Now let me see if I can explain my meaning to you more clearly. There are two different affairs to which I assign two different arts: the one, which has to do with the soul, I call politics; the other, which concerns the body, though I cannot give you a single name for it offhand, is all one business, the tendance of the body, which I can designate in two branches as gymnastic and medicine. Under politics I set legislation in the place of gymnastic, and justice to match medicine. In each of these pairs, of course—medicine and gymnastic, justice and legislation—there is some intercommunication, as both deal with the same thing; at the same time they have certain differences. Now these four, which always bestow their care for the best advantage respectively of the body and the soul, are noticed by the art of flattery which, I do not say with knowledge, but by speculation, divides herself into four parts, and then, insinuating herself into each of those branches, pretends to be that into which she has crept, and cares nothing for what is the best, but dangles what is most pleasant for the moment as a bait for folly, and deceives it into thinking that she is of the highest value. Thus cookery assumes the form of medicine, and pretends to know what foods are best for the body; so that if a cook and a doctor had to contend before boys, or before men as foolish as boys, as to which of the two, the doctor or the cook, understands the question of sound and noxious foods, the doctor would starve to death.

Section 465

Flattery, however, is what I call it, and I say that this sort of thing is a disgrace, Polus—for here I address you—because it aims at the pleasant and ignores the best; and I say it is not an art, but a habitude, since it has no account to give of the real nature of the things it applies, and so cannot tell the cause of any of them. I refuse to give the name of art to anything that is irrational: if you dispute my views, I am ready to give my reasons. However, as I put it, cookery is flattery disguised as medicine; and in just the same manner self-adornment personates gymnastic: with its rascally, deceitful, ignoble, and illiberal nature it deceives men by forms and colors, polish and dress so as to make them, in the effort of assuming an extraneous beauty, neglect the native sort that comes through gymnastic. Well, to avoid prolixity, I am willing to put it to you like a geometer—for by this time I expect you can follow me: as self-adornment is to gymnastic, so is sophistry to legislation; and as cookery is to medicine, so is rhetoric to justice. But although, as I say, there is this natural distinction between them, they are so nearly related that sophists and orators are jumbled up as having the same field and dealing with the same subjects, and neither can they tell what to make of each other, nor the world at large what to make of them. For indeed, if the soul were not in command of the body, but the latter had charge of itself, and so cookery and medicine were not surveyed and distinguished by the soul, but the body itself were the judge, forming its own estimate of them by the gratifications they gave it, we should have a fine instance of what Anaxagoras described, my dear Polus,—for you are versed in these matters: everything would be jumbled together, without distinction as between medicinal and healthful and tasty concoctions. Well now, you have heard what I state rhetoric to be—the counterpart of cookery in the soul, acting here as that does on the body. It may, indeed, be absurd of me, when I do not allow you to make long speeches, to have extended mine to so considerable a length. However, I can fairly claim indulgence: for when I spoke briefly you did not understand me; you were unable to make any use of the answer I gave you, but required a full exposition.

Section 466

Now if I on my part cannot tell what use to make of any answers you may give me, you shall extend your speech also; but if I can make some use of them, allow me to do it; that will only be fair. And now, if you can make any use of this answer of mine, do so.

Then what is it you say? Do you take rhetoric to be flattery?

Well, I said rather a branch of flattery. Why, at your age, Polus, have you no memory? What will you do later on?

Then do you think that good orators are considered to be flatterers in their cities, and so worthless?

Is that a question you are asking, or are you beginning a speech?

I am asking a question.

To my mind, they are not considered at all.

How not considered? Have they not the chief power in their cities?

No, if you mean power in the sense of something good for him who has it.

Why, of course I mean that.

Then, to my thinking, the orators have the smallest power of all who are in their city.

What? Are they not like the despots, in putting to death anyone they please, and depriving anyone of his property and expelling him from their cities as they may think fit?

By the Dog, I fear I am still in two minds, Polus, at everything you say, as to whether this is a statement on your own part, and a declaration of your own opinion, or a question you are putting to me.

Why, I am asking you.

Very well, my friend then are you asking me two things at once?

How two?

Were you not this moment saying something like this: Is it not the case that the orators put to death anyone they wish, like the despots, and deprive people of property and expel them from their cities as they may think fit?

I was.

Then I tell you that there are two questions here, and I will give you answers to them both. For I say, Polus, that the orators and the despots alike have the least power in their cities, as I stated just now; since they do nothing that they wish to do, practically speaking, though they do whatever they think to be best.

Well, and is not that a great power to have?

No, judging at least by what Polus says.

I say no! Pardon me, I say yes.

No, by the ————, you do not; for you said that great power is a good to him who has it.

Yes, and I maintain it.

Then do you regard it as a good, when a man does what he thinks to be best, without having intelligence? Is that what you call having a great power?

No, I do not.

Section 467

Then will you prove that the orators have intelligence, and that rhetoric is an art, not a flattery, and so refute me ? Else, if you are going to leave me unrefuted, the orators who do what they think fit in their cities, and the despots, will find they have got no good in doing that, if indeed power is, as you say, a good, but doing what one thinks fit without intelligence is—as you yourself admit, do you not?—an evil.

Yes, I do.

How then can the orators or the despots have great power in their cities, unless Socrates is refuted by Polus, and admits that they do what they wish?

Hark at the man————!

I deny that they do what they wish: there, refute me.

Did you not admit just now that they do what they think best?

Yes, and I admit it now.

Then do they not do what they wish?

I say no.

When they do what they think fit?

Yes.

What shocking, nay, monstrous answers, Socrates!

Spare your invective, peerless Polus—if I may address you in your own style: but if you have a question to ask me, expose my error otherwise, make answer yourself.

Well, I am ready to answer, in order that I may know what you mean.

Then is it your view that people wish merely that which they do each time, or that which is the object of their doing what they do? For instance, do those who take medicine by doctor’s orders wish, in your opinion, merely what they do,—to take the medicine and suffer the pain of it,—or rather to be healthy, which is the object of their taking it?

To be healthy, without a doubt.

And so with seafarers and such as pursue profit generally in trade; what they wish is not what they are doing at each moment—for who wishes to go on a voyage, and incur all its danger and trouble? It is rather, I conceive, the object of their voyage—to get wealth; since it is for wealth that they go on it.

Certainly.

And is it not just the same in every case? If a man does something for an object, he does not wish the thing that he does, but the thing for which he does it.

Yes.

Now is there any existent thing that is not either good or bad or between these—neither good nor bad?

Most assuredly nothing, Socrates.

Well, do you call wisdom and health and wealth and everything else of that kind good, and their opposites bad?

I do.

Section 468

And by things neither good nor bad do you mean such things as sometimes partake of the good, sometimes of the bad, and sometimes of neither—for example, sitting, walking, running, and sailing, or again, stones and sticks and anything else of that sort? These are what you mean, are they not? Or are there other things that you describe as neither good nor bad?

No, these are what I mean.

Then do people do these intermediate things, when they do them, for the sake of the good things, or the good things for the intermediate?

The intermediate, I presume, for the good.

Thus it is in pursuit of the good that we walk, when we walk, conceiving it to be better; or on the contrary, stand, when we stand, for the sake of the same thing, the good: is it not so?

Yes.

And so we put a man to death, if we do put him to death, or expel him or deprive him of his property, because we think it better for us to do this than not?

Certainly.

So it is for the sake of the good that the doers of all these things do them?

I agree.

And we have admitted that when we do things for an object, we do not wish those things, but the object for which we do them?

Quite so.

Then we do not wish to slaughter people or expel them from our cities or deprive them of their property as an act in itself, but if these things are beneficial we wish to do them, while if they are harmful, we do not wish them. For we wish what is good, as you say; but what is neither good nor bad we do not wish, nor what is bad either, do we? Is what I say true in your opinion, Polus, or not? Why do you not answer?

It is true.

Then, as we agree on this, if a man puts anyone to death or expels him from a city or deprives him of his property, whether he does it as a despot or an orator, because he thinks it better for himself though it is really worse, that man, I take it, does what he thinks fit, does he not?

Yes.

Now is it also what he wishes, supposing it to be really bad? Why do you not answer?

No, I do not think he does what he wishes.

Can such a man then be said to have great power in that city, if to have great power is something good, according to your admission?

He cannot.

Then I spoke the truth when I said that it is possible for a man to do what he thinks fit in a city and yet not to have great power nor to do what he wishes.

As if you, Socrates, would not accept the liberty of doing what you think fit in your city rather than not, and would not envy a man whom you observed to have put some one to death as he thought fit, or deprived him of his property or sent him to prison!

Justly, do you mean, or unjustly?

Section 469

Whichever way he does it, is it not enviable in either case?

Hush, Polus!

Why?

Because we ought not to envy either the unenviable or the wretched, but pity them.

What! Is that the state in which you consider those people, of whom I speak, to be?

Yes, for so I must.

Then do you consider that a man who puts another to death as he thinks fit, and justly puts him to death, is wretched and pitiable?

Not I; but not enviable either.

Did you not say just now that he was wretched?

Only he who unjustly put some one to death, my friend, and I called him pitiable as well: if he acted justly, then he is unenviable.

I suppose, at any rate, the man who is put to death unjustly is both pitiable and wretched.

Less so than he who puts him to death, Polus, and less so than he who is put to death justly.

In what way can that be, Socrates ?

In this, that to do wrong is the greatest of evils.

What, is this the greatest? Is not to suffer wrong a greater?

By no means.

Then would you wish rather to suffer wrong than to do it?

I should wish neither, for my own part; but if it were necessary either to do wrong or to suffer it, I should choose to suffer rather than do it.

Then you would not accept a despot’s power?

No, if you mean by a despot’s power the same as I do.

Why, what I mean is, as I did just now, the liberty of doing anything one thinks fit in one’s city—putting people to death and expelling them and doing everything at one’s own discretion.

My gifted friend, let me speak, and you shall take me to task in your turn. Suppose that in a crowded market I should hide a dagger under my arm and then say to you: Polus, I have just acquired, by a wonderful chance, the power of a despot; for if I should think fit that one of those people whom you see there should die this very instant, a dead man he will be, just as I think fit; or if I think fit that one of them shall have his head broken, broken it will be immediately; or to have his cloak torn in pieces, torn it will be: so great is my power in this city. Then suppose that on your disbelieving this I showed you my dagger; I expect when you saw it you would say: Socrates, at this rate every one would have great power, for any house you thought fit might be set ablaze on these methods, and the Athenian arsenals also, and the men-of-war and all the rest of the shipping, both public and private. But surely this is not what it is to have great power—merely doing what one thinks fit. Or do you think it is?

Oh no, not in that way.

Section 470

Then can you tell me why you disapprove of this kind of power?

I can.

Why, then? Tell me.

Because it is inevitable that he who acts thus will be punished.

And is it not a bad thing to be punished?

Certainly.

So, my remarkable friend, you have come round again to the view that if doing what one thinks fit is attended by advantage in doing it, this is not merely a good thing but at the same time, it seems, the possession of great power; otherwise it is a bad thing and means little power. And let us consider another point besides; do we not admit that sometimes it is better to do those things that we were mentioning just now—to put people to death and banish them and deprive them of property—while sometimes it is not?

To be sure.

Then here is a point, it seems, that is admitted both on your side and on mine.

Yes.

Then when do you say it is better to do these things? Tell me where you draw the line.

Nay, I would rather that you, Socrates, answered that.

Well then I say, Polus, if you prefer to hear it from me, that it is better when these things are done justly, and worse when unjustly.

So hard to refute you, Socrates! Nay, a mere child could do it, could he not, and prove your words are untrue?

Then I shall be most grateful to the child, and equally to you, if you refute me and rid me of foolery. Come, do not grow weary in well-doing towards your friend, but refute me.

Well, to be sure, Socrates, there is no need to refute you with ancient instances; for those happenings of but a day or two ago are enough to refute you, and prove that many a wrongdoer is happy.

What sort of thing do you mean?

I suppose you see that Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, is ruler of Macedonia?

Well, if I do not, at any rate I hear it.

Do you consider him happy or wretched?

I do not know, Polus; I have never met the man.

What? Could you find out by meeting him, and cannot otherwise tell, straight off, that he is happy?

No, indeed, upon my word.

Then doubtless you will say, Socrates, that you do not know that even the Great King is happy.

Yes, and I shall be speaking the truth; for I do not know how he stands in point of education and justice.

Why, does happiness entirely consist in that?

Yes, by my account, Polus; for a good and honorable man or woman, I say, is happy, and an unjust and wicked one is wretched.

Section 471

Then this Archelaus, on your statement, is wretched?

Yes, my friend, supposing he is unjust.

Well, but how can he be other than unjust? He had no claim to the throne which he now occupies, being the son of a woman who was a slave of Perdiccas’ brother Alcetas, and in mere justice he was Alcetas’ slave; and if he wished to do what is just, he would be serving Alcetas and would be happy, by your account; but, as it is, he has become a prodigy of wretchedness, since he has done the most enormous wrong. First of all he invited this very master and uncle of his to his court, as if he were going to restore to him the kingdom of which Perdiccas had deprived him; and after entertaining him and his son Alexander—his own cousin, about the same age as himself—and making them drunk, he packed them into a carriage, drove them away by night, and murdered and made away with them both. And after all these iniquities he failed to observe that he had become a most wretched person and had no repentance, but a while later he refused to make himself happy by bringing up, as he was justly bound, his brother, the legitimate son of Perdiccas, a boy about seven years old who had a just title to the throne, and restoring the kingdom to him; but he cast him into a well and drowned him, and then told his mother Cleopatra that he had fallen in and lost his life while chasing a goose. So now, you see, as the greatest wrongdoer in Macedonia, he is the most wretched of all the Macedonians, not the happiest; and I daresay some Athenians could be found who would join you in preferring to change places with any other Macedonian of them all, rather than with Archelaus!

At the beginning of our discussion, Polus, I complimented you on having had, as I consider, a good training in rhetoric, while you seem to have neglected disputation; and now, accordingly, this is the argument, is it, with which any child could refute me? By this statement, you think, I now stand refuted at your hands, when I assert that the wrongdoer is not happy? How so, my good friend? Why, I tell you I do not admit a single point in what you say.

No, because you do not want to; for you really agree with my statement.

Section 472

My gifted friend, that is because you attempt to refute me in rhetorical fashion, as they understand refuting in the law courts. For there, one party is supposed to refute the other when they bring forward a number of reputable witnesses to any statements they may make, whilst their opponent produces only one, or none. But this sort of refutation is quite worthless for getting at the truth; since occasionally a man may actually be crushed by the number and reputation of the false witnesses brought against him. And so now you will find almost everybody, Athenians and foreigners, in agreement with you on the points you state, if you like to bring forward witnesses against the truth of what I say: if you like, there is Nicias, son of Niceratus, with his brothers, whose tripods are standing in a row in the Dionysium; or else Aristocrates, son of Scellias, whose goodly offering again is well known at Delphi; or if you choose, there is the whole house of Pericles or any other family you may like to select in this place. But I, alone here before you, do not admit it, for you fail to convince me: you only attempt, by producing a number of false witnesses against me, to oust me from my reality, the truth. But if on my part I fail to produce yourself as my one witness to confirm what I say, I consider I have achieved nothing of any account towards the matter of our discussion, whatever it may be; nor have you either, I conceive, unless I act alone as your one witness, and you have nothing to do with all these others. Well now, this is one mode of refutation, as you and many other people understand it; but there is also another which I on my side understand. Let us therefore compare them with each other and consider if there is a difference between them. For indeed the points which we have at issue are by no means of slight importance: rather, one might say, they are matters on which it is most honorable to have knowledge, and most disgraceful to lack it; for in sum they involve our knowing or not knowing who is happy and who is not. To start at once with the point we are now debating, you consider it possible for a man to be happy while doing wrong, and as a wrongdoer, since you regard Archelaus as a wrongdoer, and yet happy. We are to conclude, are we not, that this is your opinion?

Certainly.

And I say it is impossible. There we have one point at issue. Very good but then, will a man be happy in wrongdoing if he comes in for requital and punishment?

Not at all, since in that case he would be most wretched.

But if the wrongdoer escapes requital, by your account he will be happy?

Yes.

Whereas in my opinion, Polus, the wrongdoer or the unjust is wretched anyhow; more wretched, however, if he does not pay the penalty and gets no punishment for his wrongdoing, but less wretched if he pays the penalty and meets with requital from gods and men.

Section 473

What a strange doctrine, Socrates, you are trying to maintain!

Yes, and I will endeavor to make you too, my friend, maintain it with me: for I count you as a friend. Well now, these are the points on which we differ; just examine them yourself. I think I told you at an earlier stage that wrongdoing was worse than being wronged.

Certainly you did.

And you thought that being wronged was worse.

Yes.

And I said that wrongdoers were wretched, and I was refuted by you.

Upon my word, yes.

At least to your thinking, Polus.

Yes, and true thinking too.

Perhaps. But you said, on the other hand, that wrongdoers are happy, if they pay no penalty.

Certainly.

Whereas I say they are most wretched, and those who pay the penalty, less so. Do you wish to refute that as well?

Why, that is still harder to refute, Socrates, than the other!

Not merely so, Polus, but impossible; for the truth is never refuted.

How do you mean? If a man be caught criminally plotting to make himself a despot, and he be straightway put on the rack and castrated and have his eyes burnt out, and after suffering himself, and seeing inflicted on his wife and children, a number of grievous torments of every kind, he be finally crucified or burnt in a coat of pitch, will he be happier than if he escape and make himself despot, and pass his life as the ruler in his city, doing whatever he likes, and envied and congratulated by the citizens and the foreigners besides? Impossible, do you tell me, to refute that?

You are trying to make my flesh creep this time, my spirited Polus, instead of refuting me; a moment ago you were for calling witnesses. However, please refresh my memory a little: criminally plotting to make himself a despot, you said?

I did.

Then neither of them will ever be happier than the other—neither he who has unjustly compassed the despotic power, nor he who pays the penalty; for of two wretched persons neither can be happier; but still more wretched is he who goes scot-free and establishes himself as despot. What is that I see, Polus? You are laughing? Here we have yet another form of refutation—when a statement is made, to laugh it down, instead of disproving it!

Do you not think yourself utterly refuted, Socrates, when you make such statements as nobody in the world would assent to? You have only to ask anyone of the company here.

Section 474

Polus, I am not one of your statesmen: indeed, last year, when I was elected a member of the Council, and, as my tribe held the Presidency, I had to put a question to the vote, I got laughed at for not understanding the procedure. So do not call upon me again to take the votes of the company now; but if, as I said this moment, you have no better disproof than those, hand the work over to me in my turn, and try the sort of refutation that I think the case requires. For I know how to produce one witness in support of my statements, and that is the man himself with whom I find myself arguing; the many I dismiss: there is also one whose vote I know how to take, whilst to the multitude I have not a word to say. See therefore if you will consent to be put to the proof in your turn by answering my questions. For I think, indeed, that you and I and the rest of the world believe that doing wrong is worse than suffering it, and escaping punishment worse than incurring it.

And I, that neither I nor anyone else in the world believes it. You, it seems, would choose rather to suffer wrong than to do it.

Yes, and so would you and everyone else.

Far from it neither; I nor you nor anybody else.

Then will you answer?

To be sure I will, for indeed I am eager to know what on earth you will say.

Well then, so that you may know, tell me, just as though I were asking you all over again, which of the two seems to you, Polus, to be the worse—doing wrong or suffering it?

Suffering it, I say.

Now again, which is fouler—doing wrong or suffering it? Answer.

Doing it.

And also more evil, if fouler.

Not at all.

I see: you hold, apparently, that fair and good are not the same, nor evil and foul.

Just so.

But what of this? All fair things, like bodies and colors and figures and sounds and observances—is it according to no standard that you call these fair in each case? Thus in the first place, when you say that fair bodies are fair, it must be either in view of their use for some particular purpose that each may serve, or in respect of some pleasure arising when, in the act of beholding them, they cause delight to the beholder. Have you any description to give beyond this of bodily beauty?

I have not.

And so with all the rest in the same way, whether they be figures or colors, is it for some pleasure or benefit or both that you give them the name of fair?

It is.

And sounds also, and the effects of music, are not these all in the same case?

Yes.

And further, in all that belongs to laws and observances, surely the fairness of them cannot lie beyond those limits of being either beneficial or pleasant or both.

Section 475

I think not.

And is it not just the same with the fairness of studies also?

Doubtless; and this time, Socrates, your definition is quite fair, when you define what is fair by pleasure and good.

And foul by their opposites, pain and evil?

That needs must follow.

Thus when of two fair things one is fairer, the cause is that it surpasses in either one or both of these effects, either in pleasure, or in benefit, or in both.

Certainly.

And again, when one of two foul things is fouler, this will be due to an excess either of pain or of evil: must not that be so?

Yes.

Come then, what was it we heard just now about doing and suffering wrong? Were you not saying that suffering wrong is more evil, but doing it fouler?

I was.

Well now, if doing wrong is fouler than suffering it, it is either more painful, and fouler by an excess of pain or evil or both; must not this also be the case?

Yes, of course.

Then let us first consider if doing wrong exceeds suffering it in point of pain—if those who do wrong are more pained than those who suffer it.

Not so at all, Socrates.

Then it does not surpass in pain.

No, indeed.

And so, if not in pain, it can no longer be said to exceed in both.

Apparently.

It remains, then, that it exceeds in the other.

Yes.

In evil.

So it seems.

Then it is by an excess of evil that doing wrong is fouler than suffering it.

Yes, obviously.

Now it is surely admitted by the mass of mankind, as it was too by you in our talk a while ago, that doing wrong is fouler than suffering it.

Yes.

And now it has been found to be more evil.

So it seems.

Then would you rather have the evil and foul when it is more than when it is less? Do not shrink from answering, Polus you will get no hurt by it: but submit yourself bravely to the argument, as to a doctor, and reply yes or no to my question.

Why, I should not so choose, Socrates.

And would anybody else in the world?

I think not, by this argument at least.

Then I spoke the truth when I said that neither you nor anyone else in the world would choose to do wrong rather than suffer it, since it really is more evil.

Apparently.

Section 476

So you see, Polus, that when one proof is contrasted with the other they have no resemblance, but whereas you have the assent of every one else except myself, I am satisfied with your sole and single assent and evidence, and I take but your vote only and disregard the rest. Now let us leave this matter where it stands, and proceed next to examine the second part on which we found ourselves at issue—whether for a wrongdoer to pay the penalty is the greatest of evils, as you supposed, or to escape it is a greater, as I on my side held. Let us look at it this way: do you call paying the just penalty, and being justly punished, for wrongdoing the same thing?

I do.

And can you maintain that all just things are not fair, in so far as they are just? Consider well before you speak.

No, I think they are, Socrates.

Then take another point: if a man does anything, must there be something which is also acted upon by this doer of the thing?

I think so.

And does it suffer what the doer does, and is the effect such as the agent’s action makes it? I mean, for example, when one strikes a blow something must needs be struck?

It must.

And if the striker strikes hard or quick, the thing struck is struck in the same way?

Yes.

Hence the effect in the thing struck is such as the striker makes it?

Certainly.

And so again, if one burns, something must be burnt?

Yes, of course.

And if one burns severely or sorely, the thing burnt is burnt according as the burner burns it?

Certainly.

And again, if one cuts, the same may be said? For something is cut.

Yes.

And if the cut is large or deep or sore, the cut made in the thing cut is such as the cutter cuts it?

Apparently.

Then putting it all in a word, see if you agree that what I was just saying applies to all cases—that the patient receives an effect of the same kind as the agent’s action.

I do agree.

Then this being admitted, is paying the penalty suffering something, or doing it?

Suffering it must be, Socrates.

And at the hands of an agent?

Yes, of course; at the hands of the punisher.

And he who punishes aright punishes justly?

Yes.

Doing what is just, or not?

What is just.

And he who pays the penalty by being punished suffers what is just?

Apparently.

And what is just, I think we have agreed, is fair?

Certainly.

Then of these two, the one does what is fair and the other, he who is punished, suffers it.

Yes.

Section 477

And so, if fair, good? For that is either pleasant or beneficial.

It must be so.

So he who pays the penalty suffers what is good?

It seems so.

Then he is benefited?

Yes.

Is it the benefit I imagine—that he becomes better in soul if he is justly punished?

Quite likely.

Then is he who pays the penalty relieved from badness of soul?

Yes.

And so relieved from the greatest evil? Look at it this way; in a man’s pecuniary resources do you perceive any other badness than poverty?

No, only poverty.

And what in his bodily resources? You would say that badness there is weakness or disease or ugliness or the like?

I would.

And in soul too you believe there is a certain wickedness?

Of course.

And do you not call this injustice, ignorance, cowardice, and so forth?

Certainly I do.

So now in property, body, and soul, these three, you have mentioned three vices—poverty, disease, and injustice?

Yes.

Then which of these vices is the foulest? Is it not injustice—in short, the vice of the soul?

Far the foulest.

And if foulest, then also most evil?

How do you mean, Socrates?

Just this: the foulest is foulest in each case because it produces the greatest pain or harm or both; this follows from our previous admissions.

Quite so.

And foulest of all, we have just agreed, is injustice and, in general, vice of soul?

Yes, we have.

So then either it is most painful, that is, foulest of these vices by an excess of painfulness, or else of harmfulness, or in both ways?

Necessarily.

Then do you think that being unjust, licentious, cowardly, and ignorant is more painful than being poor and sick?

No, I do not, Socrates, from what we have said.

Portentous then must be the extent of harm, and astonishing the evil, by which the soul’s vice exceeds all the others so as to be foulest of all, since it is not by pain, on your view of the matter.

Apparently.

But further, I suppose, whatever has an excess of harm in the greatest measure, must be the greatest evil in the world.

Yes.

So injustice, licentiousness, and in general, vice of soul, are the greatest evils in the world?

Apparently.

Now what is the art that relieves from poverty? Is it not money-making?

Yes.

And what from disease? Is it not medicine?

Section 478

It must be.

And what from wickedness and injustice? If you are not ready for that offhand, consider it thus: whither and to whom do we take those who are in bodily sickness?

To the doctor, Socrates.

And whither the wrongdoers and libertines?

To the law-court, do you mean?

Yes, and to pay the penalty?

I agree.

Then is it not by employing a kind of justice that those punish who punish aright?

Clearly so.

Then money-making relieves us from poverty, medicine from disease, and justice from licentiousness and injustice.

Apparently.

Which then is the fairest of these things?

Of what things, pray?

Moneymaking, medicine, justice.

Justice, Socrates, is far above the others.

Now again, if it is fairest, it causes either most pleasure or benefit or both.

Yes.

Well then, is it pleasant to be medically treated, and do those who undergo such treatment enjoy it?

I do not think so.

But it is beneficial, is it not?

Yes.

Because one is relieved of a great evil, and hence it is worth while to endure the pain and be well.

Of course.

Is this then the happiest state of body for a man to be in—that of being medically treated—or that of never being ill at all?

Clearly, never being ill.

Yes, for what we regarded as happiness, it seems, was not this relief from evil, but its non-acquisition at any time.

That is so.

Well now, which is the more wretched of two persons who have something evil either in body or in soul, he who is medically treated and is relieved of the evil, or he who is not treated and keeps it?

To my thinking, he who is not treated.

And we found that paying the penalty is a relief from the greatest evil, wickedness?

We did.

Because, I suppose, the justice of the court reforms us and makes us juster, and acts as a medicine for wickedness.

Yes.

Happiest therefore is he who has no vice in his soul, since we found this to be the greatest of evils.

Clearly so.

Next after him, I take it, is he who is relieved of it.

So it seems.

And that was the man who is reproved, reprimanded, and made to pay the penalty.

Yes.

Hence the worst life is led by him who has the vice and is not relieved of it.

Apparently.

Section 479

And this is the man who in committing the greatest wrongs and practicing the greatest injustice has contrived to escape reproof and chastisement and penalty alike, as you say Archelaus has succeeded in doing, and the rest of the despots and orators and overlords?

So it seems.

Because, I conceive, my excellent friend, what these persons have contrived for themselves is very much as though a man who was the victim of the worst diseases should contrive not to submit to the doctor’s penalty for his bodily transgressions and take the prescribed treatment, from a childish fear of cautery or incision, as being so painful. Or do you not agree to this view of it?

I do.

Since he was ignorant, it would seem, of the virtue of bodily health and fitness. For it is very probable, from what we have just agreed, that something like this is done also by those who evade their due penalty, Polus; they perceive its painfulness, but are blind to its benefits, and are unaware how much more wretched than lack of health in the body it is to dwell with a soul that is not healthy, but corrupt, unjust, and unholy; and hence it is that they do all they can to avoid paying the penalty and being relieved of the greatest of evils, by providing themselves with money and friends and the ability to excel in persuasive speech. But if what we have agreed is true, Polus, do you observe the consequences of our argument? Or, if you like, shall we reckon them up together?

Yes, if you do not mind.

Then does it result that injustice and wrongdoing is the greatest evil?

Yes, apparently.

And further, it appeared that paying the penalty is a relief from this evil?

It looks like it.

Whereas not paying it is a retention of the evil in us?

Yes.

Thus wrongdoing is second of evils in greatness; but to do wrong and not pay the penalty is the greatest and takes the first place among all evils.

It seems so.

Well now, my friend, was this the point at issue between us, that you counted Archelaus, who did the greatest wrong, happy because he paid no penalty, whilst I on the contrary thought that anyone—whether Archelaus or any other person you please—who pays no penalty for the wrong he has done, is peculiarly and pre-eminently wretched among men, and that it is always the wrongdoer who is more wretched than the wronged, and the unpunished than the punished? Is not this what I stated?

Yes.

Then has it not been proved that this was a true statement?

Apparently.

Section 480

Very well: so if this is true, Polus, what is the great use of rhetoric? For you see by what we have just agreed that a man must keep a close watch over himself so as to avoid wrongdoing, since it would bring a great deal of evil upon him; must he not?

Certainly.

But if he is guilty of wrongdoing, either himself or anyone else he may care for, he must go of his own freewill where he may soonest pay the penalty, to the judge as if to his doctor, with the earnest intent that the disease of his injustice shall not become chronic and cause a deep incurable ulcer in his soul. Or what are we to say, Polus, if our former conclusions stand? Must not our later ones accord with them in this way, and in this only?

Yes, what else, indeed, are we to say, Socrates?

Then for pleading in defence of injustice, whether it is oneself or one’s parents or friends or children or country that has done the wrong, rhetoric is of no use to us at all, Polus; except one were to suppose, perchance, to the contrary, that a man ought to accuse himself first of all, and in the second place his relations or anyone else of his friends who may from time to time be guilty of wrong; and, instead of concealing the iniquity, to bring it to light in order that he may pay the penalty and be made healthy; and, moreover, to compel both himself and his neighbors not to cower away but to submit with closed eyes and good courage, as it were, to the cutting and burning of the surgeon, in pursuit of what is good and fair, and without reckoning in the smart: if his crimes have deserved a flogging, he must submit to the rod; if fetters, to their grip; if a fine, to its payment; if banishment, to be banished; or if death, to die; himself to be the first accuser either of himself or of his relations, and to employ his rhetoric for the purpose of so exposing their iniquities that they may be relieved of that greatest evil, injustice. Shall this be our statement or not, Polus?

An extraordinary one, Socrates, it seems to me, though perhaps you do find it agrees with what went before.

Well, either that must be upset, or this necessarily follows.

Yes, that certainly is so.

Section 481

And so again conversely, supposing it is our duty to injure somebody, whether an enemy or anyone else—provided only that it is not against oneself that wrong has been done by such enemy, for this we must take care to avoid—but supposing our enemy has wronged some one else, we must make every exertion of act and word to prevent him from being punished or coming to trial, or if he does, we must contrive that our enemy shall escape and not be punished; nay, if he has carried off a great lot of gold, that he shall not refund it but keep and spend it on himself and his, unjustly and godlessly, or if he has committed crimes that deserve death, that he shall not die; if possible, never die, but be deathless in his villainy, or failing that, live as long a time as may be in that condition. Such are the purposes, as it seems to me, Polus, for which rhetoric is useful, since to him who has no intention of doing wrong it is, I consider, of no great use, if indeed there is any use in it at all; for in our previous argument it was nowhere to be found.

Tell me, Chaerephon, is Socrates in earnest over this, or only joking?

To my thinking, Callicles, prodigiously in earnest: still, there is nothing like asking him.

Upon my word, just what I want to do. Tell me, Socrates, are we to take you as serious just now, or joking? For if you are serious and what you say is really true, must not the life of us human beings have been turned upside down, and must we not be doing quite the opposite, it seems, of what we ought to do?

Callicles, if men had not certain feelings, each common to one sort of people, but each of us had a feeling peculiar to himself and apart from the rest, it would not be easy for him to indicate his own impression to his neighbor. I say this because I notice that you and I are at this moment in much the same condition, since the two of us are enamored each of two things—I of Alcibiades, son of Cleinias, and philosophy, and you of two, the Athenian Demus, and the son of Pyrilampes. Now I always observe that, for all your cleverness, you are unable to contradict your favorite, however much he may say or whatever may be his account of anything, but are ever changing over from side to side. In the Assembly, if the Athenian Demus disagrees with some statement you are making, you change over and say what it desires and just the same thing happens to you in presence of that fair youth, the son of Pyrilampes;

Section 482

you are unable to resist the counsels and statements of your darling, so that if anyone showed surprise at the strangeness of the things you are constantly saying under that influence, you would probably tell him, if you chose to speak the truth, that unless somebody makes your favorite stop speaking thus, you, will never stop speaking thus either. Consider yourself therefore obliged to hear the same sort of remark from me now, and do not be surprised at my saying it, but make my darling, philosophy, stop talking thus. For she, my dear friend, speaks what you hear me saying now, and she is far less fickle to me than any other favorite: that son of Cleinias is ever changing his views, but philosophy always holds the same, and it is her speech that now surprises you, and she spoke it in your own presence. So you must either refute her, as I said just now, by proving that wrongdoing and impunity for wrong done is not the uttermost evil; or, if you leave that unproved, by the Dog, god of the Egyptians, there will be no agreement between you, Callicles, and Callicles, but you will be in discord with him all your life. And yet I, my very good sir, should rather choose to have my lyre, or some chorus that I might provide for the public, out of tune and discordant, or to have any number of people disagreeing with me and contradicting me, than that I should have internal discord and contradiction in my own single self.

Socrates, you seem to be roistering recklessly in your talk, like the true demagogue that you are; and you are declaiming now in this way because Polus has got into the same plight as he was accusing Gorgias of letting himself be led into by you. For he said, I think, when you asked Gorgias whether, supposing a man came to him with no knowledge of justice but a desire to learn rhetoric, he would instruct the man, Gorgias showed some shame and said he would, because of the habit of mind in people which would make them indignant if refused—and so, because of this admission, he was forced to contradict himself, and that was just what suited you—and Polus was right, to my thinking, in mocking at you as he did then; but this time he has got into the very same plight himself. For my own part, where I am not satisfied with Polus is just that concession he made to you—that doing wrong is fouler than suffering it; for owing to this admission he too in his turn got entangled in your argument and had his mouth stopped, being ashamed to say what he thought. For you, Socrates, really turn the talk into such low, popular clap-trap, while you give out that you are pursuing the truth—into stuff that is fair, not by nature, but by convention.

Section 483

Yet for the most part these two—nature and convention—are opposed to each other, so that if a man is ashamed and dares not say what he thinks, he is forced to contradict himself. And this, look you, is the clever trick you have devised for our undoing in your discussions: when a man states anything according to convention you slip according to nature into your questions; and again, if he means nature, you imply convention. In the present case, for instance, of doing and suffering wrong, when Polus was speaking of what is conventionally fouler, you followed it up in the sense of what is naturally so. For by nature everything is fouler that is more evil, such as suffering wrong: doing it is fouler only by convention. Indeed this endurance of wrong done is not a man’s part at all, but a poor slave’s, for whom it is better to be dead than alive, as it is for anybody who, when wronged or insulted, is unable to protect himself or anyone else for whom he cares. But I suppose the makers of the laws are the weaker sort of men, and the more numerous. So it is with a view to themselves and their own interest that they make their laws and distribute their praises and censures; and to terrorize the stronger sort of folk who are able to get an advantage, and to prevent them from getting one over them, they tell them, that such aggrandizement is foul and unjust, and that wrongdoing is just this endeavor to get the advantage of one’s neighbors: for I expect they are well content to see themselves on an equality, when they are so inferior. So this is why by convention it is termed unjust and foul to aim at an advantage over the majority, and why they call it wrongdoing: but nature, in my opinion, herself proclaims the fact that it is right for the better to have advantage of the worse, and the abler of the feebler. It is obvious in many cases that this is so, not only in the animal world, but in the states and races, collectively, of men—that right has been decided to consist in the sway and advantage of the stronger over the weaker. For by what manner of right did Xerxes march against Greece, or his father against Scythia? Or take the countless other cases of the sort that one might mention. Why, surely these men follow nature—the nature of right—in acting thus; yes, on my soul, and follow the law of nature—though not that, I dare say, which is made by us;

Section 484

we mold the best and strongest amongst us, taking them from their infancy like young lions, and utterly enthral them by our spells and witchcraft, telling them the while that they must have but their equal share, and that this is what is fair and just. But, I fancy, when some man arises with a nature of sufficient force, he shakes off all that we have taught him, bursts his bonds, and breaks free; he tramples underfoot our codes and juggleries, our charms and laws, which are all against nature; our slave rises in revolt and shows himself our master, and there dawns the full light of natural justice. And it seems to me that Pindar adds his evidence to what I say, in the ode where he says—Law the sovereign of all,Mortals and immortals,which, so he continues,—Carries all with highest hand,Justifying the utmost force: in proof I takeThe deeds of Hercules, for unpurchased—the words are something like that—I do not know the poem well—but it tells how he drove off the cows as neither a purchase nor a gift from Geryones; taking it as a natural right that cows ar any other possessions of the inferior and weaker should all belong to the superior and stronger. Well, that is the truth of the matter; and you will grasp it if you will now put philosophy aside and pass to greater things. For philosophy, you know, Socrates, is a charming thing, if a man has to do with it moderately in his younger days; but if he continues to spend his time on it too long, it is ruin to any man. However well endowed one may be, if one philosophizes far on into life, one must needs find oneself ignorant of everything that ought to be familiar to the man who would be a thorough gentleman and make a good figure in the world. For such people are shown to be ignorant of the laws of their city, and of the terms which have to be used in negotiating agreements with their fellows in private or in public affairs, and of human pleasures and desires; and, in short, to be utterly inexperienced in men’s characters. So when they enter upon any private or public business they make themselves ridiculous, just as on the other hand, I suppose, when public men engage in your studies and discussions, they are quite ridiculous.

Section 485

The fact is, as Euripides has it—Each shines in that, to that end presses on,Allotting there the chiefest part of the day,Wherein he haply can surpass himself— whereas that in which he is weak he shuns and vilifies; but the other he praises, in kindness to himself, thinking in this way to praise himself also. But the most proper course, I consider, is to take a share of both. It is a fine thing to partake of philosophy just for the sake of education, and it is no disgrace for a lad to follow it: but when a man already advancing in years continues in its pursuit, the affair, Socrates, becomes ridiculous; and for my part I have much the same feeling towards students af philosophy as towards those who lisp or play tricks. For when I see a little child, to whom it is still natural to talk in that way, lisping or playing some trick, I enjoy it, and it strikes me as pretty and ingenuous and suitable to the infant’s age; whereas if I hear a small child talk distinctly, I find it a disagreeable thing, and it offends my ears and seems to me more befitting a slave. But when one hears a grown man lisp, or sees him play tricks, it strikes one as something ridiculous and unmanly, that deserves a whipping. Just the same, then, is my feeling towards the followers of philosophy. For when I see philosophy in a young lad I approve of it; I consider it suitable, and I regard him as a person of liberal mind: whereas one who does not follow it I account illiberal and never likely to expect of himself any fine or generous action. But when I see an elderly man still going on with philosophy and not getting rid of it, that is the gentleman, Socrates, whom I think in need of a whipping. For as I said just now, this person, however well endowed he may be, is bound to become unmanly through shunning the centers and marts of the city, in which, as the poet said, men get them note and glory; he must cower down and spend the rest of his days whispering in a corner with three or four lads, and never utter anything free or high or spirited. Now I, Socrates, am quite fairly friendly to you, and so I feel very much at this moment as Zethus did, whom I have mentioned, towards Amphion in Euripides.

Section 486

Indeed I am prompted to address you in the same sort of words as he did his brother: You neglect, Socrates, what you ought to mind; you distort with a kind of boyish travesty a soul of such noble nature; and neither will you bring to the counsels of justice any rightly spoken word, nor will you accept any as probable or convincing, nor advise any gallant plan for your fellow. And yet, my dear Socrates—now do not be annoyed with me, for I am going to say this from goodwill to you—does it not seem to you disgraceful to be in the state I consider you are in, along with the rest of those who are ever pushing further into philosophy? For as it is, if somebody should seize hold of you or anyone else at all of your sort, and drag you off to prison, asserting that you were guilty of a wrong you had never done, you know you would be at a loss what to do with yourself, and would be all dizzy and agape without a word to say; and when you came up in court, though your accuser might be ever so paltry a rascal, you would have to die if he chose to claim death as your penalty. And yet what wisdom is there, Socrates, in an art that found a man of goodly parts and made him worse, unable either to succor himself, or to deliver himself or anyone else from the greatest dangers, but like to be stripped by his enemies of all his substance, and to live in his city as an absolute outcast? Such a person, if one may use a rather low expression, can be given a box on the ear with impunity. No, take my advice, my good sir, and cease refuting; some practical proficiency induce,—something that will give you credit for sense: to others leave these pretty toys,—call them vaporings or fooleries as you will,— which will bring you to inhabit empty halls; and emulate, not men who probe these trifles, but who have means and repute and other good things in plenty.

If my soul had happened to be made of gold, Callicles, do you not think I should have been delighted to find one of those stones with which they test gold, and the best one; which, if I applied it, and it confirmed to me that my soul had been properly tended, would give me full assurance that I am in a satisfactory state and have no need of other testing?

What is the point of that question, Socrates?

I will tell you. I am just thinking what a lucky stroke I have had in striking up with you.

How so?

Section 487

I am certain that whenever you agree with me in any view that my soul takes, this must be the very truth. For I conceive that whoever would sufficiently test a soul as to rectitude of life or the reverse should go to work with three things which are all in your possession—knowledge, goodwill, and frankness. I meet with many people who are unable to test me, because they are not wise as you are; while others, though wise, are unwilling to tell me the truth, because they do not care for me as you do; and our two visitors here, Gorgias and Polus, though wise and friendly to me, are more lacking in frankness and inclined to bashfulness than they should be: nay, it must be so, when they have carried modesty to such a point that each of them can bring himself, out of sheer modesty, to contradict himself in face of a large company, and that on questions of the greatest importance. But you have all these qualities which the rest of them lack: you have had a sound education, as many here in Athens will agree; and you are well disposed to me. You ask what proof I have? I will tell you. I know, Callicles, that four of you have formed a partnership in wisdom—you, Tisander of Aphidnae, Andron, son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of Cholarges; and I once overheard you debating how far the cultivation of wisdom should be carried, and I know you were deciding in favor of some such view as this—that one should not be carried away into the minuter points of philosophy, but you exhorted one another to beware of making yourselves overwise, lest you should unwittingly work your own ruin. So when I hear you giving me the same advice as you gave your own most intimate friends, I have proof enough that you really are well disposed to me. And further, as to your ability to speak out frankly and not be bashful, you not only claim this yourself, but you are borne out too by the speech that you made a short while ago. Well, this is clearly the position of our question at present: if you can bear me out in any point arising in our argument, that point can at once be taken as having been amply tested by both you and me, and there will be no more need of referring it to a further test; for no defect of wisdom or access of modesty could ever have been your motive in making this concession, nor again could you make it to deceive me: for you are my friend, as you say yourself. Hence any agreement between you and me must really have attained the perfection of truth.

Section 488

And on no themes could one make more honorable inquiry, Callicles, than on those which you have reproached me with—what character one should have, and what should be one’s pursuits and up to what point, in later as in earlier years. For I assure you that if there is any fault of conduct to be found in my own life it is not an intentional error, but due to my ignorance: so I ask you not to break off in the middle of your task of admonishing me, but to make fully clear to me what it is that I ought to pursue and by what means I may attain it; and if you find me in agreement with you now, and afterwards failing to do what I agreed to, regard me as a regular dunce and never trouble any more to admonish me again—a mere good-for-nothing. Now, go right back and repeat to me what you and Pindar hold natural justice to consist in: is it that the superior should forcibly despoil the inferior, the better rule the worse, and the nobler have more than the meaner? Have you some other account to give of justice, or do I remember aright?

Why, that is what I said then, and I say it now also.

Is it the same person that you call better and superior? For I must say I was no more able then to understand what your meaning might be. Is it the stronger folk that you call superior, and are the weaker ones bound to hearken to the stronger one—as for instance I think you were also pointing out then, that the great states attack the little ones in accordance with natural right, because they are superior and stronger, on the ground that the superior and the stronger and the better are all the same thing; or is it possible to be better and yet inferior and weaker, and to be superior and yet more wicked? Or is the definition of the better and the superior the same? This is just what I bid you declare in definite terms—whether the superior and the better and the stronger are the same or different.

Well, I tell you plainly, they are all the same.

Now, are the many superior by nature to the one? I mean those who make the laws to keep a check on the one, as you were saying yourself just now.

Of course.

Then the ordinances of the many are those of the superior.

Certainly.

And so of the better? For the superior are far better, by your account.

Yes.

And so their ordinances are by nature fair, since they are superior who made them?

I agree.

Section 489

Then is it the opinion of the many that—as you also said a moment ago—justice means having an equal share, and it is fouler to wrong than be wronged? Is that so, or not? And mind you are not caught this time in a bashful fit. Is it, or is it not, the opinion of the many that to have one’s equal share, and not more than others, is just, and that it is fouler to wrong than be wronged? Do not grudge me an answer to this, Callicles, so that—if I find you agree with me—I may then have the assurance that comes from the agreement of a man so competent to decide.

Well, most people do think so.

Then it is not only by convention that doing wrong is fouler than suffering it, and having one’s equal share is just, but by nature also: and therefore it looks as though your previous statement was untrue, and your count against me incorrect, when you said that convention and nature are opposites and that I, forsooth, recognizing that, am an unscrupulous debater, turning to convention when the assertion refers to nature, and to nature when it refers to convention.

What an inveterate driveller the man is! Tell me, Socrates, are you not ashamed to be word-catching at your age, and if one makes a verbal slip, to take that as a great stroke of luck? Do you imagine that, when I said being superior, I meant anything else than better? Have I not been telling you ever so long that I regard the better and the superior as the same thing? Or do you suppose I mean that if a pack of slaves and all sorts of fellows who are good for nothing, except perhaps in point of physical strength, gather together and say something, that is a legal ordinance?

Very well, most sapient Callicles: you mean that, do you?

Certainly I do.

Why, my wonderful friend, I have myself been guessing ever so long that you meant something of this sort by superior, and if I repeat my questions it is because I am so keen to know definitely what your meaning may be. For I presume you do not consider that two are better than one, or that your slaves are better than yourself, just because they are stronger than you are. Come now, tell me again from the beginning what it is you mean by the better, since you do not mean the stronger only, admirable sir, do be more gentle with me over my first lessons, or I shall cease attending your school.

You are sarcastic, Socrates.

No, by Zethus, Callicles, whom you made use of just now for aiming a good deal of sarcasm at me: but come, tell us whom you mean by the better.

I mean the more excellent.

So you see, you are uttering mere words yourself, and explaining nothing. Will you not tell us whether by the better and superior you mean the wiser, or some other sort?

Why, to be sure, I mean those, and very much so.

Section 490

Then one wise man is often superior to ten thousand fools, by your account, and he ought to rule and they to be ruled, and the ruler should have more than they whom he rules. That is what you seem to me to intend by your statement—and I am not word-catching here—if the one is superior to the ten thousand.

Why, that is my meaning. For this is what I regard as naturally just—that being better and wiser he should have both rule and advantage over the baser people.

Stop there now. Once more, what is your meaning this time? Suppose that a number of us are assembled together, as now, in the same place, and we have in common a good supply of food and drink, and we are of all sorts—some strong, some weak; and one of us, a doctor, is wiser than the rest in this matter and, as may well be, is stronger than some and weaker than others; will not he, being wiser than we are, be better and superior in this affair?

Certainly.

Then is he to have a larger ration than the rest of us because he is better, or ought he as ruler to have the distribution of the whole stock, with no advantage in spending and consuming it upon his own person, if he is to avoid retribution, but merely having more than some and less than others? Or if he chance to be the weakest of all, ought he not to get the smallest share of all though he be the best, Callicles? Is it not so, good sir?

You talk of food and drink and doctors and drivel: I refer to something different.

Then tell me, do you call the wiser better? Yes or no?

Yes, I do.

But do you not think the better should have a larger share?

Yes, but not of food and drink.

I see; of clothes, perhaps; and the ablest weaver should have the largest coat, and go about arrayed in the greatest variety of the finest clothes?

What have clothes to do with it?

Well, shoes then; clearly he who is wisest in regard to these, and best, should have some advantage. Perhaps the shoemaker should walk about in the biggest shoes and wear the largest number.

Shoes—what have they to do with it? You keep on drivelling.

Well, if you do not mean things of that sort, perhaps you mean something like this: a farmer, for instance, who knows all about the land and is highly accomplished in the matter, should perhaps have an advantage in sharing the seed, and have the largest possible amount of it for use on his own land.

How you keep repeating the same thing, Socrates!

Yes, and not only that, Callicles, but on the same subjects too.

Section 491

I believe, on my soul, you absolutely cannot ever stop talking of cobblers and fullers, cooks and doctors, as though our discussion had to do with them.

Then will you tell me in what things the superior and wiser man has a right to the advantage of a larger share? Or will you neither put up with a suggestion from me nor make one yourself?

Why, I have been making mine for sometime past. First of all, by the superior I mean, not shoemakers or cooks, but those who are wise as regards public affairs and the proper way of conducting them, and not only wise but manly, with ability to carry out their purpose to the full; and who will not falter through softness of soul.

Do you perceive, my excellent Callicles, that your count against me is not the same as mine against you? For you say I am ever repeating the same things, and reproach me with it, whereas I charge you, on the contrary, with never saying the same thing on the same subject; but at one moment you defined the better and superior as the stronger, and at another as the wiser, and now you turn up again with something else: the manlier is what you now tell us is meant by the superior and better. No, my good friend, you had best say, and get it over, whom you do mean by the better and superior, and in what sphere.

But I have told you already: men of wisdom and manliness in public affairs. These are the persons who ought to rule our cities, and justice means this—that these should have more than other people, the rulers than the ruled.

How so? Than themselves, my friend?

What do you mean?

I mean that every man is his own ruler; or is there no need of one’s ruling oneself, but only of ruling others?

What do you mean by one who rules himself?

Nothing recondite; merely what most people mean—one who is temperate and self-mastering, ruler of the pleasures and desires that are in himself.

You will have your pleasantry! You mean the simpletons by the temperate.

How so? Nobody can fail to see that I do not mean that.

Section 492

Oh, you most certainly do, Socrates. For how can a man be happy if he is a slave to anybody at all? No, natural fairness and justice, I tell you now quite frankly, is this—that he who would live rightly should let his desires be as strong as possible and not chasten them, and should be able to minister to them when they are at their height by reason of his manliness and intelligence, and satisfy each appetite in turn with what it desires. But this, I suppose, is not possible for the many; whence it comes that they decry such persons out of shame, to disguise their own impotence, and are so good as to tell us that licentiousness is disgraceful, thus enslaving—as I remarked before—the better type of mankind; and being unable themselves to procure achievement of their pleasures they praise temperance and justice by reason of their own unmanliness. For to those who started with the advantage of being either kings’ sons or able by their own parts to procure some authority or monarchy or absolute power, what in truth could be fouler or worse than temperance and justice in such cases? Finding themselves free to enjoy good things, with no obstacle in the way, they would be merely imposing on themselves a master in the shape of the law, the talk and the rebuke of the multitude. Or how could they fail to be sunk in wretchedness by that fairness of justice and temperance, if they had no larger portion to give to their own friends than to their enemies, that too when they were rulers in their own cities? No, in good truth, Socrates—which you claim to be seeking—the fact is this: luxury and licentiousness and liberty, if they have the support of force, are virtue and happiness, and the rest of these embellishments—the unnatural covenants of mankind—are all mere stuff and nonsense.

Far from ignoble, at any rate, Callicles, is the frankness with which you develop your thesis: for you are now stating in clear terms what the rest of the world think indeed, but are loth to say. So I beg you not to give up on any account, that it may be made really evident how one ought to live. Now tell me: do you say the desires are not to be chastened if a man would be such as he ought to be, but he should let them be as great as possible and provide them with satisfaction from some source or other, and this is virtue?

Yes, I say that.

Then it is not correct to say, as people do, that those who want nothing are happy.

No, for at that rate stones and corpses would be extremely happy.

Section 493

Well, well, as you say, life is strange. For I tell you I should not wonder if Euripides’ words were true, when he says:Who knows if to live is to be dead,And to be dead, to live? and we really, it may be, are dead; in fact I once heard sages say that we are now dead, and the body is our tomb, and the part of the soul in which we have desires is liable to be over-persuaded and to vacillate to and fro, and so some smart fellow, a Sicilian, I daresay, or Italian, made a fable in which—by a play of words—he named this part, as being so impressionable and persuadable, a jar, and the thoughtless he called uninitiate: in these uninitiate that part of the soul where the desires are, the licentious and fissured part, he named a leaky jar in his allegory, because it is so insatiate. So you see this person, Callicles, takes the opposite view to yours, showing how of all who are in Hades—meaning of course the invisible—these uninitiate will be most wretched, and will carry water into their leaky jar with a sieve which is no less leaky. And then by the sieve, as my story-teller said, he means the soul: and the soul of the thoughtless he likened to a sieve, as being perforated, since it is unable to hold anything by reason of its unbelief and forgetfulness. All this, indeed, is bordering pretty well on the absurd; but still it sets forth what I wish to impress upon you, if I somehow can, in order to induce you to make a change, and instead of a life of insatiate licentiousness to choose an orderly one that is set up and contented with what it happens to have got. Now, am I at all prevailing upon you to change over to the view that the orderly people are happier than the licentious or will no amount of similar fables that I might tell you have any effect in changing your mind?

The latter is more like the truth, Socrates.

Come now, let me tell you another parable from the same school as that I have just told. Consider if each of the two lives, the temperate and the licentious, might be described by imagining that each of two men had a number of jars, and those of one man were sound and full, one of wine, another of honey, a third of milk, and various others of various things, and that the sources of each of these supplies were scanty and difficult and only available through much hard toil:

Section 494

well, one man, when he has taken his fill, neither draws off any more nor troubles himself a jot, but remains at ease on that score; whilst the other finds, like his fellow, that the sources are possible indeed, though difficult, but his vessels are leaky and decayed, and he is compelled to fill them constantly, all night and day, or else suffer extreme distress. If such is the nature of each of the two lives, do you say that the licentious man has a happier one than the orderly? Do I, with this story of mine, induce you at all to concede that the orderly life is better than the licentious, or do I fail?

You fail, Socrates. For that man who has taken his fill can have no pleasure any more; in fact it is what I just now called living like a stone, when one has filled up and no longer feels any joy or pain. But a pleasant life consists rather in the largest possible amount of inflow.

Well then, if the inflow be large, must not that which runs away be of large amount also, and must not the holes for such outflow be of great size?

Certainly.

Then it is a plover’s life you are describing this time, not that of a corpse or a stone. Now tell me, is the life you mean something like feeling hunger and eating when hungry?

Yes, it is.

And feeling thirst and drinking when thirsty?

Yes, and having all the other desires, and being able to satisfy them, and so with these enjoyments leading a happy life.

Bravo, my fine fellow! Do go on as you have begun, and mind you show no bashfulness about it. I too, it seems, must try not to be too bashful. First of all, tell me whether a man who has an itch and wants to scratch, and may scratch in all freedom, can pass his life happily in continual scratching.

What an odd person you are, Socrates—a regular stump-orator!

Why, of course, Callicles, that is how I upset Polus and Gorgias, and struck them with bashfulness; but you, I know, will never be upset or abashed; you are such a manly fellow. Come, just answer that.

Then I say that the man also who scratches himself will thus spend a pleasant life.

And if a pleasant one, a happy one also?

Certainly.

Is it so if he only wants to scratch his head? Or what more am I to ask you? See, Callicles, what your answer will be, if you are asked everything in succession that links on to that statement; and the culmination of the case, as stated—the life of catamites—is not that awful, shameful, and wretched? Or will you dare to assert that these are happy if they can freely indulge their wants?

Are you not ashamed, Socrates, to lead the discussion into such topics?

Section 495

What, is it I who am leading it there, noble sir, or the person who says outright that those who enjoy themselves, with whatever kind of enjoyment, are happy, and draws no distinction between the good and bad sorts of pleasure? But come, try again now and tell me whether you say that pleasant and good are the same thing, or that there is some pleasure which is not good.

Then, so that my statement may not be inconsistent through my saying they are different, I say they are the same.

You are spoiling your first statements, Callicles, and you can no longer be a fit partner with me in probing the truth, if you are going to speak against your own convictions.

Why, you do the same, Socrates.

Then I am just as much in the wrong if I do, as you are. But look here, my gifted friend, perhaps the good is not mere unconditional enjoyment: for if it is, we have to face not only that string of shameful consequences I have just shadowed forth, but many more besides.

In your opinion, that is, Socrates.

And do you, Callicles, really maintain that it is?

I do.

Then are we to set about discussing it as your serious view?

Oh yes, to be sure.

Come then, since that is your opinion, resolve me this: there is something, I suppose, that you call knowledge?

Yes.

And were you not saying just now that knowledge can have a certain courage coupled with it?

Yes, I was.

And you surely meant that they were two things, courage being distinct from knowledge?

Quite so.

Well now, are pleasure and knowledge the same thing, or different?

Different, I presume, O sage of sages.

And courage too, is that different from pleasure?

Of course it is.

Come now, let us be sure to remember this, that Callicles the Acharnian said pleasant and good were the same, but knowledge and courage were different both from each other and from the good.

And Socrates of Alopece refuses to grant us this; or does he grant it?

He does not; nor, I believe, will Callicles either, when he has rightly considered himself. For tell me, do you not regard people who are well off as being in the opposite condition to those who are badly off?

I do.

Then if these conditions are opposite to each other, must not the same hold of them as of health and disease? For, you know, a man is never well and ill at the same time, nor gets rid of health and disease together.

How do you mean?

Section 496

Take, for instance, any part of the body you like by itself, and consider it. A man, I suppose, may have a disease of the eyes, called ophthalmia?

Certainly.

Then I presume he is not sound also at that time in those same eyes?

By no conceivable means.

And what say you, when he gets rid of his ophthalmia? Does he at that time get rid too of the health of his eyes, and so at last is rid of both things together?

Far from it.

Because, I imagine, this would be an astonishing and irrational result, would it not?

Very much so.

Whereas, I take it, he gets and loses either turn?

I agree.

And so with strength and weakness in just the same way?

Yes.

And speed and slowness?

Certainly.

And so too with good things and happiness and their opposites—bad things and wretchedness—does one take on each of these in turn, and in turn put it off?

Absolutely, I presume.

Then if we find any things that a man puts off and retains at one and the same moment, clearly these cannot be the good and the bad. Do we admit this? Now consider very carefully before you answer.

Oh, I admit it down to the ground.

So now for our former admissions: did you say that being hungry was pleasant or painful? I mean, hunger itself.

Painful, I said; though eating when one is hungry I call pleasant.

I see: but at all events hunger itself is painful, is it not?

I agree.

And so too with thirst?

Quite so.

Then am I to ask you any further questions, or do you admit that all want and desire is painful?

I admit it; no, do not question me further.

Very good: but drinking when one is thirsty you surely say is pleasant?

I do.

Now, in this phrase of yours the words when one is thirsty, I take it, stand for when one is in pain?

Yes.

But drinking is a satisfaction of the want, and a pleasure?

Yes.

So in the act of drinking, you say, one has enjoyment?

Quite so.

When one is thirsty?

I agree.

That is, in pain?

Yes.

Then do you perceive the conclusion,—that you say one enjoys oneself, though in pain at the same moment, when you say one drinks when one is thirsty? Or does this not occur at once, at the same place and time—in either soul or body, as you please? For I fancy it makes no difference. Is this so or not?

It is.

But further, you say it is impossible to be badly off, or to fare ill, at the same time as one is faring well.

Section 497

Yes, I do.

But to enjoy oneself when feeling pain you have admitted to be possible.

Apparently.

Hence enjoyment is not faring well, nor is feeling pain faring ill, so that the pleasant is found to be different from the good.

I cannot follow these subtleties of yours, Socrates.

You can, but you play the innocent, Callicles. Just go on a little further, that you may realize how subtle is your way of reproving me. Does not each of us cease at the same moment from thirst and from the pleasure he gets by drinking?

I cannot tell what you mean.

No, no, Callicles, you must answer him, for our sakes also, that the arguments may be brought to a conclusion.

But Socrates is always like this, Gorgias he keeps on asking petty, unimportant questions until he refutes one.

Why, what does that matter to you? In any case it is not your credit that is at stake, Callicles; just permit Socrates to refute you in such manner as he chooses.

Well then, proceed with those little cramped questions of yours, since Gorgias is so minded.

You are fortunate, Callicles, in having been initiated into the Great Mysteries before the Little: I did not think that was the proper thing. So go on answering where you left off—as to whether each of us does not cease to feel thirst and pleasure at the same time.

I grant it.

And so, with hunger and the rest, does he cease to feel the desires and pleasures at the same time?

That is so.

And also ceases to feel the pains and pleasures at the same time?

Yes.

But still he does not cease to have the good and bad at the same time, as you agreed; and now, you do not agree?

I do; and what then?

Only that we get the result, my friend, that the good things are not the same as the pleasant, nor the bad as the painful. For with the one pair the cessation is of both at once, but with the other two it is not, since they are distinct. How then can pleasant things be the same as good, or painful things as bad? Or if you like, consider it another way—for I fancy that even after that you do not admit it. Just observe: do you not call good people good owing to the presence of good things, as you call beautiful those in whom beauty is present?

I do.

Well now, do you give the name of good men to fools and cowards? It was not they just now but brave and wise men whom you so described. Or is it not these that you call good?

To be sure it is.

And now, have you ever seen a silly child enjoying itself?

I have.

And have you never seen a silly man enjoying himself?

I should think I have; but what has that to do with it?

Nothing; only answer.

I have seen one.

Section 498

And again, a man of sense in a state of pain or enjoyment?

Yes.

And which sort are more apt to feel enjoyment or pain, the wise or the foolish?

I should think there is not much difference.

Well, that will suffice. In war have you ever seen a coward?

Of course I have.

Well now, when the enemy withdrew, which seemed to you to enjoy it more, the cowards or the brave?

Both did, I thought; or if not that, about equally.

No matter. Anyhow, the cowards do enjoy it?

Very much.

And the fools, it would seem.

Yes.

And when the foe advances, do the cowards alone feel pain, or the brave as well?

Both.

Alike?

More, perhaps, the cowards.

And when the foe withdraws, do they not enjoy it more?

Perhaps.

So the foolish and the wise, and the cowardly and the brave, feel pain and enjoyment about equally, according to you, but the cowardly more than the brave?

I agree.

But further, are the wise and brave good, and the cowards and fools bad?

Yes.

Then the good and the bad feel enjoyment and pain about equally?

I agree.

Then are the good and the bad about equally good and bad? Or are the bad in some yet greater measure good and bad?

Why, upon my word, I cannot tell what you mean.

You are aware, are you not, that you hold that the good are good by the presence of good things, and that the bad are so by the presence of bad things? And that the pleasures are the good things, and the pains bad things?

Yes, I am.

Hence in those who have enjoyment the good things—the pleasures—are present, so long as they enjoy?

Of course.

Then, good things being present, those who enjoy are good?

Yes.

Well now, in those who feel pain are not bad things present, namely pains?

They are.

And it is by the presence of bad things, you say, that the bad are bad? Or do you no longer say so?

I do say so.

Then whoever enjoys is good, and whoever is pained, bad?

Certainly.

You mean, those more so who feel these things more, and those less who feel less, and those about equally who feel about equally?

Yes.

Now you say that the wise and the foolish, the cowardly and the brave, feel enjoyment and pain about equally, or the cowards even more?

I do.

Section 499

Then just help me to reckon up the results we get from our admissions for you know they say: That which seemeth well, ’tis well twice and also thrice to tell, and to examine too. We say that the wise and brave man is good, do we not?

Yes.

And that the foolish and cowardly is bad?

Certainly.

And again, that he who enjoys is good?

Yes.

And that he who feels pain is bad?

Necessarily.

And that the good and the bad feel enjoyment and pain in a like manner, or perhaps the bad rather more?

Yes.

Then is the bad man made bad or good in a like manner to the good man, or even good in a greater measure? Does not this follow, along with those former statements, from the assumption that pleasant things and good things are the same? Must not this be so, Callicles?

Let me tell you, Socrates, all the time that I have been listening to you and yielding you agreement, I have been remarking the puerile delight with which you cling to any concession one may make to you, even in jest. So you suppose that I or anybody else in the world does not regard some pleasures as better, and others worse!

Oh ho, Callicles, what a rascal you are, treating me thus like a child—now asserting that the same things are one way, now another, to deceive me! And yet I started with the notion that I should not have to fear any intentional deception on your part, you being my friend; but now I find I was mistaken, and it seems I must, as the old saying goes, e’en make the best of what I have got, and accept just anything you offer. Well then, what you now state, it seems, is that there are certain pleasures, some good, and some bad; is not that so?

Yes.

Then are the beneficial ones good, and the harmful ones bad?

Certainly.

And are those beneficial which do some good, and those evil which do some evil?

I agree.

Now are these the sort you mean—for instance, in the body, the pleasures of eating and drinking that we mentioned a moment ago? Then the pleasures of this sort which produce health in the body, or strength, or any other bodily excellence,—are these good, and those which have the opposite effects, bad?

Certainly.

And similarly in the case of pains, are some worthy and some base?

Of course.

So it is the worthy pleasures and pains that we ought to choose in all our doings?

Certainly.

And the base ones not?

Clearly so.

Section 500

Because, you know, Polus and I, if you recollect, decided. that everything we do should be for the sake of what is good. Do you agree with us in this view—that the good is the end of all our actions, and it is for its sake that all other things should be done, and not it for theirs? Do you add your vote to ours, and make a third?

I do.

Then it is for the sake of what is good that we should do everything, including what is pleasant, not the good for the sake of the pleasant.

Certainly.

Now is it in every man’s power to pick out which sort of pleasant things are good and which bad, or is professional skill required in each case?

Professional skill.

Then let us recall those former points I was putting to Polus and Gorgias. I said, if you remember, that there were certain industries, some of which extend only to pleasure, procuring that and no more, and ignorant of better and worse; while others know what is good and what bad. And I placed among those that are concerned with pleasure the habitude, not art, of cookery, and among those concerned with good the art of medicine. Now by the sanctity of friendship, Callicles, do not on your part indulge in jesting with me, or give me random answers against your conviction, or again, take what I say as though I were jesting. For you see that our debate is upon a question which has the highest conceivable claims to the serious interest even of a person who has but little intelligence—namely, what course of life is best; whether it should be that to which you invite me, with all those manly pursuits of speaking in Assembly and practicing rhetoric and going in for politics after the fashion of you modern politicians, or this life of philosophy; and what makes the difference between these two. Well, perhaps it is best to do what I attempted a while ago, and distinguish them; and then, when we have distinguished them and come to an agreement with each other as to these lives being really two, we must consider what is the difference between them and which of them is the one we ought to live. Now I daresay you do not yet grasp my meaning.

No, I do not.

Well, I will put it to you more plainly. Seeing that we have agreed, you and I, that there is such a thing as good, and such a thing as pleasant, and that the pleasant is other than the good, and that for the acquisition of either there is a certain practice or preparation—the quest of the pleasant in the one case, and that of the good in the other—but first you must either assent or object to this statement of mine: do you assent?

I am with you entirely.

Section 501

Then try and come to a definite agreement with me on what I was saying to our friends here, and see if you now find that what I then said was true. I was saying, I think, that cookery seems to me not an art but a habitude, unlike medicine, which, I argued, has investigated the nature of the person whom she treats and the cause of her proceedings, and has some account to give of each of these things; so much for medicine: whereas the other, in respect of the pleasure to which her whole ministration is given, goes to work there in an utterly inartistic manner, without having investigated at all either the nature or the cause of pleasure, and altogether irrationally—with no thought, one may say, of differentiation, relying on routine and habitude for merely preserving a memory of what is wont to result; and that is how she is enabled to provide her pleasures. Now consider first whether you think that this account is satisfactory, and that there are certain other such occupations likewise, having to do with the soul; some artistic, with forethought for what is to the soul’s best advantage, and others making light of this, but again, as in the former case, considering merely the soul’s pleasure and how it may be contrived for her, neither inquiring which of the pleasures is a better or a worse one, nor caring for aught but mere gratification, whether for better or worse. For I, Callicles, hold that there are such, and for my part I call this sort of thing flattery, whether in relation to the body or to the soul or to anything else, whenever anyone ministers to its pleasure without regard for the better and the worse; and you now, do you support us with the same opinion on this matter, or do you gainsay us?

Not I; I agree with you, in order that your argument may reach a conclusion, and that I may gratify Gorgias here.

And is this the case with only one soul, and not with two or many?

No, it is also the case with two or many.

Then is it possible also to gratify them all at once, collectively, with no consideration of what is best?

I should think it is.

Then can you say what are the pursuits which effect this? Or rather, if you like, when I ask you, and one of them seems to you to be of this class, say yes, and when one does not, say no. And first let us consider flute-playing. Does it not seem to you one of this sort, Callicles, aiming only at our pleasure, and caring for naught else ?

It does seem so to me.

And so too with all similar pursuits, such as harp-playing in the contests?

Yes.

Section 502

And what of choral productions and dithyrambic compositions? Are they not manifestly, in your view, of the same kind? Or do you suppose Cinesias, son of Meles, cares a jot about trying to say things of a sort that might be improving to his audience, or only what is likely to gratify the crowd of spectators?

Clearly the latter is the case, Socrates, with Cinesias.

And what of his father Meles? Did he ever strike you as looking to what was best in his minstrelsy? Or did he, perhaps, not even make the pleasantest his aim? For his singing used to be a pain to the audience. But consider now: do you not think that all minstrelsy and composing of dithyrambs have been invented for the sake of pleasure?

I do.

Then what of the purpose that has inspired our stately and wonderful tragic poetry? Are her endeavor and purpose, to your mind, merely for the gratification of the spectators, or does she strive hard, if there be anything pleasant and gratifying, but bad for them, to leave that unsaid, and if there be anything unpleasant, but beneficial, both to speak and sing that, whether they enjoy it or not? To which of these two aims, think you, is tragic poetry devoted ?

It is quite obvious, in her case, Socrates, that she is bent rather upon pleasure and the gratification of the spectators.

Well now, that kind of thing, Callicles, did we say just now, is flattery ?

Certainly.

Pray then, if we strip any kind of poetry of its melody, its rhythm and its meter, we get mere speeches as the residue, do we not?

That must be so.

And those speeches are spoken to a great crowd of people?

Yes.

Hence poetry is a kind of public speaking.

Apparently.

Then it must be a rhetorical public speaking or do you not think that the poets use rhetoric in the theaters?

Yes, I do.

So now we have found a kind of rhetoric addressed to such a public as is compounded of children and women and men, and slaves as well as free; an art that we do not quite approve of, since we call it a flattering one.

To be sure.

Very well; but now, the rhetoric addressed to the Athenian people, or to the other assemblies of freemen in the various cities—what can we make of that? Do the orators strike you as speaking always with a view to what is best, with the single aim of making the citizens as good as possible by their speeches, or are they, like the poets, set on gratifying the citizens, and do they, sacrificing the common weal to their own personal interest, behave to these assemblies as to children, trying merely to gratify them, nor care a jot whether they will be better or worse in consequence?

Section 503

This question of yours is not quite so simple; for there are some who have a regard for the citizens in the words that they utter, while there are also others of the sort that you mention.

That is enough for me. For if this thing also is twofold, one part of it, I presume, will be flattery and a base mob-oratory, while the other is noble—the endeavor, that is, to make the citizens’ souls as good as possible, and the persistent effort to say what is best, whether it prove more or less pleasant to one’s hearers. But this is a rhetoric you never yet saw; or if you have any orator of this kind that you can mention, without more ado let me know who he is!

No, upon my word, I cannot tell you of anyone, at least among the orators of today.

Well then, can you mention one among those of older times whom the Athenians have to thank for any betterment that started at the time of his first harangues, as a change from the worse state in which he originally found them? For my part, I have no idea who the man is.

Why, do you hear no mention of Themistocles and what a good man he was, and Cimon and Miltiades and the great Pericles, who has died recently, and whom you have listened to yourself?

Yes, Callicles, if that which you spoke of just now is true virtue—the satisfaction of one’s own and other men’s desires; but if that is not so, and the truth is—as we were compelled to admit in the subsequent discussion—that only those desires which make man better by their satisfaction should be fulfilled, but those which make him worse should not, and that this is a special art, then I for one cannot tell you of any man so skilled having appeared among them.

Ah, but if you search properly you will find one.

Then let us just consider the matter calmly, and see if any of them has appeared with that skill. Come now: the good man, who is intent on the best when he speaks, will surely not speak at random in whatever he says, but with a view to some object? He is just like any other craftsman, who having his own particular work in view selects the things he applies to that work of his, not at random, but with the purpose of giving a certain form to whatever he is working upon.

Section 504

You have only to look, for example, at the painters, the builders, the shipwrights, or any of the other craftsmen, whichever you like, to see how each of them arranges everything according to a certain order, and forces one part to suit and fit with another, until he has combined the whole into a regular and well-ordered production; and so of course with all the other craftsmen, and the people we mentioned just now, who have to do with the body—trainers and doctors; they too, I suppose, bring order and system into the body. Do we admit this to be the case, or not?

Let it be as you say.

Then if regularity and order are found in a house, it will be a good one, and if irregularity, a bad one?

I agree.

And it will be just the same with a ship?

Yes.

And further, with our bodies also, can we say?

Certainly.

And what of the soul? If it shows irregularity, will it be good, or if it has a certain regularity and order?

Our former statements oblige us to agree to this also.

Then what name do we give to the effect of regularity and order in the body?

Health and strength, I suppose you mean.

I do. And what, again, to the effect produced in the soul by regularity and order? Try to find the name here, and tell it me as before.

Why not name it yourself, Socrates ?

Well, if you prefer it, I will; and do you, if I seem to you to name it rightly, say so; if not, you must refute me and not let me have my way. For it seems to me that any regularity of the body is called healthiness, and this leads to health being produced in it, and general bodily excellence. Is that so or not?

It is.

And the regular and orderly states of the soul are called lawfulness and law, whereby men are similarly made law-abiding and orderly; and these states are justice and temperance. Do you agree or not?

Be it so.

Then it is this that our orator, the man of art and virtue, will have in view, when he applies to our souls the words that he speaks, and also in all his actions, and in giving any gift he will give it, and in taking anything away he will take it, with this thought always before his mind— how justice may be engendered in the souls of his fellow-citizens, and how injustice may be removed; how temperance may be bred in them and licentiousness cut off; and how virtue as a whole may be produced and vice expelled. Do you agree to this or not?

I agree.

For what advantage is there, Callicles, in giving to a sick and ill-conditioned body a quantity of even the most agreeable things to eat and drink, or anything else whatever, if it is not going to profit thereby any more, let us say, than by the opposite treatment, on any fair reckoning, and may profit less? Is this so?

Section 505

Be it so.

Because, I imagine, it is no gain for a man to live in a depraved state of body, since in this case his life must be a depraved one also. Or is not that the case?

Yes.

And so the satisfaction of one’s desires—if one is hungry, eating as much as one likes, or if thirsty, drinking—is generally allowed by doctors when one is in health; but they practically never allow one in sickness to take one’s fill of things that one desires: do you agree with me in this?

I do.

And does not the same rule, my excellent friend, apply to the soul? So long as it is in a bad state—thoughtless, licentious, unjust and unholy—we must restrain its desires and not permit it to do anything except what will help it to be better: do you grant this, or not?

I do.

For thus, I take it, the soul itself is better off?

To be sure.

And is restraining a person from what he desires correcting him?

Yes.

Then correction is better for the soul than uncorrected licence, as you were thinking just now.

I have no notion what you are referring to, Socrates; do ask some one else.

Here is a fellow who cannot endure a kindness done him, or the experience in himself of what our talk is about—a correction!

Well, and not a jot do I care, either, for anything you say; I only gave you those answers to oblige Gorgias.

Very good. So now, what shall we do? Break off our argument midway?

You must decide that for yourself.

Why, they say one does wrong to leave off even stories in the middle; one should set a head on the thing, that it may not go about headless. So proceed with the rest of your answers, that our argument may pick up a head.

How overbearing you are, Socrates! Take my advice, and let this argument drop, or find some one else to argue with.

Then who else is willing? Surely we must not leave the argument there, unfinished?

Could you not get through it yourself, either talking on by yourself or answering your own questions?

So that, in Epicharmus’s phrase, what two men spake erewhile I may prove I can manage single-handed. And indeed it looks as though it must of sheer necessity be so. Still, if we are to do this, for my part I think we ought all to vie with each other in attempting a knowledge of what is true and what false in the matter of our argument; for it is a benefit to all alike that it be revealed.

Section 506

Now I am going to pursue the argument as my view of it may suggest; but if any of you think the admissions I am making to myself are not the truth, you must seize upon them and refute me. For I assure you I myself do not say what I say as knowing it, but as joining in the search with you; so that if anyone who disputes my statements is found to be on the right track, I shall be the first to agree with him. This, however, I say on the assumption that you think the argument should be carried through to a conclusion; but if you would rather it were not, let us have done with it now and go our ways.

Well, my opinion is, Socrates, that we ought not to go away yet, but that you should go through with the argument; and I fancy the rest of them think the same. For I myself, in fact, desire to hear you going through the remainder by yourself.

Why, to be sure, Gorgias, I myself should have liked to continue discussing with Callicles here until I had paid him an Amphion’s speech in return for his of Zethus. But since you, Callicles, are unwilling to join me in finishing off the argument, you must at any rate pull me up, as you listen, if it seems to you that my statements are wrong. And if you refute me, I shall not be vexed with you as you were with me; you will only be recorded in my mind as my greatest benefactor.

Proceed, good sir, by yourself, and finish it off.

Give ear, then; but first I will resume our argument from the beginning. Are the pleasant and the good the same thing? Not the same, as Callicles and I agreed. Is the pleasant thing to be done for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant for the sake of the good. And is that thing pleasant by whose advent we are pleased, and that thing good by whose presence we are good? Certainly. But further, both we and everything else that is good, are good by the advent of some virtue? In my view this must be so, Callicles. But surely the virtue of each thing, whether of an implement or of a body, or again of a soul or any live creature, does not arrive most properly by accident, but by an order or rightness or art that is apportioned to each. Is that so? I certainly agree. Then the virtue of each thing is a matter of regular and orderly arrangement? I at least should say so. Hence it is a certain order proper to each existent thing that by its advent in each makes it good? That is my view. So then a soul which has its own proper order is better than one which is unordered? Necessarily. But further, one that has order is orderly? Of course it will be.

Section 507

And the orderly one is temperate? Most necessarily. So the temperate soul is good. For my part, I can find nothing to say in objection to this, my dear Callicles; but if you can, do instruct me.

Proceed, good sir.

I say, then, that if the temperate soul is good, one that is in the opposite state to this sensible one is bad; and that was the senseless and dissolute one. Certainly. And further, the sensible man will do what is fitting as regards both gods and men; for he could not be sensible if he did what was unfitting. That must needs be so. And again, when he does what is fitting as regards men, his actions will be just, and as regards the gods, pious; and he who does what is just and pious must needs be a just and pious man. That is so. And surely he must be brave also: for you know a sound or temperate mind is shown, not by pursuing and shunning what one ought not, but by shunning and pursuing what one ought, whether they be things or people or pleasures or pains, and by steadfastly persevering in one’s duty; so that it follows of strict necessity, Callicles, that the temperate man, as shown in our exposition, being just and brave and pious, is the perfection of a good man; and that the good man does well and fairly whatever he does and that he who does well is blessed and happy, while the wicked man or evil-doer is wretched. And this must be the man who is in an opposite case to the temperate,—the licentious man whom you were commending. So there is my account of the matter, and I say that this is the truth; and that, if this is true, anyone, as it seems, who desires to be happy must ensue and practice temperance, and flee from licentiousness, each of us as fast as his feet will carry him, and must contrive, if possible, to need no correction; but if he have need of it, either himself or anyone belonging to him, either an individual or a city, then right must be applied and they must be corrected, if they are to be happy. This, in my opinion, is the mark on which a man should fix his eyes throughout life; he should concentrate all his own and his city’s efforts on this one business of providing a man who would be blessed with the needful justice and temperance; not letting one’s desires go unrestrained and in one’s attempts to satisfy them—an interminable trouble—leading the life of a robber. For neither to any of his fellow-men can such a one be dear, nor to God; since he cannot commune with any, and where there is no communion, there can be no friendship.

Section 508

And wise men tell us, Callicles, that heaven and earth and gods and men are held together by communion and friendship, by orderliness, temperance, and justice; and that is the reason, my friend, why they call the whole of this world by the name of order, not of disorder or dissoluteness. Now you, as it seems to me, do not give proper attention to this, for all your cleverness, but have failed to observe the great power of geometrical equality amongst both gods and men: you hold that self-advantage is what one ought to practice, because you neglect geometry. Very well: either we must refute this statement, that it is by the possession of justice and temperance that the happy are happy and by that of vice the wretched are wretched; or if this is true, we must investigate its consequences. Those former results, Callicles, must all follow, on which you asked me if I was speaking in earnest when I said that a man must accuse himself or his son or his comrade if he do any wrong, and that this is what rhetoric must be used for; and what you supposed Polus to be conceding from shame is after all true— that to do wrong is worse, in the same degree as it is baser, than to suffer it, and that whoever means to be the right sort of rhetorician must really be just and well-informed of the ways of justice, which again Polus said that Gorgias was only shamed into admitting. This being the case, let us consider what weight, if any, there is in the reproaches you cast upon me: is it fairly alleged or not that I am unable to stand up for myself or any of my friends and relations, or to deliver them from the sorest perils, but am exposed like an outcast to the whim of anyone who chooses to give me— the dashing phrase is yours—a box on the ear; or strip me of my substance or expel me from the city; or, worst of all, put me to death; and that to be in such a case is the lowest depth of shame, as your account has it? But mine—though it has been frequently stated already, there can be no objection to my stating it once again—is this: I deny, Callicles, that to be wrongfully boxed on the ear is the deepest disgrace, or to have either my person cut or my purse; I hold that to strike or cut me or mine wrongfully is yet more of a disgrace and an evil, and likewise stealing and kidnapping and housebreaking, and in short any wrong whatsoever done to me or mine, are both worse and more shameful to the wrongdoer than to me the wronged.

Section 509

All this, which has been made evident in the form I have stated some way back in our foregoing discussion, is held firm and fastened—if I may put it rather bluntly—with reasons of steel and adamant (so it would seem, at least, on the face of it) which you or somebody more gallant than yourself must undo, or else accept this present statement of mine as the only possible one. For my story is ever the same, that I cannot tell how the matter stands, and yet of all whom I have encountered, before as now, no one has been able to state it otherwise without making himself ridiculous. Well now, once more I assume it to be so; but if it is so, and injustice is the greatest of evils to the wrongdoer, and still greater than this greatest, if such can be, when the wrongdoer pays no penalty, what rescue is it that a man must be able to effect for himself if he is not to be ridiculous in very truth? Is it not one which will avert from us the greatest harm? Nay, rescue must needs be at its shamefullest, if one is unable to rescue either oneself or one’s own friends and relations, and second to it is inability in face of the second sort of evil, and third in face of the third, and so on with the rest; according to the gravity attaching to each evil is either the glory of being able to effect a rescue from each sort, or the shame of being unable. Is it so or otherwise, Callicles?

Not otherwise.

Then of these two, doing and suffering wrong, we declare doing wrong to be the greater evil, and suffering it the less. Now with what should a man provide himself in order to come to his own rescue, and so have both of the benefits that arise from doing no wrong on the one hand, and suffering none on the other? Is it power or will? What I mean is, will a man avoid being wronged by merely wishing not to be wronged, or will he avoid it by providing himself with power to avert it?

The answer to that is obvious: by means of power.

But what about doing wrong? Will the mere not wishing to do it suffice—since, in that case, he will not do it—or does it require that he also provide himself with some power or art, since unless he has got such learning or training he will do wrong? I really must have your answer on this particular point, Callicles—whether you think that Polus and I were correct or not in finding ourselves forced to admit, as we did in the preceding argument, that no one does wrong of his own wish, but that all who do wrong do it against their will.

Section 510

Let it be as you would have it, Socrates, in order that you may come to a conclusion of your argument.

Then for this purpose also, of not doing wrong, it seems we must provide ourselves with a certain power or art.

To be sure.

Now what can be the art of providing so that we suffer no wrong, or as little as possible? Consider if you take the same view of it as I do. For in my view it is this: one must either be a ruler, or even a despot, in one’s city, or else an associate of the existing government.

Do you note, Socrates, how ready I am to praise, when you say a good thing? This seems to me excellently spoken.

Then see if this next statement of mine strikes you as a good one too. It seems to me that the closest possible friendship between man and man is that mentioned by the sages of old time as like to like. Do you not agree?

I do.

So where you have a savage, uneducated ruler as despot, if there were some one in the city far better than he, I suppose the despot would be afraid of him and could never become a friend to him with all his heart?

That is so.

Nor a friend to anyone who was much inferior to him either; for the despot would despise him and never show him the attention due to a friend.

That is true also.

Then the only friend of any account that remains for such a person is a man of his own temper, who blames and praises the same things, and is thus willing to be governed by him and to be subject to his rule. He is a man who will have great power in that state; him none will wrong with impunity. Is it not so?

Yes.

Hence if one of the young men in that city should reflect: In what way can I have great power, and no one may do me wrong?—this, it would seem, is the path he must take, to accustom himself from his earliest youth to be delighted and annoyed by the same things as his master, and contrive to be as like the other as possible. Is it not so?

Yes.

And so this man will have attained to a condition of suffering no wrong and having great power—as your party maintain—in the city.

Certainly.

And of doing no wrong likewise? Or is it quite the contrary, if he is to be like his unjust ruler, and have great influence with him? Well, for my part, I think his efforts will be all the opposite way, that is, towards enabling himself to do as much wrong as possible and to pay no penalty for the wrong he does; will they not?

Apparently.

Section 511

And thus he will find himself possessed of the greatest evil, that of having his soul depraved and maimed as a result of his imitation of his master and the power he has got.

You have a strange way of twisting your arguments, at each point, this way or that, Socrates! Surely you know that this imitator will put to death anyone who does not imitate his master, if he pleases, and will strip him of his property.

I know that, my good Callicles, if I am not deaf, as I have heard it so often of late from you and Polus, and from almost every one else in the town; but you in return must hear what I say—that he will put a man to death if he pleases, but it will be a villain slaying a good man and true.

And is not this the very thing that makes one indignant?

Not if one is a man of sense, as our argument indicates. Or do you suppose that the object of a man’s efforts should be to live as long a time as possible, and to cultivate those arts which preserve us from every danger; such as that which you bid me cultivate—rhetoric, the art that preserves us in the law courts?

Yes, on my word I do, and sound advice it is that I give you.

But now, my excellent friend, do you think there is anything grand in the accomplishment of swimming?

No, in truth, not I.

Yet, you know, that too saves men from death, when they have got into a plight of the kind in which that accomplishment is needed. But if this seems to you too small a thing, I will tell you of a more important one, the art of piloting, which saves not only our lives but also our bodies and our goods from extreme perils, as rhetoric does. And at the same time it is plain-fashioned and orderly, not giving itself grand airs in a pretence of performing some transcendent feat; but in return for performing the same as the forensic art—bringing one safely over, it may be, from Aegina—it charges a fee, I believe, of two obols; or if it be from Egypt or the Pontus, at the very most—for this great service of bringing safe home, as I said just now, oneself and children and goods and womenfolk—on landing charges a couple of drachmae; the actual possessor of the art, after performing all this, goes ashore and strolls on the quay by his vessel’s side, with an unobtrusive demeanor. For he knows, I expect, how to estimate the uncertainty as to which of his passengers he has benefited by not letting them be lost at sea, and which he has injured, being aware that he has put them ashore not a whit better than when they came aboard, either in body or in soul.

Section 512

And so he reckons out how wrong it is that, whereas a victim of severe and incurable diseases of the body who has escaped drowning is miserable in not having died, and has got no benefit at his hands, yet, if a man has many incurable diseases in that part of him so much more precious than the body, his soul, that such a person is to live, and that he will be doing him the service of saving him either from the sea or from a law court or from any other peril whatsoever: no, he knows it cannot be better for a man who is vicious to live, since he must needs live ill. This is why it is not the custom for the pilot to give himself grand airs, though he does save our lives; nor for the engineer either, my admirable friend, who sometimes has the power of saving lives in no less degree than a general—to say nothing of a pilot—or anyone else: for at times he saves whole cities. Can you regard him as comparable with the lawyer? And yet, if he chose to speak as you people do, Callicles, magnifying his business, he would bury you in a heap of words, pleading and urging the duty of becoming engineers, as the only thing; for he would find reasons in plenty. But you none the less despise him and his special art, and you would call him engineer in a taunting sense, and would refuse either to bestow your daughter on his son or let your own son marry his daughter. And yet after the praises you sing of your own pursuits what fair ground have you for despising the engineer and the others whom I was mentioning just now? I know you would claim to be a better man and of better birth. But if better has not the meaning I give it, but virtue means just saving oneself and one’s belongings, whatever one’s character may be, you are merely ridiculous in cavilling at the engineer and the doctor and every other art that has been produced for our safety. No, my gifted friend, just see if the noble and the good are not something different from saving and being saved. For as to living any particular length of time, this is surely a thing that any true man should ignore, and not set his heart on mere life; but having resigned all this to Heaven and believing what the women say—that not one of us can escape his destiny—he should then proceed to consider in what way he will best live out his allotted span of life;

Section 513

whether in assimilating himself to the constitution of the state in which he may be dwelling— and so therefore now, whether it is your duty to make yourself as like as possible to the Athenian people, if you intend to win its affection and have great influence in the city: see if this is to your advantage and mine, so that we may not suffer, my distinguished friend, the fate that they say befalls the creatures who would draw down the moon—the hags of Thessaly; that our choice of this power in the city may not cost us all that we hold most dear. But if you suppose that anyone in the world can transmit to you such an art as will cause you to have great power in this state without conforming to its government either for better or for worse, in my opinion you are ill-advised, Callicles; for you must be no mere imitator, but essentially like them, if you mean to achieve any genuine sort of friendship with Demus the Athenian people, ay, and I dare swear, with Demus son of Pyrilampes as well. So whoever can render you most like them is the person to make you a statesman in the way that you desire to be a statesman, and a rhetorician; for everybody is delighted with words that are designed for his special temper, but is annoyed by what is spoken to suit aliens—unless you have some other view, dear creature. Have we any objection to this, Callicles?

It seems to me, I cannot tell how, that your statement is right, Socrates, but I share the common feeling; I do not quite believe you.

Because the love of Demus, Callicles, is there in your soul to resist me: but if haply we come to examine these same questions more than once, and better, you will believe. Remember, however, that we said there were two treatments that might be used in the tendance of any particular thing, whether body or soul: one, making pleasure the aim in our dealings with it; the other, working for what is best, not indulging it but striving with it as hard as we can. Was not this the distinction we were making at that point?

Certainly.

Then the one, aiming at pleasure, is ignoble and really nothing but flattery, is it not?

Be it so, if you like.

And the aim of the other is to make that which we are tending, whether it be body or soul, as good as may be.

To be sure.

Section 514

Then ought we not to make it our endeavor, in tending our city and its citizens, to make those citizens as good as possible? For without this, you see, as we found in our former argument, there is no use in offering any other service, unless the intentions of those who are going to acquire either great wealth or special authority or any other sort of power be fair and honorable. Are we to grant that?

Certainly, if you so prefer.

Then if you and I, Callicles, in setting about some piece of public business for the state, were to invite one another to see to the building part of it, say the most important erections either of walls or arsenals or temples, would it be our duty to consider and examine ourselves, first as to whether we understood the art of building or not, and from whom we had learnt it? Would we have to do this, or not?

Certainly.

And so again, in the second place, whether we had ever erected any building privately for one of our friends or for ourselves, and whether such building was handsome or ugly? And if we found on consideration that we had been under good and reputable masters, and that there were many handsome buildings that had been erected by us with our masters’ guidance, and many also by ourselves alone, after we had dispensed with our masters, it might, in those circumstances, be open to men of sense to enter upon public works: but if we had neither a master of ourselves to point to, nor any buildings at all, or only a number of worthless ones, in that case surely it would be senseless to attempt public works or invite one another to take them in hand. Shall we agree to the correctness of this statement or not?

Yes, to be sure.

And so too with all the rest: suppose, for instance, we had undertaken the duties of state-physicians, and were to invite one another to the work as qualified doctors, we should, I presume, have first inquired of each other, I of you and you of me: Let us see now, in Heaven’s name; how does Socrates himself stand as regards his body’s health? Or has anyone else, slave or free, ever had Socrates to thank for ridding him of a disease? And I also, I fancy, should make the same sort of inquiry about you; and then, if we found we had never been the cause of an improvement in the bodily condition of anyone, stranger or citizen, man or woman,—by Heaven, Callicles, would it not in truth be ridiculous that men should descend to such folly that, before having plenty of private practice, sometimes with indifferent results, sometimes with success, and so getting adequate training in the art, they should, as the saying is, try to learn pottery by starting on a wine-jar, and start public practice themselves and invite others of their like to do so? Do you not think it would be mere folly to act thus?

I do.

Section 515

And now, most excellent sir, since you are yourself just entering upon a public career, and are inviting me to do the same, and reproaching me for not doing it, shall we not inquire of one another: Let us see, has Callicles ever made any of the citizens better? Is there one who was previously wicked, unjust, licentious, and senseless, and has to thank Callicles for making him an upright, honorable man, whether stranger or citizen, bond or free? Tell me, if anyone examines you in these terms, Callicles, what will you say? What human being will you claim to have made better by your intercourse? Do you shrink from answering, if there really is some work of yours in private life that can serve as a step to your public practice?

You are contentious, Socrates!

No, it is not from contentiousness that I ask you this, but from a real wish to know in what manner you can imagine you ought to conduct yourself as one of our public men. Or can it be, then, that you will let us see you concerning yourself with anything else in your management of the city’s affairs than making us, the citizens, as good as possible? Have we not more than once already admitted that this is what the statesman ought to do? Have we admitted it or not? Answer. We have: I will answer for you. Then if this is what the good man ought to accomplish for his country, recall now those men whom you mentioned a little while ago, and tell me if you still consider that they showed themselves good citizens— Pericles and Cimon and Miltiades and Themistocles.

Yes, I do.

Then if they were good, clearly each of them was changing the citizens from worse to better. Was this so, or not?

Yes.

So when Pericles began to speak before the people, the Athenians were worse than when he made his last speeches?

Perhaps.

Not perhaps, as you say, excellent sir; it follows of necessity from what we have admitted, on the assumption that he was a good citizen.

Well, what then?

Nothing: but tell me one thing in addition,—whether the Athenians are said to have become better because of Pericles, or quite the contrary, to have been corrupted by him. What I, for my part, hear is that Pericles has made the Athenians idle, cowardly, talkative, and avaricious, by starting the system of public fees.

You hear that from the folk with battered ears, Socrates.

Section 516

Ah, but what is no longer a matter of hearsay, but rather of certain knowledge, for you as well as for me, is that Pericles was popular at first, and the Athenians passed no degrading sentence upon him so long as they were worse; but as soon as they had been made upright and honorable by him, at the end of our Pericles’ life they convicted him of embezzlement, and all but condemned him to death, clearly because they thought him a rogue.

What then? Was Pericles a bad man on that account?

Well, at any rate a herdsman in charge of asses or horses or oxen would be considered a bad one for being like that—if he took over animals that did not kick him or butt or bite, and in the result they were found to be doing all these things out of sheer wildness. Or do you not consider any keeper of any animal whatever a bad one, if he turns out the creature he received tame so much wilder than he found it? Do you, or do you not?

Certainly I do, to oblige you.

Then oblige me still further by answering this: is man also one of the animals, or not?

Of course he is.

And Pericles had charge of men?

Yes.

Well now, ought they not, as we admitted this moment, to have been made by him more just instead of more unjust, if he was a good statesman while he had charge of them?

Certainly.

And the just are gentle, as Homer said. But what say you? Is it not so?

Yes.

But, however, he turned them out wilder than when he took them in hand, and that against himself, the last person he would have wished them to attack.

You wish me to agree with you?

Yes, if you consider I am speaking the truth.

Then be it so.

And if wilder, more unjust and worse?

Be it so.

Then Pericles was not a good statesman, by this argument.

You at least say not.

And you too, I declare, by what you admitted. And now about Cimon once more, tell me, did not the people whom he tended ostracize him in order that they might not hear his voice for ten years? And Themistocles, did they not treat him in just the same way, and add the punishment of exile? And Miltiades, the hero of Marathon, they sentenced to be flung into the pit, and had it not been for the president, in he would have gone. And yet these men, had they been good in the way that you describe them, would never have met with such a fate. Good drivers, at any rate, do not keep their seat in the chariot at their first race to be thrown out later on, when they have trained their teams and acquired more skill in driving! This never occurs either in charioteering or in any other business; or do you think it does?

No, I do not.

Section 517

So what we said before, it seems, was true, that we know of nobody who has shown himself a good statesman in this city of ours. You admitted there was nobody among those of the present day, but thought there were some amongst those of former times, and you gave these men the preference. But these we have found to be on a par with ours of the present day and so, if they were orators, they employed neither the genuine art of rhetoric—else they would not have been thrown out—nor the flattering form of it.

But still there can be no suggestion, Socrates, that any of the present-day men has ever achieved anything like the deeds of anyone you may choose amongst those others.

My admirable friend, neither do I blame the latter, at least as servants of the state; indeed, I consider they have shown themselves more serviceable than those of our time, and more able to procure for the city the things she desired. But in diverting her desires another way instead of complying with them—in persuading or compelling her people to what would help them to be better— they were scarcely, if at all, superior to their successors; and that is the only business of a good citizen. But in providing ships and walls and arsenals, and various other things of the sort, I do grant you that they were cleverer than our leaders. Thus you and I are doing an absurd thing in this discussion: for during all the time that we have been debating we have never ceased circling round to the same point and misunderstanding each other. I at all events believe you have more than once admitted and decided that this management of either body or soul is a twofold affair, and that on one side it is a menial service, whereby it is possible to provide meat for our bodies when they are hungry, drink when thirsty, and when they are cold, clothing, bedding, shoes, or anything else that bodies are apt to desire: I purposely give you the same illustrations, in order that you may the more easily comprehend. For as to being able to supply these things, either as a tradesman or a merchant or a manufacturer of any such actual things—baker or cook or weaver or shoemaker or tanner—it is no wonder that a man in such capacity should appear to himself and his neighbors to be a minister of the body; to every one, in fact, who is not aware that there is besides all these an art of gymnastics and medicine which really is, of course, ministration to the body, and which actually has a proper claim to rule over all those arts and to make use of their works, because it knows what is wholesome or harmful in meat and drink to bodily excellence, whereas all those others know it not;

Section 518

and hence it is that, while those other arts are slavish and menial and illiberal in dealing with the body, gymnastics and medicine can fairly claim to be their mistresses. Now, that the very same is the case as regards the soul you appear to me at one time to understand to be my meaning, and you admit it as though you knew what I meant; but a little later you come and tell me that men have shown themselves upright and honorable citizens in our city, and when I ask you who, you seem to me to be putting forward men of exactly the same sort in public affairs; as if, on my asking you who in gymnastics have ever been or now are good trainers of the body, you were to tell me, in all seriousness, Thearion, the baker, Mithaecus, the author of the book on Sicilian cookery, Sarambus, the vintner—these have shown themselves wonderful ministers of the body; the first providing admirable loaves, the second tasty dishes, and the third wine. Now perhaps you would be indignant should I then say to you: Sir, you know nothing about gymnastics; servants you tell me of, and caterers to appetites, fellows who have no proper and respectable knowledge of them, and who peradventure will first stuff and fatten men’s bodies to the tune of their praises, and then cause them to lose even the flesh they had to start with; and these in their turn will be too ignorant to cast the blame of their maladies and of their loss of original weight upon their regalers, but any people who chance to be by at the time and offer them some advice—just when the previous stuffing has brought, after the lapse of some time, its train of disease, since it was done without regard to what is wholesome—these are the people they will accuse and chide and harm as far as they can, while they will sing the praises of that former crew who caused the mischief. And you now, Callicles, are doing something very similar to this: you belaud men who have regaled the citizens with all the good cheer they desired.

Section 519

People do say they have made the city great; but that it is with the swelling of an imposthume, due to those men of the former time, this they do not perceive. For with no regard for temperance and justice they have stuffed the city with harbors and arsenals and walls and tribute and suchlike trash; and so whenever that access of debility comes they will lay the blame on the advisers who are with them at the time, and belaud Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles, who caused all the trouble; and belike they will lay hold of you, if you are not on your guard, and my good friend Alcibiades, when they are losing what they had originally as well as what they have acquired, though you are not the authors, except perhaps part-authors, of the mischief. And yet there is a senseless thing which I see happening now, and hear of, in connection with the men of former times. For I observe that whenever the state proceeds against one of her statesmen as a wrongdoer, they are indignant and protest loudly against such monstrous treatment: after all their long and valuable services to the state they are unjustly ruined at her hands, so they protest. But the whole thing is a lie; since there is not a single case in which a ruler of a city could ever be unjustly ruined by the very city that he rules. For it is very much the same with pretenders to statesmanship as with professors of sophistry. The sophists, in fact, with all their other accomplishments, act absurdly in one point: claiming to be teachers of virtue, they often accuse their pupils of doing them an injury by cheating them of their fees and otherwise showing no recognition of the good they have done them. Now what can be more unreasonable than this plea? That men, after they have been made good and just, after all their injustice has been rooted out by their teacher and replaced by justice, should be unjust through something that they have not! Does not this seem to you absurd, my dear friend? In truth you have forced me to make quite a harangue, Callicles, by refusing to answer.

And you are the man who could not speak unless somebody answered you?

Apparently I can. Just now, at any rate, I am rather extending my speeches, since you will not answer me. But in the name of friendship, my good fellow, tell me if you do not think it unreasonable for a man, while professing to have made another good, to blame him for being wicked in spite of having been made good by him and still being so?

Yes, I do.

Well, and you hear such things said by those who profess to give men education in virtue?

Section 520

I do; but what is one to say of such worthless people?

And what is one to say of those who, professing to govern the state and take every care that she be as good as possible, turn upon her and accuse her, any time it suits them, of being utterly wicked? Do you see any difference between these men and the others? Sophist and orator, my estimable friend, are the same thing, or very much of a piece, as I was telling Polus; but you in your ignorance think the one thing, rhetoric, a very fine affair, and despise the other. Yet in reality sophistic is a finer thing than rhetoric by so much as legislation is finer than judicature, and gymnastic than medicine: in fact, for my own part, I always regarded public speakers and sophists as the only people who have no call to complain of the thing that they themselves educate, for its wickedness towards them; as otherwise they must in the same words be also charging themselves with having been of no use to those whom they say they benefit. Is it not so?

Certainly.

And they alone, I presume, could most likely afford to give away their services without fee, if their words were true. For when a man has received any other service, for example, if he has acquired a fast pace from a trainer’s lessons, he might possibly cheat him of his due if the trainer freely offered himself and did not stipulate for a fee to be paid down by the other as nearly as possible at the moment when he imparted to him the fast pace he required; for it is not through a slow pace, I conceive, that men act unjustly, but through injustice; is it not?

Yes.

And so whoever removes this particular thing, injustice, need never have a fear of being unjustly treated; this benefit alone may be freely bestowed without risk, granted that one really had the power of making people good. Is it not so?

I agree.

Then this, it seems, is the reason why there is no disgrace in taking money for giving every other kind of advice, as about building or the rest of the arts.

It does seem so.

But about this business of finding the way to be as good as possible, and of managing one’s own household or city for the best, it is recognized to be a disgrace for one to decline to give advice except for a payment in cash, is it not?

Yes.

The reason evidently being that this is the only sort of service that makes the person so served desire to do one in return and hence it is felt to be a good sign when this service that one has done is repaid to one in kind; but when this is not so, the contrary is felt. Is the case as I say?

Section 521

It is.

Then please specify to which of these two ministrations to the state you are inviting me—that of struggling hard, like a doctor, with the Athenians to make them as good as possible, or that of seeking to serve their wants and humor them at every turn? Tell me the truth, Callicles; for it is only right that, as you began by speaking to me frankly, you should continue to tell me what you think. So now speak out like a good, generous man.

I say then, the way of seeking to serve them.

So it is to a flatterer’s work, most noble sir, that you invite me?

Work for a mean Mysian, if you prefer the name, Socrates; for unless you do as I say—

Do not tell me, what you have so often repeated, that anyone who pleases will put me to death, lest I on my side should have to tell you that it will be a villain killing a good man; nor that anyone may strip me of whatever I have, lest I should have to say in my turn: Well, but when he has stripped me, he will not know what use to make of his spoil, but as he stripped me unjustly so will he use his spoil unjustly, and if unjustly, foully, and if foully, ill.

It quite strikes me, Socrates, that you believe not one of these troubles could befall you, as though you dwelt out of the way, and could never be dragged into a law court by some perhaps utterly paltry rascal.

Then I am a fool, Callicles, in truth, if I do not suppose that in this city anyone, whoever he was, might find himself, as luck should have it, in any sort of plight. Of one thing, however, I am sure—that if ever I am brought before the court and stand in any such danger as you mention, it will be some villain who brings me there, for no honest man would prosecute a person who had done no wrong; and it would be no marvel if I were put to death. Would you like me to tell you my reason for expecting this?

Do, by all means.

I think I am one of few, not to say the only one, in Athens who attempts the true art of statesmanship, and the only man of the present time who manages affairs of state: hence, as the speeches that I make from time to time are not aimed at gratification, but at what is best instead of what is most pleasant, and as I do not care to deal in these pretty toys that you recommend, I shall have not a word to say at the bar. The same case that I made out to Polus will apply to me; for I shall be like a doctor tried by a bench of children on a charge brought by a cook.

Section 522

Just consider what defence a person like that would make at such a pass, if the prosecutor should speak against him thus: Children, this fellow has done you all a great deal of personal mischief, and he destroys even the youngest of you by cutting and burning, and starves and chokes you to distraction, giving you nasty bitter draughts and forcing you to fast and thirst; not like me, who used to gorge you with abundance of nice things of every sort. What do you suppose a doctor brought to this sad pass could say for himself? Or if he spoke the truth—All this I did, my boys, for your health—how great, think you, would be the outcry from such a bench as that? A loud one, would it not?

I daresay: one must suppose so.

Then you suppose he would be utterly at a loss what to say?

Quite so.

Such, however, I am sure would be my own fate if I were brought before the court. For not only shall I have no pleasures to plead as having been provided by me—which they regard as services and benefits, whereas I envy neither those who provide them nor those for whom they are provided—but if anyone alleges that I either corrupt the younger men by reducing them to perplexity, or revile the older with bitter expressions whether in private or in public, I shall be unable either to tell the truth and say—It is on just ground that I say all this, and it is your interest that I serve thereby, gentlemen of the jury—or to say anything else; and so I daresay any sort of thing, as luck may have it, will befall me.

Then do you think, Socrates, that a man in such a case and with no power of standing up for himself makes a fine figure in a city?

Yes, if he had that one resource, Callicles, which you have repeatedly admitted; if he had stood up for himself by avoiding any unjust word or deed in regard either to men or to gods. For this has been repeatedly admitted by us to be the most valuable kind of self-protection. Now if I were convicted of inability to extend this sort of protection to either myself or another, I should be ashamed, whether my conviction took place before many or few, or as between man and man; and if that inability should bring about my death, I should be sorely vexed: but if I came to my end through a lack of flattering rhetoric, I am quite sure you would see me take my death easily. For no man fears the mere act of dying, except he be utterly irrational and unmanly; doing wrong is what one fears: for to arrive in the nether world having one’s soul full fraught with a heap of misdeeds is the uttermost of all evils. And now, if you do not mind, I would like to tell you a tale to show you that the case is so.

Well, as you have completed the rest of the business, go on and complete this also.

Section 523

Give ear then, as they say, to a right fine story, which you will regard as a fable, I fancy, but I as an actual account; for what I am about to tell you I mean to offer as the truth. By Homer’s account, Zeus, Poseidon, and Pluto divided the sovereignty amongst them when they took it over from their father. Now in the time of Cronos there was a law concerning mankind, and it holds to this very day amongst the gods, that every man who has passed a just and holy life departs after his decease to the Isles of the Blest, and dwells in all happiness apart from ill; but whoever has lived unjustly and impiously goes to the dungeon of requital and penance which, you know, they call Tartarus. Of these men there were judges in Cronos’ time, and still of late in the reign of Zeus—living men to judge the living upon the day when each was to breathe his last; and thus the cases were being decided amiss. So Pluto and the overseers from the Isles of the Blest came before Zeus with the report that they found men passing over to either abode undeserving. Then spake Zeus: Nay, said he, I will put a stop to these proceedings. The cases are now indeed judged ill and it is because they who are on trial are tried in their clothing, for they are tried alive. Now many, said he, who have wicked souls are clad in fair bodies and ancestry and wealth, and at their judgement appear many witnesses to testify that their lives have been just. Now, the judges are confounded not only by their evidence but at the same time by being clothed themselves while they sit in judgement, having their own soul muffled in the veil of eyes and ears and the whole body. Thus all these are a hindrance to them, their own habiliments no less than those of the judged. Well, first of all, he said, we must put a stop to their foreknowledge of their death; for this they at present foreknow. However, Prometheus has already been given the word to stop this in them. Next they must be stripped bare of all those things before they are tried; for they must stand their trial dead. Their judge also must be naked, dead, beholding with very soul the very soul of each immediately upon his death, bereft of all his kin and having left behind on earth all that fine array, to the end that the judgement may be just.

Section 524

Now I, knowing all this before you, have appointed sons of my own to be judges; two from Asia, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and one from Europe, Aeacus. These, when their life is ended, shall give judgement in the meadow at the dividing of the road, whence are the two ways leading, one to the Isles of the Blest, and the other to Tartarus. And those who come from Asia shall Rhadamanthus try, and those from Europe, Aeacus; and to Minos I will give the privilege of the final decision, if the other two be in any doubt; that the judgement upon this journey of mankind may be supremely just. This, Callicles, is what I have heard and believe to be true; and from these stories, on my reckoning, we must draw some such moral as this: death, as it seems to me, is actually nothing but the disconnection of two things, the soul and the body, from each other. And so when they are disconnected from one another, each of them keeps its own condition very much as it was when the man was alive, the body having its own nature, with its treatments and experiences all manifest upon it. For instance, if anyone’s body was large by nature or by feeding or by both when he was alive, his corpse will be large also when he is dead; and if he was fat, it will be fat too after his death, and so on for the rest; or again, if he used to follow the fashion of long hair, long-haired also will be his corpse. Again, if anyone had been a sturdy rogue, and bore traces of his stripes in scars on his body, either from the whip or from other wounds, while yet alive, then after death too his body has these marks visible upon it; or if anyone’s limbs were broken or distorted in life, these same effects are manifest in death. In a word, whatever sort of bodily appearance a man had acquired in life, that is manifest also after his death either wholly or in the main for some time. And so it seems to me that the same is the case with the soul too, Callicles: when a man’s soul is stripped bare of the body, all its natural gifts, and the experiences added to that soul as the result of his various pursuits, are manifest in it. So when they have arrived in presence of their judge, they of Asia before Rhadamanthus, these Rhadamanthus sets before him and surveys the soul of each, not knowing whose it is; nay, often when he has laid hold of the Great King or some other prince or potentate, he perceives the utter unhealthiness of his soul, striped all over with the scourge, and a mass of wounds, the work of perjuries and injustice;

Section 525

where every act has left its smirch upon his soul, where all is awry through falsehood and imposture, and nothing straight because of a nurture that knew not truth: or, as the result of an unbridled course of fastidiousness, insolence, and incontinence, he finds the soul full fraught with disproportion and ugliness. Beholding this he sends it away in dishonor straight to the place of custody, where on its arrival it is to endure the sufferings that are fitting. And it is fitting that every one under punishment rightly inflicted on him by another should either be made better and profit thereby, or serve as an example to the rest, that others seeing the sufferings he endures may in fear amend themselves. Those who are benefited by the punishment they get from gods and men are they who have committed remediable offences; but still it is through bitter throes of pain that they receive their benefit both here and in the nether world; for in no other way can there be riddance of iniquity. But of those who have done extreme wrong and, as a result of such crimes, have become incurable, of those are the examples made; no longer are they profited at all themselves, since they are incurable, but others are profited who behold them undergoing for their transgressions the greatest, sharpest, and most fearful sufferings evermore, actually hung up as examples there in the infernal dungeon, a spectacle and a lesson to such of the wrongdoers as arrive from time to time. Among them I say Archelaus also will be found, if what Polus tells us is true, and every other despot of his sort. And I think, moreover, that most of these examples have come from despots and kings and potentates and public administrators; for these, since they have a free hand, commit the greatest and most impious offences. Homer also testifies to this; for he has represented kings and potentates as those who are punished everlastingly in the nether world—Tantalus and Sisyphus and Tityus; but Thersites, or any other private person who was wicked, has been portrayed by none as incurable and therefore subjected to heavy punishment; no doubt because he had not a free hand, and therefore was in fact happier than those who had.

Section 526

For in fact, Callicles, it is among the powerful that we find the specially wicked men. Still there is nothing to prevent good men being found even among these, and it deserves our special admiration when they are; for it is hard, Callicles, and deserving of no slight praise, when a man with a perfectly free hand for injustice lives always a just life. The men of this sort are but few; for indeed there have been, and I expect there yet will be, both here and elsewhere, men of honor and excellence in this virtue of administering justly what is committed to their charge. One in fact there has been whose fame stands high among us and throughout the rest of Greece, Aristeides, son of Lysimachus; but most of those in power, my excellent friend, prove to be bad. So, as I was saying, whenever the judge Rhadamanthus has to deal with such a one, he knows nothing else of him at all, neither who he is nor of what descent, but only that he is a wicked person and on perceiving this he sends him away to Tartarus, first setting a mark on him to show whether he deems it a curable or an incurable case; and when the man arrives there he suffers what is fitting. Sometimes, when he discerns another soul that has lived a holy life in company with truth, a private man’s or any others—especially, as I claim, Callicles, a philosopher’s who has minded his own business and not been a busybody in his lifetime—he is struck with admiration and sends it off to the Isles of the Blest. And exactly the same is the procedure of Aeacus: each of these two holds a rod in his hand as he gives judgement; but Minor sits as supervisor, distinguished by the golden scepter that he holds, as Odysseus in Homer tells how he saw him—Holding a golden scepter,speaking dooms to the dead.Now for my part, Callicles, I am convinced by these accounts, and I consider how I may be able to show my judge that my soul is in the best of health. So giving the go-by to the honors that most men seek I shall try, by inquiry into the truth, to be really good in as high a degree as I am able, both in my life and, when I come to die, in my death. And I invite all other men likewise, to the best of my power, and you particularly I invite in return, to this life and this contest, which I say is worth all other contests on this earth; and I make it a reproach to you, that you will not be able to deliver yourself when your trial comes and the judgement of which I told you just now;

Section 527

but when you go before your judge, the son of Aegina, and he grips you and drags you up, you will gape and feel dizzy there no less than I do here, and some one perhaps will give you, yes, a degrading box on the ear, and will treat you with every kind of contumely. Possibly, however, you regard this as an old wife’s tale, and despise it; and there would be no wonder in our despising it if with all our searching we could somewhere find anything better and truer than this: but as it is, you observe that you three, who are the wisest of the Greeks in our day—you and Polus and Gorgias— are unable to prove that we ought to live any other life than this, which is evidently advantageous also in the other world. But among the many statements we have made, while all the rest are refuted this one alone is unshaken—that doing wrong is to be more carefully shunned than suffering it; that above all things a man should study not to seem but to be good both in private and in public; that if one becomes bad in any respect one must be corrected; that this is good in the second place,— next to being just, to become so and to be corrected by paying the penalty; and that every kind of flattery, with regard either to oneself or to others, to few or to many, must be avoided; and that rhetoric is to be used for this one purpose always, of pointing to what is just, and so in every other activity. Take my advice, therefore, and follow me where, if you once arrive, you will be happy both in life and after life’s end, as this account declares. And allow anyone to contemn you as a fool and foully maltreat you if he chooses; yes, by Heaven, and suffer undaunted the shock of that ignominious cuff; for you will come to no harm if you be really a good and upright man, practicing virtue. And afterwards, having practiced it together, we shall in due course, if we deem it right, embark on politics, or proceed to consult on whatever we may think fit, being then better equipped for such counsel than we are now. For it is disgraceful that men in such a condition as we now appear to be in should put on a swaggering, important air when we never continue to be of the same mind upon the same questions, and those the greatest of all—we are so sadly uneducated. Let us therefore take as our guide the doctrine now disclosed, which indicates to us that this way of life is best—to live and die in the practice alike of justice and of all other virtue. This then let us follow, and to this invite every one else; not that to which you trust yourself and invite me, for it is nothing worth, Callicles.

Contents — 54 sections

1. Section 309
2. Section 310
3. Section 311
4. Section 312
5. Section 313
6. Section 314
7. Section 315
8. Section 316
9. Section 317
10. Section 318
11. Section 319
12. Section 320
13. Section 321
14. Section 322
15. Section 323
16. Section 324
17. Section 325
18. Section 326
19. Section 327
20. Section 328
21. Section 329
22. Section 330
23. Section 331
24. Section 332
25. Section 333
26. Section 334
27. Section 335
28. Section 336
29. Section 337
30. Section 338
31. Section 339
32. Section 340
33. Section 341
34. Section 342
35. Section 343
36. Section 344
37. Section 345
38. Section 346
39. Section 347
40. Section 348
41. Section 349
42. Section 350
43. Section 351
44. Section 352
45. Section 353
46. Section 354
47. Section 355
48. Section 356
49. Section 357
50. Section 358
51. Section 359
52. Section 360
53. Section 361
54. Section 362

Section 309

Where have you been now, Socrates? Ah, but of course you have been in chase of Alcibiades and his youthful beauty! Well, only the other day, as I looked at him, I thought him still handsome as a man—for a man he is, Socrates, between you and me, and with quite a growth of beard.

And what of that? Do you mean to say you do not approve of Homer, who said that youth has highest grace in him whose beard is appearing, as now in the case of Alcibiades?

Then how is the affair at present? Have you been with him just now? And how is the young man treating you?

Quite well, I considered, and especially so today: for he spoke a good deal on my side, supporting me in a discussion—in fact I have only just left him. However, there is a strange thing I have to tell you: although he was present, I not merely paid him no attention, but at times forgot him altogether.

Why, what can have happened between you and him? Something serious! For surely you did not find anyone else of greater beauty there,—no, not in our city.

Yes, of far greater.

What do you say? One of our people, or a foreigner?

A foreigner.

Of what city?

Abdera.

And you found this foreigner so beautiful that he appeared to you of greater beauty than the son of Cleinias?

Why, my good sir, must not the wisest appear more beautiful?

Do you mean it was some wise man that you met just now?

Nay, rather the wisest of our generation, I may tell you, if wisest is what you agree to call Protagoras.

Ah, what a piece of news! Protagoras come to town!

Yes, two days ago.

And it was his company that you left just now?

Section 310

Yes, and a great deal I said to him, and he to me.

Then do let us hear your account of the conversation at once, if you are disengaged take my boy’s place, and sit here.

Very good indeed, I shall be obliged to you, if you will listen.

And we also to you, I assure you, if you will tell us.

A twofold obligation. Well now, listen. During this night just past, in the small hours, Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason, knocked violently at my door with his stick, and when they opened to him he came hurrying in at once and calling to me in a loud voice: Socrates, are you awake, or sleeping? Then I, recognizing his voice, said: Hippocrates, hallo! Some news to break to me? Only good news, he replied. Tell it, and welcome, I said: what is it, and what business brings you here at such an hour? Protagoras has come, he said, standing at my side. Yes, two days ago, I said: have you only just heard? Yes, by Heaven! he replied, last evening. With this he groped about for the bedstead, and sitting down by my feet he said: It was in the evening, after I had got in very late from Oenoe. My boy Satyrus, you see, had run away: I meant to let you know I was going in chase of him, but some other matter put it out of my head. On my return, when we had finished dinner and were about to retire, my brother told me, only then, that Protagoras had come. I made an effort, even at that hour, to get to you at once, but came to the conclusion that it was too late at night. But as soon as I had slept off my fatigue I got up at once and made my way straight here. Then I, noting the man’s gallant spirit and the flutter he was in, remarked: Well, what is that to you? Has Protagoras wronged you? At this he laughed and, Yes, by the gods! he said, by being the only wise man, and not making me one. But, by Zeus! I said, if you give him a fee and win him over he will make you wise too. Would to Zeus and all the gods, he exclaimed, only that were needed! I should not spare either my own pocket or those of my friends. But it is on this very account I have come to you now, to see if you will have a talk with him on my behalf: for one thing, I am too young to do it myself; and for another, I have never yet seen Protagoras nor heard him speak a word—I was but a child when he paid us his previous visit.

Section 311

You know, Socrates, how everyone praises the man and tells of his mastery of speech: let us step over to him at once, to make sure of finding him in; he is staying, so I was told, with Callias, son of Hipponicus. Now, let us be going. To this I replied: We had better not go there yet, my good friend, it is so very early: let us rise and turn into the court here, and spend the time strolling there till daylight comes; after that we can go. Protagoras, you see, spends most of his time indoors, so have no fear, we shall find him in all right, most likely. So then we got up and strolled in the court; and I, to test Hippocrates’ grit, began examining him with a few questions. Tell me, Hippocrates, I said, in your present design of going to Protagoras and paying him money as a fee for his services to yourself, to whom do you consider you are resorting, and what is it that you are to become? Suppose, for example, you had taken it into your head to call on your namesake Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and pay him money as your personal fee, and suppose someone asked you—Tell me, Hippocrates, in purposing to pay a fee to Hippocrates, what do you consider him to be? How would you answer that? A doctor, I would say. And what would you intend to become? A doctor, he replied. And suppose you had a mind to approach Polycleitus the Argive or Pheidias the Athenian and pay them a personal fee, and somebody asked you—What is it that you consider Polycleitus or Pheidias to be, that you are minded to pay them this money? What would your answer be to that? Sculptors, I would reply. And what would you intend to become? Obviously, a sculptor. Very well then, I said; you and I will go now to Protagoras, prepared to pay him money as your fee, from our own means if they are adequate for the purpose of prevailing on him, but if not, then drawing on our friends’ resources to make up the sum. Now if anyone, observing our extreme earnestness in the matter, should ask us,—Pray, Socrates and Hippocrates, what is it that you take Protagoras to be, when you purpose to pay him money? What should we reply to him? What is the other name that we commonly hear attached to Protagoras? They call Pheidias a sculptor and Homer a poet: what title do they give Protagoras? A sophist, to be sure, Socrates, is what they call him. Then we go to him and pay him the money as a sophist? Certainly.

Section 312

Now suppose someone asked you this further question: And what is it that you yourself hope to become when you go to Protagoras? To this he replied with a blush—for by then there was a glimmer of daylight by which I could see him quite clearly—If it is like the previous cases, obviously, to become a sophist. In Heaven’s name, I said, would you not be ashamed to present yourself before the Greeks as a sophist? Yes, on my soul I should, Socrates, if I am to speak my real thoughts. Yet after all, Hippocrates, perhaps it is not this sort of learning that you expect to get from Protagoras, but rather the sort you had from your language-master, your harp-teacher, and your sports-instructor; for when you took your lessons from each of these it was not in the technical way, with a view to becoming a professional, but for education, as befits a private gentleman. I quite agree, he said; it is rather this kind of learning that one gets from Protagoras. Then are you aware what you are now about to do, or is it not clear to you? I asked. To what do you refer? I mean your intention of submitting your soul to the treatment of a man who, as you say, is a sophist; and as to what a sophist really is, I shall be surprised if you can tell me. And yet, if you are ignorant of this, you cannot know to whom you are entrusting your soul,—whether it is to something good or to something evil. I really think, he said, that I know. Then tell me, please, what you consider a sophist to be. I should say, he replied, from what the name implies, that he is one who has knowledge of wise matters. Well, I went on, we are able to say this of painters also, and of carpenters,—that they are the persons who have knowledge of wise matters; and if someone asked us for what those matters are wise, of which painters have knowledge, I suppose we should tell him that they are wise for the production of likenesses, and similarly with the rest. But if he should ask for what the matters of the sophist are wise, how should we answer him? What sort of workmanship is he master of? How should we describe him, Socrates,—as a master of making one a clever speaker? Perhaps, I replied, we should be speaking the truth, but yet not all the truth; for our answer still calls for a question, as to the subject on which the sophist makes one a clever speaker: just as the harp player makes one clever, I presume, at speaking on the matter of which he gives one knowledge, namely harp-playing,—you agree to that? Yes. Well, about what does the sophist make one a clever speaker? Clearly it must be the same thing as that of which he gives one knowledge. So it would seem: now what is this thing, of which the sophist himself has knowledge and gives knowledge to his pupil? Ah, there, in good faith, he said, I fail to find you an answer.

Section 313

I then went on to say: Now tell me, are you aware upon what sort of hazard you are going to stake your soul? If you had to entrust your body to someone, taking the risk of its being made better or worse, you would first consider most carefully whether you ought to entrust it or not, and would seek the advice of your friends and relations and ponder it for a number of days: but in the case of your soul, which you value much more highly than your body, and on which depends the good or ill condition of all your affairs, according as it is made better or worse, would you omit to consult first with either your father or your brother or one of us your comrades,—as to whether or no you should entrust your very soul to this newly-arrived foreigner; but choose rather, having heard of him in the evening, as you say, and coming to me at dawn, to make no mention of this question, and take no counsel upon it—whether you ought to entrust yourself to him or not; and are ready to spend your own substance and that of your friends, in the settled conviction that at all costs you must converse with Protagoras, whom you neither know, as you tell me, nor have ever met in argument before, and whom you call sophist, in patent ignorance of what this sophist may be to whom you are about to entrust yourself? When he heard this he said: It seems so, Socrates, by what you say. Then can it be, Hippocrates, that the sophist is really a sort of merchant or dealer in provisions on which a soul is nourished? For such is the view I take of him. With what, Socrates, is a soul nourished? With doctrines, presumably, I replied. And we must take care, my good friend, that the sophist, in commending his wares, does not deceive us, as both merchant and dealer do in the case of our bodily food. For among the provisions, you know, in which these men deal, not only are they themselves ignorant what is good or bad for the body, since in selling they commend them all, but the people who buy from them are so too, unless one happens to be a trainer or a doctor. And in the same way, those who take their doctrines the round of our cities, hawking them about to any odd purchaser who desires them, commend everything that they sell, and there may well be some of these too, my good sir, who are ignorant which of their wares is good or bad for the soul; and in just the same case are the people who buy from them, unless one happens to have a doctor’s knowledge here also, but of the soul. So then, if you are well informed as to what is good or bad among these wares, it will be safe for you to buy doctrines from Protagoras or from anyone else you please: but if not, take care, my dear fellow, that you do not risk your greatest treasure on a toss of the dice.

Section 314

For I tell you there is far more serious risk in the purchase of doctrines than in that of eatables. When you buy victuals and liquors you can carry them off from the dealer or merchant in separate vessels, and before you take them into your body by drinking or eating you can lay them in your house and take the advice of an expert whom you can call in, as to what is fit to eat or drink and what is not, and how much you should take and when; so that in this purchase the risk is not serious. But you cannot carry away doctrines in a separate vessel: you are compelled, when you have handed over the price, to take the doctrine in your very soul by learning it, and so to depart either an injured or a benefited man. These, then, are questions which we have to consider with the aid of our elders, since we ourselves are still rather young to unravel so great a matter. For the moment, however, let us pursue our design and go and hear this person; and when we have heard him we shall proceed to consult others: for Protagoras is not the only one there; we shall find Hippias of Elis and, I believe, Prodicus of Ceos, and numerous other men of wisdom besides. This we resolved on, and set forth; and when we arrived at the doorway, we stood discussing some question or other that had occurred to us by the way: so, not to leave it unfinished, but to get it settled before we went in, we stood there and discussed in front of the door, until we had come to an agreement with each other. Now, I fancy the doorkeeper, who was a eunuch, overheard us; very likely the great number of sophists has made him annoyed with callers at the house: at any rate, when we had knocked on the door, he opened it and, on seeing us,—Hullo, he said, sophists there! Master is engaged. So saying, he seized the door with both hands and very smartly clapped it to with all his might. We tried knocking again, and then he spoke in answer through the closed door,—Sirs, have you not heard, he is engaged? But, my good fellow, I said, we have not come to see Callias, nor are we sophists. Have no fear: I tell you, we have come to ask if we may see Protagoras; so go and announce us. Then with much hesitation the fellow opened the door to us;

Section 315

and when we had entered, we came upon Protagoras as he was walking round in the cloister, and close behind him two companies were walking round also; on the one side Callias, son of Hipponicus and his brother on the mother’s side, Paralus, son of Pericles, and Charmides, son of Glaucon, while the other troop consisted of Pericles’ other son Xanthippus, Philippides, son of Philomelus, and Antimoerus of Mende, who is the most highly reputed of Protagoras’ disciples and is taking the course professionally with a view to becoming a sophist. The persons who followed in their rear, listening to what they could of the talk, seemed to be mostly strangers, brought by the great Protagoras from the several cities which he traverses, enchanting them with his voice like Orpheus, while they follow where the voice sounds, enchanted; and some of our own inhabitants were also dancing attendance. As for me, when I saw their evolutions I was delighted with the admirable care they took not to hinder Protagoras at any moment by getting in front; but whenever the master turned about and those with him, it was fine to see the orderly manner in which his train of listeners split up into two parties on this side and on that, and wheeling round formed up again each time in his rear most admirably. And next did I mark, as Homer says, Hippias of Elis, seated high on a chair in the doorway opposite; and sitting around him on benches were Eryximachus, son of Acumenus, Phaedrus of Myrrhinous, Andron son of Androtion and a number of strangers,—fellow-citizens of Hippias and some others. They seemed to be asking him a series of astronomical questions on nature and the heavenly bodies, while he, seated in his chair, was distinguishing and expounding to each in turn the subjects of their questions. Nay more, Tantalus also did I there behold. —for you know Prodicus of Ceos is in Athens too: he was in a certain apartment formerly used by Hipponieus as a strong-room, but now cleared out by Callias to make more space for his numerous visitors, and turned into a guest-chamber. Well, Prodicus was still abed, wrapped up in sundry fleeces and rugs, and plenty of them too, it seemed; and near him on the beds hard by lay Pausanias from Cerames, and with Pausanias a lad who was still quite young, of good birth and breeding, I should say, and at all events a very good-looking person. I fancied I heard his name was Agathon, and I should not be surprised to find he is Pausanias’ favorite.

Section 316

Besides this youth there were the two Adeimantuses, sons of Cepis and Leucolophidas, and there seemed to be some others. The subjects of their conversation I was unable to gather from outside, despite my longing to hear Prodicus; for I regard the man as all-wise and divine: but owing to the depth of his voice the room was filled with a booming sound which made the talk indistinct. We had only just come in, when close on our heels entered Alcibiades the good-looking, as you call him and I agree that he is, and Critias, son of Callaeschrus. So, when we had entered, after some more little delays over certain points we had to examine, we went up to Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, you see we have come to you, Hippocrates and I. Is it your wish, he asked, to converse with me alone, or in company with others? It is all the same to us, I replied: let me first tell you our object in coming, and then you must decide. Well, what is your object? he asked. My friend Hippocrates is a native of the city, a son of Apollodorus and one of a great and prosperous family, while his own natural powers seem to make him a match for anyone of his age. I fancy he is anxious to gain consideration in our city, and he believes he can best gain it by consorting with you. So now it is for you to judge whether it will be fittest for you to converse on this matter privately with us alone, or in company with others. You do right, Socrates, he said, to be so thoughtful on my behalf. For when one goes as a stranger into great cities, and there tries to persuade the best of the young men to drop their other connexions, either with their own folk or with foreigners, both old and young, and to join one’s own circle, with the promise of improving them by this connexion with oneself, such a proceeding requires great caution; since very considerable jealousies are apt to ensue, and numerous enmities and intrigues. Now I tell you that sophistry is an ancient art, and those men of ancient times who practised it, fearing the odium it involved, disguised it in a decent dress, sometimes of poetry, as in the case of Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides sometimes of mystic rites and soothsayings, as did Orpheus, Musaeus and their sects; and sometimes too, I have observed, of athletics, as with Iccus of Tarentum and another still living—as great a sophist as any—Herodicus of Selymbria, originally of Megara; and music was the disguise employed by your own Agathocles, a great sophist, Pythocleides of Ceos, and many more. All these, as I say, from fear of ill-will made use of these arts as outer coverings.

Section 317

But I do not conform to the method of all these persons, since I believe they did not accomplish any of their designs: for the purpose of all this disguise could not escape the able men of affairs in each city; the multitude, of course, perceive practically nothing, but merely echo this or that pronouncement of their leaders. Now to try to run away, and to fail through being caught in the act, shows sad folly in the mere attempt, and must needs make people far more hostile; for they regard such an one, whatever else he may be, as a rogue. Hence the road I have taken is one entirely opposite to theirs: I admit that I am a sophist and that I educate men; and I consider this precaution, of admitting rather than denying, the better of the two. There are others besides that I have meditated, so as to avoid, under Heaven, any harm that may come of admitting that I am a sophist. And yet many long years have I now been in the profession, for many in total number are those that I have lived: not one of you all, but in age I might be his father. Hence it suits me by far the best, in meeting your wishes, to make my discourse on these matters in the presence of all who are in the house. On this, as I suspected that he wished to make a display before Prodicus and Hippias, and give himself airs on the personal attachment shown by our coming to him, I remarked: Then surely we must call Prodicus and Hippias and their followers to come and listen to us By all means, said Protagoras. Then do you agree, said Callias, to our making a session of it, so that we may sit at ease for our conversation? The proposal was accepted; and all of us, delighted at the prospect of listening to wise men, took hold of the benches and couches ourselves and arranged them where Hippias was, since the benches were there already. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades came, bringing with them Prodicus, whom they had induced to rise from his couch, and Prodicus’ circle also. When we had all taken our seats,—So now, Socrates, said Protagoras, since these gentlemen are also present, be so good as to tell what you were mentioning to me a little while before on the young man’s behalf.

Section 318

To which I replied: The same point, Protagoras, will serve me for a beginning as a moment ago, in regard to the object of my visit. My friend Hippocrates finds himself desirous of joining your classes; and therefore he says he would be glad to know what result he will get from joining them. That is all the speech we have to make. Then Protagoras answered at once, saying: Young man, you will gain this by coming to my classes, that on the day when you join them you will go home a better man, and on the day after it will be the same; every day you will constantly improve more and more. When I heard this I said: Protagoras, what you say is not at all surprising, but quite likely, since even you, though so old and so wise, would be made better if someone taught you what you happen not to know. But let me put it another way: suppose Hippocrates here should change his desire all at once, and become desirous of this young fellow’s lessons who has just recently come to town, Zeuxippus of Heraclea, and should approach him, as he now does you, and should hear the very same thing from him as from you,—how on each day that he spent with him he would be better and make constant progress; and suppose he were to question him on this and ask: In what shall I become better as you say, and to what will my progress be? Zeuxippus’s reply would be, to painting. Then suppose he came to the lessons of Orthagoras the Theban, and heard the same thing from him as from you, and then inquired of him for what he would be better each day through attending his classes, the answer would be, for fluting. In the same way you also must satisfy this youth and me on this point, and tell us for what, Protagoras, and in what connexion my friend Hippocrates, on any day of attendance at the classes of Protagoras, will go away a better man, and on each of the succeeding days will make a like advance. When Protagoras heard my words,—You do right, he said, to ask that, while I am only too glad to answer those who ask the right question. For Hippocrates, if he comes to me, will not be treated as he would have been if he had joined the classes of an ordinary sophist. The generality of them maltreat the young; for when they have escaped from the arts they bring them back against their will and force them into arts, teaching them arithmetic and astronomy and geometry and music (and here he glanced at Hippias); whereas, if he applies to me, he will learn precisely and solely that for which he has come. That learning consists of good judgement in his own affairs, showing how best to order his own home; and in the affairs of his city, showing how he may have most influence on public affairs both in speech and in action.

Section 319

I wonder, I said, whether I follow what you are saying; for you appear to be speaking of the civic science, and undertaking to make men good citizens. That, Socrates, he replied, is exactly the purport of what I profess. Then it is a goodly accomplishment that you have acquired, to be sure, I remarked, if indeed you have acquired it—to such a man as you I may say sincerely what I think. For this is a thing, Protagoras, that I did not suppose to be teachable; but when you say it is, I do not see how I am to disbelieve it. How I came to think that it cannot be taught, or provided by men for men, I may be allowed to explain. I say, in common with the rest of the Greeks, that the Athenians are wise. Now I observe, when we are collected for the Assembly, and the city has to deal with an affair of building, we send for builders to advise us on what is proposed to be built; and when it is a case of laying down a ship, we send for shipwrights; and so in all other matters which are considered learnable and teachable: but if anyone else, whom the people do not regard as a craftsman, attempts to advise them, no matter how handsome and wealthy and well-born he may be, not one of these things induces them to accept him; they merely laugh him to scorn and shout him down, until either the speaker retires from his attempt, overborne by the clamor, or the tipstaves pull him from his place or turn him out altogether by order of the chair. Such is their procedure in matters which they consider professional. But when they have to deliberate on something connected with the administration of the State, the man who rises to advise them on this may equally well be a smith, a shoemaker, a merchant, a sea-captain, a rich man, a poor man, of good family or of none, and nobody thinks of casting in his teeth, as one would in the former case, that his attempt to give advice is justified by no instruction obtained in any quarter, no guidance of any master; and obviously it is because they hold that here the thing cannot be taught. Nay further, it is not only so with the service of the State, but in private life our best and wisest citizens are unable to transmit this excellence of theirs to others;

Section 320

for Pericles, the father of these young fellows here, gave them a first-rate training in the subjects for which he found teachers, but in those of which he is himself a master he neither trains them personally nor commits them to another’s guidance, and so they go about grazing at will like sacred oxen, on the chance of their picking up excellence here or there for themselves. Or, if you like, there is Cleinias, the younger brother of Alcibiades here, whom this same Pericles, acting as his guardian, and fearing lie might be corrupted, I suppose, by Alcibiades, carried off from his brother and placed in Ariphron’s family to be educated: but before six months had passed he handed him back to Alcibiades, at a loss what to do with him. And there are a great many others whom I could mention to you as having never succeeded, though virtuous themselves, in making anyone else better, either of their own or of other families. I therefore, Protagoras, in view of these facts, believe that virtue is not teachable: but when I hear you speak thus, I am swayed over, and suppose there is something in what you say, because I consider you to have gained experience in many things and to have learnt many, besides finding out some for yourself. So if you can demonstrate to us more explicitly that virtue is teachable, do not grudge us your demonstration. No, Socrates, I will not grudge it you; but shall I, as an old man speaking to his juniors, put my demonstration in the form of a fable, or of a regular exposition? Many of the company sitting by him instantly bade him treat his subject whichever way he pleased. Well then, he said, I fancy the more agreeable way is for me to tell you a fable. There was once a time when there were gods, but no mortal creatures. And when to these also came their destined time to be created, the gods moulded their forms within the earth, of a mixture made of earth and fire and all substances that are compounded with fire and earth. When they were about to bring these creatures to light, they charged Prometheus and Epimetheus to deal to each the equipment of his proper faculty. Epimetheus besought Prometheus that he might do the dealing himself; And when I have dealt, he said, you shall examine. Having thus persuaded him he dealt; and in dealing he attached strength without speed; to some, while the weaker he equipped with speed; and some he armed, while devising for others, along with an unarmed condition, some different faculty for preservation.

Section 321

To those which he invested with smallness he dealt a winged escape or an underground habitation; those which he increased in largeness he preserved by this very means; and he dealt all the other properties on this plan of compensation. In contriving all this he was taking precaution that no kind should be extinguished; and when he had equipped them with avoidances of mutual destruction, he devised a provision against the seasons ordained by Heaven, in clothing them about with thick-set hair and solid hides, sufficient to ward off winter yet able to shield them also from the heats, and so that on going to their lairs they might find in these same things a bedding of their own that was native to each; and some he shod with hoofs, others with claws and solid, bloodless hides. Then he proceeded to furnish each of them with its proper food, some with pasture of the earth, others with fruits of trees, and others again with roots; and to a certain number for food he gave other creatures to devour: to some he attached a paucity in breeding, and to others, which were being consumed by these, a plenteous brood, and so procured survival of their kind. Now Epimetheus, being not so wise as he might be, heedlessly squandered his stock of properties on the brutes; he still had left unequipped the race of men, and was at a loss what to do with it. As he was casting about, Prometheus arrived to examine his distribution, and saw that whereas the other creatures were fully and suitably provided, man was naked, unshod, unbedded, unarmed; and already the destined day was come, whereon man like the rest should emerge from earth to light. Then Prometheus, in his perplexity as to what preservation he could devise for man, stole from Hephaestus and Athena wisdom in the arts together with fire—since by no means without fire could it be acquired or helpfully used by any—and he handed it there and then as a gift to man. Now although man acquired in this way the wisdom of daily life, civic wisdom he had not, since this was in the possession of Zeus; Prometheus could not make so free as to enter the citadel which is the dwelling-place of Zeus, and moreover the guards of Zeus were terrible: but he entered unobserved the building shared by Athena and Hephaestus for the pursuit of their arts, and stealing Hephaestus’s fiery art and all Athena’s also he gave them to man, and hence it is that man gets facility for his livelihood, but Prometheus, through Epimetheus’ fault, later on (the story goes) stood his trial for theft.

Section 322

And now that man was partaker of a divine portion, he, in the first place, by his nearness of kin to deity, was the only creature that worshipped gods, and set himself to establish altars and holy images; and secondly, he soon was enabled by his skill to articulate speech and words, and to invent dwellings, clothes, sandals, beds, and the foods that are of the earth. Thus far provided, men dwelt separately in the beginning, and cities there were none; so that they were being destroyed by the wild beasts, since these were in all ways stronger than they; and although their skill in handiwork was a sufficient aid in respect of food, in their warfare with the beasts it was defective; for as yet they had no civic art, which includes the art of war. So they sought to band themselves together and secure their lives by founding cities. Now as often as they were banded together they did wrong to one another through the lack of civic art, and thus they began to be scattered again and to perish. So Zeus, fearing that our race was in danger of utter destruction, sent Hermes to bring respect and right among men, to the end that there should be regulation of cities and friendly ties to draw them together. Then Hermes asked Zeus in what manner then was he to give men right and respect: Am I to deal them out as the arts have been dealt? That dealing was done in such wise that one man possessing medical art is able to treat many ordinary men, and so with the other craftsmen. Am I to place among men right and respect in this way also, or deal them out to all? To all, replied Zeus; let all have their share: for cities cannot be formed if only a few have a share of these as of other arts. And make thereto a law of my ordaining, that he who cannot partake of respect and right shall die the death as a public pest. Hence it comes about, Socrates, that people in cities, and especially in Athens, consider it the concern of a few to advise on cases of artistic excellence or good craftsmanship, and if anyone outside the few gives advice they disallow it, as you say, and not without reason, as I think:

Section 323

but when they meet for a consultation on civic art, where they should be guided throughout by justice and good sense, they naturally allow advice from everybody, since it is held that everyone should partake of this excellence, or else that states cannot be. This, Socrates, is the explanation of it. And that you may not think you are mistaken, to show how all men verily believe that everyone partakes of justice and the rest of civic virtue, I can offer yet a further proof. In all other excellences, as you say, when a man professes to be good at flute-playing or any other art in which he has no such skill, they either laugh him to scorn or are annoyed with him, and his people come and reprove him for being so mad: but where justice or any other civic virtue is involved, and they happen to know that a certain person is unjust, if he confesses the truth about his conduct before the public, that truthfulness which in the former arts they would regard as good sense they here call madness. Everyone, they say, should profess to be just, whether he is so or not, and whoever does not make some pretension to justice is mad; since it is held that all without exception must needs partake of it in some way or other, or else not be of human kind. Take my word for it, then, that they have good reason for admitting everybody as adviser on this virtue, owing to their belief that everyone has some of it; and next, that they do not regard it as natural or spontaneous, but as something taught and acquired after careful preparation by those who acquire it,—of this I will now endeavor to convince you. In all cases of evils which men deem to have befallen their neighbors by nature or fortune, nobody is wroth with them or reproves or lectures or punishes them, when so afflicted, with a view to their being other than they are; one merely pities them. Who, for instance, is such a fool as to try to do anything of the sort to the ugly, the puny, or the weak? Because, I presume, men know that it is by nature and fortune that people get these things, the graces of life and their opposites. But as to all the good things that people are supposed to get by application and practice and teaching, where these are lacking in anyone and only their opposite evils are found, here surely are the occasions for wrath and punishment and reproof.

Section 324

One of them is injustice, and impiety, and in short all that is opposed to civic virtue; in such case anyone will be wroth with his neighbor and reprove him, clearly because the virtue is to be acquired by application and learning. For if you will consider punishment, Socrates, and what control it has over wrong-doers, the facts will inform you that men agree in regarding virtue as procured. No one punishes a wrong-doer from the mere contemplation or on account of his wrong-doing, unless one takes unreasoning vengeance like a wild beast. But he who undertakes to punish with reason does not avenge himself for the past offence, since he cannot make what was done as though it had not come to pass; he looks rather to the future, and aims at preventing that particular person and others who see him punished from doing wrong again. And being so minded he must have in mind that virtue comes by training: for you observe that he punishes to deter. This then is the accepted view of all who seek requital in either private or public life; and while men in general exact requital and punishment from those whom they suppose to have wronged them, this is especially the case with the Athenians, your fellow-citizens, so that by our argument the Athenians also share the view that virtue is procured and taught. Thus I have shown that your fellow-citizens have good reason for admitting a smith’s or cobbler’s counsel in public affairs, and that they hold virtue to be taught and procured: of this I have given you satisfactory demonstration, Socrates, as it appears to me. I have yet to deal with your remaining problem about good men, why it is that these good men have their sons taught the subjects in the regular teachers’ courses, and so far make them wise, but do not make them excel in that virtue wherein consists their own goodness. On this point, Socrates, I shall give you argument instead of fable. Now consider: is there, or is there not, some one thing whereof all the citizens must needs partake, if there is to be a city? Here, and nowhere if not here, is the solution of this problem of yours.

Section 325

For if there is such a thing, and that one thing, instead of being the joiner’s or smith’s or potter’s art, is rather justice and temperance and holiness—in short, what I may put together and call a man’s virtue; and if it is this whereof all should partake and wherewith everyone should proceed to any further knowledge or action, but should not if he lacks it; if we should instruct and punish such as do not partake of it, whether child or husband or wife, until the punishment of such persons has made them better, and should cast forth from our cities or put to death as incurable whoever fails to respond to such punishment and instruction;—if it is like this, and yet, its nature being so, good men have their sons instructed in everything else but this, what very surprising folk the good are found to be! For we have proved that they regard this thing as teachable both in private and in public life, and then, though it may be taught and fostered, are we to say that they have their sons taught everything in which the penalty for ignorance is not death, but in a matter where the death-penalty or exile awaits their children if not instructed and cultivated in virtue—and not merely death, but confiscation of property and practically the entire subversion of their house—here they do not have them taught or take the utmost care of them? So at any rate we must conclude, Socrates. They teach and admonish them from earliest childhood till the last day of their lives. As soon as one of them grasps what is said to him, the nurse, the mother, the tutor, and the father himself strive hard that the child may excel, and as each act and word occurs they teach and impress upon him that this is just, and that unjust, one thing noble, another base, one holy, another unholy, and that he is to do this, and not do that. If he readily obeys,—so; but if not, they treat him as a bent and twisted piece of wood and straighten him with threats and blows. After this they send them to school and charge the master to take far more pains over their children’s good behavior than over their letters and harp-playing.

Section 326

The masters take pains accordingly, and the children, when they have learnt their letters and are getting to understand the written word as before they did only the spoken, are furnished with works of good poets to read as they sit in class, and are made to learn them off by heart: here they meet with many admonitions, many descriptions and praises and eulogies of good men in times past, that the boy in envy may imitate them and yearn to become even as they. Then also the music-masters, in a similar sort, take pains for their self-restraint, and see that their young charges do not go wrong: moreover, when they learn to play the harp, they are taught the works of another set of good poets, the song-makers, while the master accompanies them on the harp; and they insist on familiarizing the boys’ souls with the rhythms and scales, that they may gain in gentleness, and by advancing in rhythmic and harmonic grace may be efficient in speech and action; for the whole of man’s life requires the graces of rhythm and harmony. Again, over and above all this, people send their sons to a trainer, that having improved their bodies they may perform the orders of their minds, which are now in fit condition, and that they may not be forced by bodily faults to play the coward in wars and other duties. This is what people do, who are most able; and the most able are the wealthiest. Their sons begin school at the earliest age, and are freed from it at the latest. And when they are released from their schooling the city next compels them to learn the laws and to live according to them as after a pattern, that their conduct may not be swayed by their own light fancies, but just as writing-masters first draw letters in faint outline with the pen for their less advanced pupils, and then give them the copy-book and make them write according to the guidance of their lines, so the city sketches out for them the laws devised by good lawgivers of yore, and constrains them to govern and be governed according to these. She punishes anyone who steps outside these borders, and this punishment among you and in many other cities, from the corrective purpose of the prosecution, is called a Correction. Seeing then that so much care is taken in the matter of both private and public virtue, do you wonder, Socrates, and make it a great difficulty, that virtue may be taught? Surely there is no reason to wonder at that: you would have far greater reason, if it were not so.

Section 327

Then why is it that many sons of good fathers turn out so meanly? Let me explain this also: it is no wonder, granted that I was right in stating just now that no one, if we are to have a city, must be a mere layman in this affair of virtue. For if what I say is the case—and it is supremely true—reflect on the nature of any other pursuit or study that you choose to mention. Suppose that there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, in such sort as each was able, and suppose that everyone were giving his neighbor both private and public lessons in the art, and rebuked him too, if he failed to do it well, without grudging him the trouble—even as no one now thinks of grudging or reserving his skill in what is just and lawful as he does in other expert knowledge; for our neighbors’ justice and virtue, I take it, is to our advantage, and consequently we all tell and teach one another what is just and lawful—well, if we made the same zealous and ungrudging efforts to instruct each other in flute-playing, do you think, Socrates, that the good flute-players would be more likely than the bad to have sons who were good flute-players? I do not think they would: no, wherever the son had happened to be born with a nature most apt for flute-playing, he would be found to have advanced to distinction, and where unapt, to obscurity. Often the son of a good player would turn out a bad one, and often of a bad, a good. But, at any rate, all would be capable players as compared with ordinary persons who had no inkling of the art. Likewise in the present case you must regard any man who appears to you the most unjust person ever reared among human laws and society as a just man and a craftsman of justice, if he had to stand comparison with people who lacked education and law courts and laws and any constant compulsion to the pursuit of virtue, but were a kind of wild folk such as Pherecrates the poet brought on the scene at last year’s Lenaeum. Sure enough, if you found yourself among such people, as did the misanthropes among his chorus, you would be very glad to meet with Eurybatus and Phrynondas, and would bewail yourself with longing for the wickedness of the people here. Instead of that you give yourself dainty airs, Socrates, because everyone is a teacher of virtue to the extent of his powers, and you think there is no teacher. Why, you might as well ask who is a teacher of Greek;

Section 328

you would find none anywhere; and I suppose you might ask, who can teach the sons of our artisans the very crafts which of course they have learnt from their fathers, as far as the father was competent in each case, and his friends who followed the same trade,—I say if you asked who is to give these further instruction, I imagine it would be hard, Socrates, to find them a teacher, but easy enough in the case of those starting with no skill at all. And so it must be with virtue and everything else; if there is somebody who excels us ever so little in showing the way to virtue, we must be thankful. Such an one I take myself to be, excelling all other men in the gift of assisting people to become good and true, and giving full value for the fee that I charge—nay, so much more than full, that the learner himself admits it. For this reason I have arranged my charges on a particular plan: when anyone has had lessons from me, if he likes he pays the sum that I ask; if not, he goes to a temple, states on oath the value he sets on what he has learnt, and disburses that amount. So now, Socrates, I have shown you by both fable and argument that virtue is teachable and is so deemed by the Athenians, and that it is no wonder that bad sons are born of good fathers and good of bad, since even the sons of Polycleitus, companions of Paralus and Xanthippus here, are not to be compared with their father, and the same is the case in other craftsmen’s families. As for these two, it is not fair to make this complaint of them yet; there is still hope in their case, for they are young. After this great and fine performance Protagoras ceased from speaking. As for me, for a good while I was still under his spell and kept on looking at him as though he were going to say more, such was my eagerness to hear: but when I perceived that he had really come to a stop, I pulled myself together, as it were, with an effort, and looking at Hippocrates I said: Son of Apollodorus, I am very grateful to you for inducing me to come hither; for it is a great treat to have heard what I have heard from Protagoras. I used formerly to think that there was no human treatment by which the good were made good, but now I am convinced that there is. Only I find one slight difficulty, which Protagoras will of course easily explain away, since he has explained so many puzzles already.

Section 329

If one should be present when any of the public speakers were dealing with these same subjects, one could probably hear similar discourses from Pericles or some other able speaker: but suppose you put a question to one of them—they are just like books, incapable of either answering you or putting a question of their own; if you question even a small point in what has been said, just as brazen vessels ring a long time after they have been struck and prolong the note unless you put your hand on them, these orators too, on being asked a little question, extend their speech over a full-length course. But Protagoras here, while able to deliver, as events have shown, a long and excellent speech, is also able when questioned to reply briefly, and after asking a question to await and accept the answer—accomplishments that few can claim. And now, Protagoras, there is one little thing wanting to the completeness of what I have got, so please answer me this. You say that virtue may be taught, and if there is anybody in the world who could convince me, you are the man: but there was a point in your speech at which I wondered, and on which my spirit would fain be satisfied. You said that Zeus had sent justice and respect to mankind, and furthermore it was frequently stated in your discourse that justice, temperance, holiness and the rest were all but one single thing, virtue: pray, now proceed to deal with these in more precise exposition, stating whether virtue is a single thing, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts, or whether the qualities I have just mentioned are all names of the same single thing. This is what I am still hankering after. Why, the answer to that is easy, Socrates, he replied: it is that virtue is a single thing and the qualities in question are parts of it. Do you mean parts, I asked, in the sense of the parts of a face, as mouth, nose, eyes, and ears; or, as in the parts of gold, is there no difference among the pieces, either between the parts or between a part and the whole, except in greatness and smallness? In the former sense, I think, Socrates; as the parts of the face are to the whole face. Well then, I continued, when men partake of these portions of virtue, do some have one, and some another, or if you get one, must you have them all? By no means, he replied, since many are brave but unjust, and many again are just but not wise.

Section 330

Then are these also parts of virtue, I asked—wisdom and courage? Most certainly, I should say, he replied; and of the parts, wisdom is the greatest. Each of them, I proceeded, is distinct from any other? Yes. Does each also have its particular function? Just as, in the parts of the face, the eye is not like the ears, nor is its function the same; nor is any of the other parts like another, in its function or in any other respect: in the same way, are the parts of virtue unlike each other, both in themselves and in their functions? Are they not evidently so, if the analogy holds? Yes, they are so, Socrates, he said. So then, I went on, among the parts of virtue, no other part is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness. He agreed. Come now, I said, let us consider together what sort of thing is each of these parts. First let us ask, is justice something, or not a thing at all? I think it is; what do you say? So do I, he replied. Well then, suppose someone should ask you and me: Protagoras and Socrates, pray tell me this—the thing you named just now, justice, is that itself just or unjust? I should reply, it is just: what would your verdict be? The same as mine or different? The same, he said. Then justice, I should say in reply to our questioner, is of a kind that is just: would you also? Yes, he said. Now suppose he proceeded to ask us: Do you also speak of a holiness? We should say we do, I fancy. Yes, he said. Then do you call this a thing also? We should say we do, should we not? He assented again. Do you say this thing itself is of such nature as to be unholy, or holy? For my part I should be annoyed at this question, I said, and should answer: Hush, my good sir! It is hard to see how anything could be holy, if holiness itself is not to be holy! And you—would you not make the same reply? Certainly I would, he said. Now suppose he went on to ask us: Well, and what of your statement a little while since? Perhaps I did not hear you aright, but I understood you two to say that the parts of virtue are in such a relation to each other that one of them is not like another.

Section 331

Here my answer would be: As to the substance of it, you heard aright, but you made a mistake in thinking that I had any share in that statement. It was Protagoras here who made that answer; I was only the questioner. Then suppose he were to ask: Is our friend telling the truth, Protagoras? Is it you who say that one part of virtue is not like another? Is this statement yours? What answer would you give him? I must needs admit it, Socrates, he said. Well now, Protagoras, after that admission, what answer shall we give him, if he goes on to ask this question: Is not holiness something of such nature as to be just, and justice such as to be holy, or can it be unholy? Can holiness be not just, and therefore unjust, and justice unholy? What is to be our reply? I should say myself, on my own behalf, that both justice is holy and holiness just, and with your permission I would make this same reply for you also; since justness is either the same thing as holiness or extremely like it, and above all, justice is of the same kind as holiness, and holiness as justice. Are you minded to forbid this answer, or are you in agreement with it? I do not take quite so simple a view of it, Socrates, as to grant that justice is holy and holiness just. I think we have to make a distinction here. Yet what difference does it make? he said: if you like, let us assume that justice is holy and holiness just. No, no, I said; I do not want this if you like or if you agree sort of thing to be put to the proof, but you and me together; and when I say you and me I mean that our statement will be most properly tested if we take away the if. Well, at any rate, he said, justice has some resemblance to holiness; for anything in the world has some sort of resemblance to any other thing. Thus there is a point in which white resembles black, and hard soft, and so with all the other things which are regarded as most opposed to each other; and the things which we spoke of before as having different faculties and not being of the same kind as each other—the parts of the face—these in some sense resemble one another and are of like sort. In this way therefore you could prove, if you chose, that even these things are all like one another. But it is not fair to describe things as like which have some point alike, however small, or ash unlike that have some point unlike. This surprised me, and I said to him: What, do you regard just and holy as so related to each other that they have only some small point of likeness?

Section 332

Not so, he replied, at all, nor yet, on the other hand, as I believe you regard them. Well then, I said, since I find you chafe at this suggestion, we will let it pass, and consider another instance that you gave. Is there a thing you call folly? Yes, he said. Is not the direct opposite to that thing wisdom? I think so, he said. And when men behave rightly and usefully, do you consider them temperate in so behaving, or the opposite? Temperate, he said. Then is it by temperance that they are temperate? Necessarily. Now those who do not behave rightly behave foolishly, and are not temperate in so behaving? I agree, he said. And behaving foolishly is the opposite to behaving temperately? Yes, he said. Now foolish behavior is due to folly, and temperate behavior to temperance? He assented. And whatever is done by strength is done strongly, and whatever by weakness, weakly? He agreed. And whatever with swiftness, swiftly, and whatever with slowness, slowly ? And so whatever is done in a certain way is done by that kind of faculty, and whatever in an opposite way, by the opposite kind? He agreed. Pray now, I proceeded, is there such a thing as the beautiful? He granted it. Has this any opposite except the ugly? None. Well, is there such a thing as the good? There is. Has it any opposite but the evil? None. Tell me, is there such a thing as shrill in the voice? Yes, he said. Has it any other opposite than deep. No, he said. Now, I went on, each single opposite has but one opposite, not many? He admitted this. Come now, I said, let us reckon up our points of agreement. We have agreed that one thing has but one opposite, and no more? We have. And that what is done in an opposite way is done by opposites? Yes, he said. And we have agreed that what is done foolishly is done in an opposite way to what is done temperately? Yes, he said. And that what is done temperately is done by temperance, and what foolishly by folly? He assented. Now if it is done in an opposite way, it must be done by an opposite? Yes? And one is done by temperance, and the other by folly? Yes. In an opposite way? Certainly. And by opposite faculties? Yes. Then folly is opposite to temperance Apparently. Now do you recollect that in the previous stage we have agreed that folly is opposite to wisdom? He admitted this.

Section 333

And that one thing has but one opposite? Yes. Then which, Protagoras, of our propositions are we to reject—the statement that one thing has but one opposite; or the other, that wisdom is different from temperance, and each is a part of virtue, and moreover, a different part, and that the two are as unlike, both in themselves and in their faculties, as the parts of the face? Which are we to upset? The two of them together are not quite in tune; they do not chime in harmony. How could they, if one thing must needs have but one opposite and no more, while wisdom, and temperance likewise, appear both to be opposite to folly, which is a single thing? Such is the position, Protagoras, I said or is it otherwise? He admitted it was so, much against his will. Then temperance and wisdom must be one thing? And indeed we found before that justice and holiness were almost the same thing. Come, Protagoras, I said, let us not falter, but carry out our inquiry to the end. Tell me, does a man who acts unjustly seem to you to be temperate in so acting? I should be ashamed, Socrates, he replied, to admit that, in spite of what many people say. Then shall I address my argument to them, I asked, or to you? If you please, he answered, debate first against that popular theory. It is all the same to me, I said, so long as you make answer, whether it be your own opinion or not. For although my first object is to test the argument, the result perhaps will be that both I, the questioner, and my respondent are brought to the test. At first Protagoras appeared to be coy, alleging that the argument was too disconcerting: however he consented at length to make answer. Well now, I said, begin at the beginning, and tell me, do you consider people to be temperate when they are unjust? Let us suppose so, he said. And by being temperate you mean being sensible? Yes. And being sensible is being well-advised in their injustice? Let us grant it, he said. Does this mean, I asked, if they fare well by their injustice, or if they fare ill? If they fare well. Now do you say there are things that are good? I do. Then, I asked, are those things good which are profitable to men? Oh yes, to be sure, he replied, and also when they are not profitable to men I call them good. Here Protagoras seemed to me to be in a thoroughly provoked and harassed state, and to have set his face against answering: so when I saw him in this mood I grew wary and went gently with my questions.

Section 334

Do you mean, Protagoras, I asked, things that are profitable to no human being, or things not profitable in any way at all? Can you call such things as these good? By no means, he replied; but I know a number of things that are unprofitable to men, namely, foods, drinks, drugs, and countless others, and some that are profitable; some that are neither one nor the other to men, but are one or the other to horses; and some that are profitable only to cattle, or again to dogs; some also that are not profitable to any of those, but are to trees; and some that are good for the roots of a tree, but bad for its shoots—such as dung, which is a good thing when applied to the roots of all plants, whereas if you chose to cast it on the young twigs and branches, it will ruin all. And oil too is utterly bad for all plants, and most deadly for the hair of all animals save that of man, while to the hair of man it is helpful, as also to the rest of his body. The good is such an elusive and diverse thing that in this instance it is good for the outward parts of man’s body, but at the same time as bad as can be for the inward; and for this reason all doctors forbid the sick to take oil, except the smallest possible quantity, in what one is going to eat—just enough to quench the loathing that arises in the sensations of one’s nostrils from food and its dressings. When he had thus spoken, the company acclaimed it as an excellent answer; and then I remarked: Protagoras, I find I am a forgetful sort of person, and if someone addresses me at any length I forget the subject on which he is talking. So, just as you, in entering on a discussion with me, would think fit to speak louder to me than to others if I happened to be hard of hearing, please bear in mind now that you have to deal with a forgetful person, and therefore cut up your answers into shorter pieces, that I may be able to follow you. Well, what do you mean by short answers? he asked: do you want me to make them shorter than they should be? Not at all, I said. As long as they should be? he asked. Yes, I said. Then are my answers to be as long as I think they should be, or as you think they should be?

Section 335

Well, for instance, I have heard, I said, that you yourself are able, in treating one and the same subject, not only to instruct another person in it but to speak on it at length, if you choose, without ever being at a loss for matter; or again briefly, so as to yield to no one in brevity of expression. So, if you are going to argue with me, employ with me the latter method, that of brevity. Socrates, he said, I have undertaken in my time many contests of speech, and if I were to do what you demand, and argue just in the way that my opponent demanded, I should not be held superior to anyone nor would Protagoras have made a name among the Greeks. Then, as I saw that he had not been quite satisfied with himself in making his former answers, and that he would not readily accept the part of answerer in debate, I considered it was not my business to attend his meetings further, and remarked: But you know, Protagoras, I too feel uncomfortable about our having this discussion against your inclination; but when you agree to argue in such a way that I can follow, then I will argue with you. For you—as people relate of you, and you yourself assert—are able to hold a discussion in the form of either long or short speeches; you are a man of knowledge: but I have no ability for these long speeches, though I could wish that I had it. Surely you, who are proficient in both ways, ought to have made us this concession, that so we might have had our debate. But now that you refuse, and I am somewhat pressed for time and could not stay to hear you expatiate at any length—for I have an appointment—I will be off; though I daresay I should be happy enough to hear your views. With these words I rose as if to go away; but, as I was getting up, Callias laid hold of my arm with his right hand, and grasped this cloak of mine with his left, and said: We will not let you go, Socrates; for if you leave us our discussions will not go so well. I beg you therefore to stay with us, for there is nothing I would rather hear than an argument between you and Protagoras. Come, you must oblige us all. Then I said (I was now standing up as though to go out): Son of Hipponicus, I always admire your love of knowledge, but especially do I commend and love it now, so that I should be very glad to oblige you if you asked of me something that I could do:

Section 336

but I am afraid it is as though you asked me to keep pace with Criso the runner of Himera in his prime, or to keep up in a match with one of the long-distance or day-course racers, and I could only tell you that I wish that of myself, without your asking, I could keep pace with such runners, but of course I cannot. If you want to have the spectacle of Criso and me running together, you must ask him to adapt his pace; for whereas I cannot run fast, he can run slowly. So if you desire to hear Protagoras and me, ask him to resume the method of answering which he used at first—in short sentences and keeping to the point raised. Otherwise what is to be our mode of discussion? For I thought that to hold a joint discussion and to make a harangue were two distinct things. Ah, but you see, Socrates, he said, Protagoras thinks it only fair to claim that he be allowed to discuss in his chosen style, in return for your claim that it should be in yours. At this Alcibiades intervened, saying: You do not state it quite philosophically, Callias, for Socrates here confesses he is no hand at long discourses, and yields therein to Protagoras; but I should be surprised if he yields to any man in ability to argue, or in understanding the interchange of reason. Now if Protagoras confesses himself inferior to Socrates in argumentation, Socrates has no more to ask: but if he challenges him, let him discuss by question and answer; not spinning out a lecture on each question—beating off the arguments, refusing to give a reason, and so dilating until most of his hearers have forgotten the point at issue. For Socrates, I warrant you, will not forget, despite his jesting way of calling himself forgetful. Now I think Socrates’ proposal is the more equitable—for each of us should declare his personal opinion. After Alcibiades, the next, I believe, to speak was Critias: Prodicus and Hippias, he said, it seems to me that Callias is all for supporting Protagoras, while Alcibiades is always for a contest in anything he takes up. It is not for us to contend on either side for Socrates or for Protagoras, but jointly to request them both not to break off our conference unconcluded.

Section 337

When he had said this, Prodicus remarked: I think you are right, Critias: those who attend this sort of discussion ought to be joint, but not equal, hearers of both disputants. For there is a difference: we should listen jointly to them both, yet not give equal heed to each, but more to the wiser and less to the less intelligent. I on my part also, Protagoras and Socrates, call upon you to accede to our request, and to dispute, but not wrangle, with each other over your arguments: for friends dispute with friends, just from good feeling; whereas wrangling is between those who are at variance and enmity with one another. In this way our meeting will have highest success, since you the speakers will thus earn the greatest measure of good repute, not praise, from us who hear you. For good repute is present in the hearers’ souls without deception, but praise is too often in the words of liars who hide what they really think. Again, we listeners would thus be most comforted, not pleased; for he is comforted who learns something and gets a share of good sense in his mind alone, whereas he is pleased who eats something or has some other pleasant sensation only in his body. When Prodicus had thus spoken, quite a number of the company showed their approval then after Prodicus the learned Hippias spoke: Gentlemen, he said, who are here present, I regard you all as kinsmen and intimates and fellow-citizens by nature, not by law: for like is akin to like by nature, whereas law, despot of mankind, often constrains us against nature. Hence it would be shameful if we, while knowing the nature of things, should yet—being the wisest of the Greeks, and having met together for the very purpose in the very sanctuary of the wisdom of Greece, and in this the greatest and most auspicious house of the city of cities—display no worthy sign of this dignity, but should quarrel with each other like low churls.

Section 338

Now let me beg and advise you, Protagoras and Socrates, to come to terms arranged, as it were, under our arbitration: you, Socrates, must, not require that precise form of discussion with its extreme brevity, if it is disagreeable to Protagoras, but let the speeches have their head with a loose rein, that they may give us a more splendid and elegant impression; nor must you, Protagoras, let out full sail, as you run before the breeze, and so escape into the ocean of speech leaving the land nowhere in sight; rather, both of you must take a middle course. So you shall do as I say, and I strongly urge you to choose an umpire or supervisor or chairman who will keep watch for you over the due measure of either’s speeches. His proposal was approved by the company, and they all applauded it: Callias said he would not let me go, and they requested me to choose a supervisor. To this I replied that it would be a shame to choose an arbiter for our discussion; for if he who is chosen, said I, is to be our inferior, it would not be right to have the inferior overseeing the superior; while if he is our equal, that will be just as wrong, for our equal will only do very much as we do, and it will be superfluous to choose him. You may say you will choose one who is our superior. This, in very truth, I hold to be impossible—to choose someone who is wiser than our friend Protagoras; and if you choose one who is not his superior, though you may say he is, that again would cast a slur on him, as if he were some paltry fellow requiring a supervisor; for, as far as I am concerned, the matter is indifferent. But let me tell you how I would have the thing done, so that your eagerness for a conference and a discussion may be satisfied. If Protagoras does not wish to answer, let him ask questions, and I will answer: at the same time I will try to show him how the answerer, in my view, ought to answer; and when I have answered all the questions that he wishes to ask, in his turn he shall render account in like manner to me. So if he does not seem very ready to answer the particular question put to him, you and I will join in beseeching him, as you have besought me, not to upset our conference. And for this plan there is no need to have one man as supervisor; you will all supervise it together. They all resolved that it should be done in this way: Protagoras, though very unwilling, was obliged after all to agree to ask questions and then, when he had asked a sufficient number, to take his turn at making due response in short answers.

Section 339

And so he began to put questions in this sort of way: I consider, Socrates, that the greatest part of a man’s education is to be skilled in the matter of verses; that is, to be able to apprehend, in the utterances of the poets, what has been rightly and what wrongly composed, and to know how to distinguish them and account for them when questioned. Accordingly my question now will be on the same subject that you and I are now debating, namely virtue, but taken in connexion with poetry: that will be the only difference. Now, Simonides, I think, somewhere remarks to Scopas, the son of Creon of Thessaly— For a man, indeed, to become good truly is hard, In hands and feet and mind foursquare, Fashioned without reproach. Do you know the ode, or shall I recite the whole? To this I replied: There is no need, for I know it it happens that I have especially studied that ode. I am glad to hear it, he said. Now do you regard it as finely and correctly composed or not? Very finely and correctly, I replied. And do you regard it as finely composed, if the poet contradicts himself? No, I replied. Then observe it more closely, he said. >My good sir, I have given it ample attention. Are you aware, then, he asked, that as the ode proceeds he says at one point— Nor ringeth true to me That word of Pittacus— And yet ’twas a sage who spake—Hard, quoth he, to be good. Do you note that this and the former are statements of the same person? I know that, I said. Then do you think the second agrees with the first? So far as I can see, it does, I replied (at the same time, though, I was afraid there was something in what he said). Why, I asked, does it not seem so to you? How can anyone, he replied, be thought consistent, who says both of these things? First he laid it down himself that it is hard for a man to become good in truth, and then a little further on in his poem he forgot, and he proceeds to blame Pittacus for saying the same as he did—that it is hard to be good, and refuses to accept from him the same statement that he made himself. Yet, as often as he blames the man for saying the same as himself he obviously blames himself too, so that in either the former or the latter place his statement is wrong. This speech of his won a clamorous approval from many of his hearers; and at first I felt as though I had been struck by a skilful boxer, and was quite blind and dizzy with the effect of his words and the noise of their applause. Then—to tell you the honest truth—in order to gain time for considering the poet’s meaning, I turned to Prodicus and calling him—Prodicus, I said, surely Simonides was your townsman: it behoves you to come to the man’s rescue.

Section 340

Accordingly I allow myself to call for your assistance— just as Scamander, in Homer, when besieged by Achilles, called Simois to his aid, saying— Dear brother, let us both together stay this warriors might. In the same way I call upon you, lest Protagoras lay Simonides in ruins. For indeed to rehabilitate Simonides requires your artistry, by which you can discriminate between wishing and desiring as two distinct things in the fine and ample manner of your statement just now. So please consider if you agree with my view. For it is not clear that Simonides does contradict himself. Now you, Prodicus, shall declare your verdict first: do you consider becoming and being to be the same or different? Different, to be sure, said Prodicus. Now in the first passage, I said, Simonides gave it as his own opinion that it is hard for a man to become good in truth. Quite true, said Prodicus. And he blames Pittacus, I went on, for saying not, as Protagoras holds, the same as himself, but something different. For what Pittacus said was not, as Simonides said, that it is hard to become but to be good. Now being and becoming, Protagoras, as our friend Prodicus says, are not the same thing; and if being and becoming are not the same thing, Simonides does not contradict himself. Perhaps Prodicus and many others might say with Hesiod that to become good is hard, for Heaven hath set hard travail on the way to virtue; and when one reacheth the summit thereof, ’tis an easy thing to possess, though hard before. When Prodicus heard this he gave me his approval: but Protagoras observed: Your correction, Socrates, contains an error greater than that which you are correcting. To which I answered: then it is a bad piece of work I have done, it would seem, Protagoras, and I am an absurd sort of physician; my treatment increases the malady. Just so, he said. How is that? I asked. Great, he replied, would be the ignorance of the poet, if he calls it such a slight matter to possess virtue, which is the hardest thing in the world, as all men agree.

Section 341

Then I remarked: Upon my word, how opportunely it has happened that Prodicus is here to join in our discussion! For it is very likely, Protagoras, that Prodicus’ wisdom is a gift of long ago from heaven, beginning either in the time of Simonides or even earlier. But you, so skilled in many other things, appear to be unskilled in this, and lack the skill that I can boast because I am a disciple of the great Prodicus; and so now I find you do not understand that perhaps Simonides did not conceive hard in the way that you conceive it—just as, in the case of awful, Prodicus here corrects me each time I use the word in praising you or someone else; when I say, for instance, that Protagoras is an awfully wise man, he asks if I am not ashamed to call good things awful. For awful, he says, is bad; thus no one on this or that occasion speaks of awful wealth or awful peace or awful health, but we say awful disease, awful war or awful poverty, taking awful to be bad. So perhaps hard also was intended by the Ceans and Simonides as either bad or something else that you do not understand: let us therefore ask Prodicus, for it is fair to question him on the dialect of Simonides. What did Simonides mean, Prodicus, by hard? Bad, he replied. Then it is on this account, Prodicus, I said, that he blames Pittacus for saying it is hard to be good, just as though he heard him say it is bad to be good. Well, Socrates, he said, what else do you think Simonides meant? Was he not reproaching Pittacus for not knowing how to distinguish words correctly, Lesbian as he was, and nurtured in a foreign tongue? You hear, Protagoras, I said, what Prodicus here suggests: have you anything to say upon it? The case, said Protagoras, is far otherwise, Prodicus: I am quite sure that Simonides meant by hard the same as we generally do—not bad, but whatever is not easy and involves a great amount of trouble. Ah, I agree with you, Protagoras, I said, that this is Simonides’ meaning, and that our friend Prodicus knows it, but is joking and chooses to experiment on you to see if you will be able to support your own statement. For that Simonides does not mean that hard is bad we have clear proof forthwith in the next phrase, where he says— God alone can have this privilege. Surely he cannot mean that it is bad to be good, if he proceeds here to say that God alone can have this thing, and attributes this privilege to God only; otherwise Prodicus would call Simonides a rake, and no true Cean.

Section 342

But I should like to tell you what I take to be Simonides’ intention in this ode, if you care to test my powers, as you put it, in the matter of verses; though if you would rather, I will hear your account. When Protagoras heard me say this—As you please, Socrates, he said; then Prodicus and Hippias strongly urged me, and the rest of them also. Well then, I said, I will try to explain to you my own feeling about this poem. Now philosophy is of more ancient and abundant growth in Crete and Lacedaemon than in any other part of Greece, and sophists are more numerous in those regions: but the people there deny it and make pretence of ignorance, in order to prevent the discovery that it is by wisdom that they have ascendancy over the rest of the Greeks, like those sophists of whom Protagoras was speaking; they prefer it to be thought that they owe their superiority to fighting and valor, conceiving that the revelation of its real cause would lead everyone to practise this wisdom. So well have they kept their secret that they have deceived the followers of the Spartan cult in our cities, with the result that some get broken ears by imitating them, bind their knuckles with thongs, go in for muscular exercises, and wear dashing little cloaks, as though it were by these means that the Spartans were the masters of Greece. And when the Spartans wish to converse unrestrainedly with their sophists, and begin to chafe at the secrecy of their meetings, they pass alien acts against the laconizing set and any other strangers within their gates, and have meetings with the sophists unknown to the foreigners; while on their part they do not permit any of their young men to travel abroad to the other cities—in this rule they resemble the Cretans—lest they unlearn what they are taught at home. In those two states there are not only men but women also who pride themselves on their education; and you can tell that what I say is true and that the Spartans have the best education in philosophy and argument by this: if you choose to consort with the meanest of Spartans, at first you will find him making a poor show in the conversation; but soon, at some point or other in the discussion, he gets home with a notable remark, short and compressed—a deadly shot that makes his interlocutor seem like a helpless child.

Section 343

Hence this very truth has been observed by certain persons both in our day and in former times—that the Spartan cult is much more the pursuit of wisdom than of athletics; for they know that a man’s ability to utter such remarks is to be ascribed to his perfect education. Such men were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, Solon of our city, Cleobulus of Lindus, Myson of Chen, and, last of the traditional seven, Chilon of Sparta. All these were enthusiasts, lovers and disciples of the Spartan culture; and you can recognize that character in their wisdom by the short, memorable sayings that fell from each of them they assembled together and dedicated these as the first-fruits of their lore to Apollo in his Delphic temple, inscribing there those maxims which are on every tongue—Know thyself and Nothing overmuch. To what intent do I say this? To show how the ancient philosophy had this style of laconic brevity; and so it was that the saying of Pittacus was privately handed about with high approbation among the sages—that it is hard to be good. Then Simonides, ambitious to get a name for wisdom, perceived that if he could overthrow this saying, as one might some famous athlete, and become its conqueror, he would win fame himself amongst men of that day. Accordingly it was against this saying, and with this aim, that he composed the whole poem as a means of covertly assailing and abasing this maxim, as it seems to me. Now let us all combine in considering whether my account is really true. The opening of the ode must at once appear crazy if, while intending to say that it is hard for a man to become good, he inserted indeed. There is no sort of sense, I imagine, in this insertion, unless we suppose that Simonides is addressing himself to the saying of Pittacus as a disputant: Pittacus says—It is hard to be good; and the poet controverts this by observing—No, but to become good, indeed, is hard for a man, Pittacus, truly—not truly good; he does not mention truth in this connexion, or imply that some things are truly good, while others are good but not truly so: this would seem silly and unlike Simonides.

Section 344

We must rather take the truly as a poetical transposition, and first quote the saying of Pittacus in some such way as this: let us suppose Pittacus himself to be speaking and Simonides replying, as thus—Good people, he says, it is hard to be good; and the poet answers—Pittacus, what you say is not true, for it is not being but becoming good, indeed—in hands and feet and mind foursquare, fashioned without reproach—that is truly hard. In this way we see a purpose in the insertion of indeed, and that the truly is correctly placed at the end; and all that comes after corroborates this view of his meaning. There are many points in the various expressions of the poem which might be instanced to show its fine composition, for it is a work of very elegant and elaborate art; but it would take too long to detail all its beauties. However, let us go over its general outline and intention, which is assuredly to refute Pittacus’ saying, throughout the ode. Proceeding a little way on from our passage, just as though he were making a speech, he says to become, indeed, a good man is truly hard (not but what it is possible for a certain space of time); but to continue in this state of what one has become, and to be a good man is, as you say, Pittacus, impossible, superhuman: God alone can have this privilege— For that man cannot help but be bad Whom irresistible mischance has overthrown. Now who is it that an irresistible mischance overthrows in the command of a ship? Clearly not the ordinary man, for he may be overcome at any time; just as you cannot knock over one who is lying down, but one who is standing; you might knock over a standing man so as to make him lie down, not one who is lying down already. So it is a man apt to resist that an irresistible mischance would overthrow, and not one who could never resist anything. A great storm breaking over a steersman will render him helpless, and a severe season will leave a farmer helpless, and a doctor will be in the same case. For the good has the capacity of becoming bad, as we have witness in another poet who said— Nay more, the virtuous man is at one time bad, at another good. whereas the bad man has no capacity for becoming, but must ever be, what he is; so that when an irresistible mischance overthrows him who is resourceful, wise, and good, he cannot but be bad; and you say, Pittacus, that it is hard to be good—that is, to become good, indeed, is hard, though possible, but to be good is impossible: for— If he hath fared well, every man is good; Bad, if ill.

Section 345

Now what is good faring in letters—the thing that makes a man good at them? Clearly, the study of letters. What welfare makes a good doctor? Clearly, the study of the cure of the ailing. Bad, if ill: who could become a bad doctor? Clearly, he who in the first place is a doctor, and in the second, a good doctor; for he could become a bad one also: whereas we, who are laymen in respect of medicine, could never by faring ill become either doctors or joiners or anything else of that sort; and if one cannot become a doctor by faring ill, clearly one cannot become a bad one either. In the same way the good man may one day become bad through the effect either of time or work or illness or some other accident; for there is only one sort of ill fare—the deprivation of knowledge. But the bad man can never become bad: he is that always. If he is to become bad, he must previously become good. Hence the upshot of this part of the poem is that it is impossible to be a good man, continuing to be good, but possible to become good, and bad also, in the case of the same person. And then—Best also for the longest space are they whom the gods love. All this has been said with reference to Pittacus, as is made still plainer by the ensuing verses, in which he says— Therefore never shall I, in quest of what cannot come to pass, vainly cast my life’s lot upon a hope impracticable—of finding a man wholly blameless amongst us who partake of the fruit of the broad-based earth. If I light upon him, be sure I will report it— says he; and in this vehement tone he pursues the saying of Pittacus all through the poem: But I praise and love everyone willingly committing no baseness; for against necessity not even the gods make war. This also is spoken with the same intent. For Simonides was not so ill-educated as to say that he praised a person who willingly did no evil, as though there were some who did evil willingly. I am fairly sure of this—that none of the wise men considers that anybody ever willingly errs or willingly does base and evil deeds; they are well aware that all who do base and evil things do them unwillingly; and so Simonides does not say he gives his praise to the person who willingly does no evil, but uses the word willingly of himself.

Section 346

For he considered that a man of sense and honor often constrains himself to become a friend and approver of some person, as when a man chances to have an uncongenial mother or father or country or other such connexion. Now when this sort of thing befalls the wicked, they seem glad to see their parents’ or country’s faults, and complainingly point them out and inveigh against them, in order that their own neglect of them may not be denounced by their neighbors, who might otherwise reproach them for being so neglectful; and hence they multiply their complaints and add voluntary to unavoidable feuds. But good men, he knew, conceal the trouble and constrain themselves to praise, and if they have any reason to be angered against their parents or country for some wrong done to them they pacify and conciliate their feelings, compelling themselves to love and praise their own people. And many a time, I think, Simonides was conscious that he had praised and eulogized some tyrant or other such person, not willingly, but under compulsion. So he proceeds to tell Pittacus—I, Pittacus, do not reproach you merely because I am apt to reproach, since—For my part I am content with whosoever is not evil or too intractable. He who knows Right, the support of a city, is a healthy man; him I shall never blame, for to blame I am not apt. Infinite is the race of fools. So that whoever delights in reproaching would have his fill of blaming them: Verily, all things are fair that have in them no admixture of base. By this he does not mean to say, as it were, that all things are white that have no admixture of black; that would be ridiculous in many ways; but that he himself accepts the average sort without reproaching them. I do not seek, said he, a man wholly blameless amongst us who partake of the fruit of the broad-based earth: if I light upon him, be sure I will report it—meaning, If I wait for that, I shall never find anyone to praise. No, I am content if a man be average and do nothing evil, since I love and praise all—and there he has used a Mytilenaean word, for his I praise and love all willingly is addressed to Pittacus (here at willingly one should make a pause);—all who commit nothing base, but some there are whom I praise and love unwillingly.

Section 347

Hence I should never reproach you, Pittacus, if you would only speak what is moderately reasonable and true. But as it is, since you lie so grievously about the greatest matters with an air of speaking the truth, on this score I reproach you. Such is my view, Prodicus and Protagoras, I said, of Simonides’ intention in composing this ode. Then Hippias remarked: It certainly seems to me, Socrates, that you have given a good exposition of the poem: but I also have an elegant discourse upon it, which I will perform for you if you wish. Yes, Hippias, said Alcibiades, but some other time: for the moment the proper thing, according to the agreement which Protagoras and Socrates made between them, will be for Socrates to answer any questions that Protagoras may still wish to put to him, but if he prefers to answer Socrates, then it will be for Socrates to ask. On this I remarked: For my part I place it in Protagoras’s hands to do whichever he likes best. But if he does not mind, let us talk no more of poems and verses, but consider the points on which I questioned you at first, Protagoras, and on which I should be glad to reach, with your help, a conclusion. For it seems to me that arguing about poetry is comparable to the wine-parties of common market-folk. These people, owing to their inability to carry on a familiar conversation over their wine by means of their own voices and discussions— such is their lack of education—put a premium on flute-girls by hiring the extraneous voice of the flute at a high price, and carry on their intercourse by means of its utterance. But where the party consists of thorough gentlemen who have had a proper education, you will see neither flute-girls nor dancing-girls nor harp-girls, but only the company contenting themselves with their own conversation, and none of these fooleries and frolics—each speaking and listening decently in his turn, even though they may drink a great deal of wine. And so a gathering like this of ours, when it includes such men as most of us claim to be, requires no extraneous voices, not even of the poets, whom one cannot question on the sense of what they say; when they are adduced in discussion we are generally told by some that the poet thought so and so, and by others, something different, and they go on arguing about a matter which they are powerless to determine.

Section 348

No, this sort of meeting is avoided by men of culture, who prefer to converse directly with each other, and to use their own way of speech in putting one another by turns to the test. It is this sort of person that I think you and I ought rather to imitate; putting the poets aside, let us hold our discussion together in our own persons, making trial of the truth and of ourselves. So if you wish to question me further, I am at your service as answerer; but if you like, put yourself at my service, so that we may clear up the several points of the inquiry in which we stopped half-way. On my saying this and something more of the sort, Protagoras gave no indication as to which course he would take. So Alcibiades, looking at Callias, said: Do you consider, Callias, that Protagoras is behaving properly now in refusing to signify whether he will or will not answer? I do not think he is. Let him either debate or say that he does not want to debate, so that we may have this understanding with him; then Socrates can debate with someone else, or another of us with some other, as may be agreed. Then Protagoras was ashamed, as it seemed to me, at these words of Alcibiades, and the more so when Callias requested him, together with almost the whole of the company; and so he reluctantly prevailed on himself to take up the debate, and asked to have questions put to him, since he was ready to answer. So I proceeded to say—Protagoras, do not suppose that I have any other desire in debating with you than to examine the difficulties which occur to myself at each point. For I hold that there is a good deal in what Homer says— When two go together, one observes before the other; for somehow it makes all of us human beings more resourceful in every deed or word or thought; but if one observes something alone, forthwith one has to go about searching until one discovers somebody to whom one can show it off and who can corroborate it. And I also have my reason for being glad to debate with you rather than with anyone else; it is that I regard you as the best person to investigate in general any matters that a sensible man may be expected to examine, and virtue in particular. Whom else should I choose but you? Not only do you consider yourself a worthy gentleman, like sundry other people, who are sensible enough themselves, but cannot make others so;

Section 349

but you are both good yourself and have the gift of making others good. And you are so confident of yourself that, while others make a secret of this art, you have had yourself publicly proclaimed to all the Greeks with the title of sophist, and have appointed yourself preceptor of culture and virtue, and are the first who has ever demanded a regular fee for such work. What then could I do but call upon you to deal with our problem both by question and communication? I had no other course. So now with regard to those points which I have raised on the subject in my opening questions, I desire to be reminded of some by you and to have your help in investigating others. The question, I believe, was this: Are the five names of wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness attached to one thing, or underlying each of these names is there a distinct existence or thing that has its own particular function, each thing being different from the others? And your answer was that they are not names attached to one thing, but that each of these names applies to a distinct thing, and that all these are parts of virtue; not like the parts of gold, which are similar to each other and to the whole of which they are parts, but like the parts of the face, dissimilar to the whole of which they are parts and to each other, and each having a distinct function. If you still hold the same opinion of them, say so; if you have a new one, define what it is, for I make no objection to your replying now on other lines. Indeed I should not be surprised if you were merely experimenting upon me when you spoke before. Well, Socrates, he replied, I say that all these are parts of virtue, and that while four of them are fairly on a par with each other, courage is something vastly different from all the rest. You may perceive the truth of what I say from this: you will find many people extremely unjust, unholy, dissolute, and ignorant, and yet pre-eminently courageous. Stop now, I said: we must duly examine what you say. Do you call courageous men bold, or something else? Yes, and impetuous also, he replied, where most men fear to tread. Well now, do you say that virtue is a good thing, and of this good thing offer yourself as teacher? Nay, it is the best of things, he said, unless I am out of my senses. Then is one part of it base and another good, or is the whole good? Surely the whole is good in the highest possible degree.

Section 350

Now do you know who dive boldly into wells? I do; divers. Is this because they have knowledge, or for some other reason? Because they have knowledge. And who are bold in going to war on horseback—those who are practised horsemen, or those who are not? Practised horsemen. And who with bucklers—buckler-men, or those who are not? Buckler-men: and so with all other cases, he went on, if that is your point; those who have knowledge are bolder than those who lack it, and individually they are bolder when they have learnt than before learning. But you must have seen at times, I said, persons who are without knowledge of any of these affairs, yet behaving boldly in each of them. I have, he said, and very boldly too. Then are these bold ones courageous also? Nay, that would make courage a base thing, he replied; for those you speak of are out of their senses. What then, I asked, do you mean by courageous men? Surely the same as bold men? Yes, I do still, he said. Then these men, I went on, who are so brave, are found to be not courageous but mad? And in those former cases our wisest men are boldest too, and being boldest are most courageous? And on this reasoning, wisdom will be courage? You do not rightly recall, Socrates, what I stated in replying to you. When you asked me whether courageous men are bold, I admitted it: I was not asked whether bold men are courageous. Had you asked me this before, I should have said—Not all. And as to proving that courageous men are not bold, you have nowhere pointed out that I was wrong in my admission that they are. Next you show that such persons individually are bolder when they have knowledge, and bolder than others who lack it, and therewith you take courage and wisdom to be the same: proceeding in this manner you might even take strength to be wisdom. On this method you might begin by asking me whether the strong are powerful, and I should say Yes; and then, whether those who know how to wrestle are more powerful than those who do not know how to wrestle, and whether individually they are more powerful when they have learnt than before learning, and I should say Yes. And on my admitting these points it would be open to you to say, by the same token, that according to my admission wisdom is strength.

Section 351

But neither there nor elsewhere do I admit that the powerful are strong, only that the strong are powerful; for I hold that power and strength are not the same, but that one of them, power, comes from knowledge, or from madness or rage, whereas strength comes from constitution and fit nurture of the body. So, in the other instance, boldness and courage are not the same, and therefore it results that the courageous are bold, but not that the bold are courageous; for boldness comes to a man from art, or from rage or madness, like power, whereas courage comes from constitution and fit nurture of the soul. Do you speak of some men, Protagoras, I asked, as living well, and others ill? Yes. Then do you consider that a man would live well if he lived in distress and anguish? No, he said. Well now, if he lived pleasantly and so ended his life, would you not consider he had thus contrived to live well? I would, he said. And, I suppose, to live pleasantly is good, and unpleasantly, bad? Yes, he said, if one lived in the enjoyment of honorable things. But, Protagoras, will you tell me you agree with the majority in calling some pleasant things bad and some painful ones good? I mean to say—Are not things good in so far as they are pleasant, putting aside any other result they may have; and again, are not painful things in just the same sense bad—in so far as they are painful? I cannot tell, Socrates, he replied, whether I am to answer, in such absolute fashion as that of your question, that all pleasant things are good and painful things bad: I rather think it safer for me to reply, with a view not merely to my present answer but to all the rest of my life, that some pleasant things are not good, and also that some painful things are not bad, and some are, while a third class of them are indifferent—neither bad nor good. You call pleasant, do you not, I asked, things that partake of pleasure or cause pleasure? Certainly, he said. So when I put it to you, whether things are not good in so far as they are pleasant, I am asking whether pleasure itself is not a good thing. Let us examine the matter, Socrates, he said, in the form in which you put it at each point, and if the proposition seems to be reasonable, and pleasant and good are found to be the same, we shall agree upon it; if not, we shall dispute it there and then. And would you like, I asked, to be leader in the inquiry, or am I to lead? You ought to lead, he replied, since you are the inaugurator of this discussion.

Section 352

Well then, I proceeded, will the following example give us the light we need? Just as, in estimating a man’s health or bodily efficiency by his appearance, one might look at his face and the lower part of his arms and say: Come now, uncover your chest too and your back and show them, that I may examine you thoroughly—so the same sort of desire comes over me in regard to our inquiry. Observing your condition to be as you describe in respect of the good and the pleasant, I am fain to say something like this: Come, my good Protagoras, uncover some more of your thoughts: how are you in regard to knowledge? Do you share the view that most people take of this, or have you some other? The opinion generally held of knowledge is something of this sort—that it is no strong or guiding or governing thing; it is not regarded as anything of that kind, but people think that, while a man often has knowledge in him, he is not governed by it, but by something else—now by passion, now by pleasure, now by pain, at times by love, and often by fear; their feeling about knowledge is just what they have about a slave, that it may be dragged about by any other force. Now do you agree with this view of it, or do you consider that knowledge is something noble and able to govern man, and that whoever learns what is good and what is bad will never be swayed by anything to act otherwise than as knowledge bids, and that intelligence is a sufficient succor for mankind? My view, Socrates, he replied, is precisely that which you express, and what is more, it would be a disgrace for me above all men to assert that wisdom and knowledge were aught but the highest of all human things. Well and truly spoken, I said. Now you know that most people will not listen to you and me, but say that many, while knowing what is best, refuse to perform it, though they have the power, and do other things instead. And whenever I have asked them to tell me what can be the reason of this, they say that those who act so are acting under the influence of pleasure or pain, or under the control of one of the things I have just mentioned. Yes, Socrates, he replied, I regard this as but one of the many erroneous sayings of mankind.

Section 353

Come then, and join me in the endeavor to persuade the world and explain what is this experience of theirs, which they call being overcome by pleasure, and which they give as the reason why they fail to do what is best though they have knowledge of it. For perhaps if we said to them: What you assert, good people, is not correct, but quite untrue—they might ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not being overcome by pleasure what on earth is it, and what do you call it? Tell us that. Why, Socrates, must we consider the opinion of the mass of mankind, who say just what occurs to them? I fancy, I replied, that this will be a step towards discovering how courage is related to the other parts of virtue. So if you think fit to abide by the arrangement we made a while ago—that I should lead in the direction which seems best for elucidating the matter—you must now follow; but if you would rather not, to suit your wishes I will let it pass. No, he said, your plan is quite right: go on to the end as you began. Once more then, I proceeded, suppose they should ask us: Then what do you call this thing which we described as being overcome by pleasures? The answer I should give them would be this: Please attend; Protagoras and I will try to explain it to you. Do you not say that this thing occurs, good people, in the common case of a man being overpowered by the pleasantness of food or drink or sexual acts, and doing what he does though he knows it to be wicked? They would admit it. Then you and I would ask them again: In what sense do you call such deeds wicked? Is it that they produce those pleasures and are themselves pleasant at the moment, or that later on they cause diseases and poverty, and have many more such ills in store for us? Or, even though they have none of these things in store for a later day, and cause us only enjoyment, would they still be evil just because, forsooth, they cause enjoyment in some way or other? Can we suppose, Protagoras, that they will make any other answer than that these things are evil, not according to the operation of the actual pleasure of the moment, but owing to the later results in disease and those other ills? I think, said Protagoras, that most people would answer thus. Then in causing diseases they cause pains? And in causing poverty they cause pains? They would admit this, I imagine. Protagoras agreed.

Section 354

Then does it seem to you, my friends, as Protagoras and I assert, that the only reason why these things are evil is that they end at last in pains, and deprive us of other pleasures? Would they admit this? We both agreed that they would. Then again, suppose we should ask them the opposite: You, sirs, who tell us on the other hand that good things are painful—do you not give such instances as physical training, military service, and medical treatment conducted by cautery, incision, drugs, or starvation, and say that these are good, but painful? Would they not grant it? He agreed that they would. Then do you call them good because they produce extreme pangs and anguish for the moment, or because later on they result in health and good bodily condition, the deliverance of cities, dominion over others, and wealth? They would assent to this, I suppose. He agreed. And are these things good for any other reason than that they end at last in pleasures and relief and riddance of pains? Or have you some other end to mention, with respect to which you call them good, apart from pleasures and pains? They could not find one, I fancy. I too think they could not, said Protagoras. Then do you pursue pleasure as being a good thing, and shun pain as being a bad one? He agreed that we do. So one thing you hold to be bad—pain; and pleasure you hold to be good, since the very act of enjoying you call bad as soon as it deprives us of greater pleasures than it has in itself, or leads to greater pains than the pleasures it contains. For if it is with reference to something else that you call the act of enjoyment bad, and with a view to some other end, you might be able to tell it us but this you will be unable to do. I too think that they cannot, said Protagoras. Then is not the same thing repeated in regard to the state of being pained? You call being pained a good thing as soon as it either rids us of greater pains than those it comprises, or leads to greater pleasures than its pains. Now if you have in view some other end than those which I mention when you call being pained good, you can tell it us; but you never can. Truly spoken, said Protagoras. Once more then, I proceeded; if you were to ask me, my friends, Now why on earth do you speak at such length on this point, and in so many ways? I should reply, Forgive me: in the first place, it is not easy to conclude what it is that you mean when you say overcome by pleasures; and secondly, on this point hang all our conclusions.

Section 355

But it is still quite possible to retract, if you can somehow contrive to say that the good is different from pleasure, or the bad from pain. Is it enough for you to live out your life pleasantly, without pain? If it is, and you are unable to tell us of any other good or evil that does not end in pleasure or pain, listen to what I have to say next. I tell you that if this is so, the argument becomes absurd, when you say that it is often the case that a man, knowing the evil to be evil, nevertheless commits it, when he might avoid it, because he is driven and dazed by his pleasures; while on the other hand you say that a man, knowing the good, refuses to do good because of the momentary pleasures by which he is overcome. The absurdity of all this will be manifest if we refrain from using a number of terms at once, such as pleasant, painful, good, and bad; and as there appeared to be two things, let us call them by two names—first, good and evil, and then later on, pleasant and painful. Let us then lay it down as our statement, that a man does evil in spite of knowing the evil of it. Now if someone asks us: Why? we shall answer: Because he is overcome. By what? the questioner will ask us and this time we shall be unable to reply: By pleasure—for this has exchanged its name for the good. So we must answer only with the words: Because he is overcome. By what? says the questioner. The good—must surely be our reply. Now if our questioner chance to be an arrogant person he will laugh and exclaim: What a ridiculous statement, that a man does evil, knowing it to be evil, and not having to do it, because he is overcome by the good! Is this, he will ask, because the good is not worthy of conquering the evil in you, or because it is worthy? Clearly we must reply: Because it is not worthy; otherwise he whom we speak of as overcome by pleasures would not have offended. But in what sense, he might ask us, is the good unworthy of the bad, or the bad of the good? This can only be when the one is greater and the other smaller, or when there are more on the one side and fewer on the other. We shall not find any other reason to give; So it is clear, he will say, that by being overcome you mean getting the greater evil in exchange for the lesser good. That must be agreed.

Section 356

Then let us apply the terms pleasant and painful to these things instead, and say that a man does what we previously called evil, but now call painful, knowing it to be painful, because he is overcome by the pleasant, which is obviously unworthy to conquer. What unworthiness can there be in pleasure as against pain, save an excess or defect of one compared with the other? That is, when one becomes greater and the other smaller, or when there are more on one side and fewer on the other, or here a greater degree and there a less. For if you should say: But, Socrates, the immediately pleasant differs widely from the subsequently pleasant or painful, I should reply: Do they differ in anything but pleasure and pain? That is the only distinction. Like a practised weigher, put pleasant things and painful in the scales, and with them the nearness and the remoteness, and tell me which count for more. For if you weigh pleasant things against pleasant, the greater and the more are always to be preferred: if painful against painful, then always the fewer and smaller. If you weigh pleasant against painful, and find that the painful are outbalanced by the pleasant—whether the near by the remote or the remote by the near—you must take that course of action to which the pleasant are attached; but not that course if the pleasant are outweighed by the painful. Can the case be otherwise, I should ask, than thus, my friends? I am certain they could state no alternative. To this he too assented. Since that is the case, then, I shall say, please answer me this: Does not the same size appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when distant? They will admit this. And it is the same with thickness and number? And sounds of equal strength are greater when near, and smaller when distant? They would agree to this. Now if our welfare consisted in doing and choosing things of large dimensions, and avoiding and not doing those of small, what would be our salvation in life? Would it be the art of measurement, or the power of appearance? Is it not the latter that leads us astray, as we saw, and many a time causes us to take things topsy-turvy and to have to change our minds both in our conduct and in our choice of great or small? Whereas the art of measurement would have made this appearance ineffective, and by showing us the truth would have brought our soul into the repose of abiding by the truth, and so would have saved our life. Would men acknowledge, in view of all this, that the art which saves our life is measurement, or some other? It is measurement, he agreed.

Section 357

Well now, if the saving of our life depended on the choice of odd or even, and on knowing when to make a right choice of the greater and when of the less—taking each by itself or comparing it with the other, and whether near or distant—what would save our life? Would it not be knowledge; a knowledge of measurement, since the art here is concerned with excess and defect, and of numeration, as it has to do with odd and even? People would admit this, would they not? Protagoras agreed that they would. Well then, my friends, since we have found that the salvation of our life depends on making a right choice of pleasure and pain—of the more and the fewer, the greater and the smaller, and the nearer and the remoter—is it not evident, in the first place, that measurement is a study of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each other? This must needs be so. And being measurement, I presume it must be an art or science? They will assent to this. Well, the nature of this art or science we shall consider some other time; but the mere fact of its being a science will suffice for the proof which Protagoras and I are required to give in answer to the question you have put to us. You asked it, if you remember, when we were agreeing that there is nothing stronger than knowledge, and that knowledge, wherever it may be found, has always the upper hand of pleasure or anything else; and then you said that pleasure often masters even the man of knowledge, and on our refusing to agree with you, you went on to ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not being overcome by pleasure, whatever can it be, and what do you call it? Tell us. If on the spur of the moment we had replied, Ignorance, you would have laughed us to scorn: but now if you laugh at us you will be laughing at yourselves as well. For you have admitted that it is from defect of knowledge that men err, when they do err, in their choice of pleasures and pains—that is, in the choice of good and evil; and from defect not merely of knowledge but of the knowledge which you have now admitted also to be that of measurement. And surely you know well enough for yourselves that the erring act committed without knowledge is done through ignorance. Accordingly to be overcome by pleasure means just this—ignorance in the highest degree, which Protagoras here and Prodicus and Hippias profess to cure. But you, through supposing it to be something else than ignorance, will neither go yourselves nor send your children to these sophists, who are the teachers of those things—you say it cannot be taught; you are chary of your money and will give them none, and so you fare badly both in private and in public life.

Section 358

Such would have been our answer to the world at large. And I ask you now, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras—for I would have you make a joint reply—whether you think what I say is true or false. They all thought what I had said was absolutely true. Then you agree, I continued, that the pleasant is good and the painful bad. And let me entreat my friend Prodicus to spare me his distinction of terms: for whether you say pleasant or delightful or enjoyable, my excellent Prodicus, or in whatever style or manner you may be pleased to name these things, pray reply to the sense of my question. At this Prodicus laughed and consented, as did the rest. Well now, my friends, I said, what of this? All actions aimed at living painlessly and pleasantly are honorable, are they not? And the honorable work is both good and useful? They agreed. Then if, I proceeded, the pleasant is good, no one who has knowledge or thought of other actions as better than those he is doing, and as possible, will do as he proposes if he is free to do the better ones; and this yielding to oneself is nothing but ignorance, and mastery of oneself is as certainly wisdom. They all agreed. Well then, by ignorance do you mean having a false opinion and being deceived about matters of importance? They all agreed to this also. Then surely, I went on, no one willingly goes after evil or what he thinks to be evil; it is not in human nature, apparently, to do so—to wish to go after what one thinks to be evil in preference to the good; and when compelled to choose one of two evils, nobody will choose the greater when he may the lesser. All this met with the assent of everyone. Well, I said, is there something you call dread, or fear? And is it—I address myself to you, Prodicus —the same as I have in mind—something I describe as an expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread? Protagoras and Hippias agreed to this description of dread or fear; but Prodicus thought this was dread, not fear. No matter, Prodicus, I said, but my point is this: if our former statements are true, will any man wish to go after what he dreads, when he may pursue what he does not? Surely this is impossible after what we have admitted—that he regards as evil that which he dreads? And what is regarded as evil is neither pursued nor accepted willingly, we saw, by anyone. Here also they were all in agreement.

Section 359

So much, then, being granted, Prodicus and Hippias, I said, let our friend Protagoras vindicate the correctness of the answer he made at first—not that which he made at the very beginning, when he said that, while there were five parts of virtue, none of them was like any other, but each had its particular function: I do not refer to that, but the statement he made afterwards, when he proceeded to say that four of them had a considerable resemblance to each other, but one was quite different from the rest—courage; and he told me I should perceive this by the following token: You will find, Socrates, said he, that men may be most unholy, most unjust, most dissolute, and most ignorant, yet most courageous; whence you may judge that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. His answer caused me great surprise at the moment, and still more when I went into the matter with your help. But anyhow, I asked him whether by the brave he meant bold. Yes, he replied, and impetuous. Protagoras, I said, do you remember making this answer? He admitted he did. Well now, I said, tell us, towards what do you mean they are impetuous when they are courageous? Towards the same things as cowards? No, he said. Then towards other things? Yes, he said. Do cowards go after things that allow boldness, and the courageous after dreadful things? So people say, Socrates. Quite true, I said. But my point is rather, towards what, according to you, are the brave impetuous? Dreadful things, in the belief that they are dreadful, or towards what is not dreadful? No, he said; the former has just been shown, by the arguments you put forward, to be impossible. Quite true again, I said; so that if this proof was correct, no one goes to meet what he regards as dreadful, since to be overcome by oneself was found to be ignorance. He admitted this. And yet all men go also to meet what they can face boldly, whether cowardly or brave, and in this respect cowardly and brave go to meet the same things. But still, Socrates, he said, what cowards go to meet is the very opposite of what the courageous go to meet. For instance, the latter are willing to go to war, but the former are not. Is going to war an honorable thing, I asked, or a base thing? Honorable, he replied. Then if it is honorable, we have admitted, by our former argument, that it is also good for we agreed that all honorable actions were good. True, and I abide by that decision.

Section 360

You are right to do so, I said. But which sort of men do you say are not willing to go to war, that being an honorable and good thing to do? The cowardly, he replied. Then, I went on, if it is honorable and good, is it also pleasant? That certainly has been admitted, he said. Now do the cowards wittingly refuse to go to what is more honorable, better, and pleasanter? Well, if we admit that too, he replied, we shall undo our previous admissions. But what of the courageous man? Does he not go to the more honorable and better and pleasanter? I am forced to admit that, he said. Now, in general, courageous men do not feel base fears, when they fear, nor is there anything base in their boldness? True, he said. And if not base, then it must be honorable? He admitted this. And if honorable, then good? Yes. And the cowardly and the bold and the mad, on the contrary, feel base fears and base boldness? He agreed. Do they feel base and evil boldness solely through stupidity and ignorance? Just so, he said. Well now, the cause of cowards being cowardly, do you call this cowardice or courage? Cowardice, I call it, he replied. And were they not found to be cowards through ignorance of what is dreadful? Certainly, he said. And so they are cowards because of that ignorance? He agreed. And the cause of their being cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice? He assented. Then ignorance of what is dreadful and not dreadful will be cowardice? He nodded assent. But surely courage, I went on, is the opposite of cowardice. Yes. Then the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is opposed to the ignorance of these things? To this he could still nod assent. And the ignorance of them is cowardice? To this he nodded very reluctantly. So the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is courage, being opposed to the ignorance of these things? Here he could no longer bring himself to nod agreement, and remained silent. Then I proceeded: Why is it, Protagoras, that you neither affirm nor deny what I ask you? Finish it, he said, by yourself. I must first ask you, I said, just one more question: Do you still think, as at the beginning, that there are any people who are most ignorant and yet most courageous? I see, Socrates, you have set your heart on making me your answerer; so, to oblige you, I will say that by what we have admitted I consider it impossible. My only motive, I then said, in asking all these questions has been a desire to examine the various relations of virtue and its own special nature.

Section 361

For I know that, were it once made plain, that other question on which you and I have argued at such length on either side—you maintaining and I denying that virtue can be taught—would be cleared up satisfactorily. Our discussion, in its present result, seems to me as though it accused and mocked us like some human person; if it were given a voice it would say: What strange creatures you are, Socrates and Protagoras! You on the one hand, after having said at first that virtue cannot be taught, are now hot in opposition to yourself, endeavoring to prove that all things are knowledge—justice, temperance, and courage—which is the best way to make virtue appear teachable: for if virtue were anything else than knowledge, as Protagoras tried to make out, obviously it would not be teachable; but if as a matter of fact it turns out to be entirely knowledge, as you urge, Socrates, I shall be surprised if it is not teachable. Protagoras, on the other hand, though at first he claimed that it was teachable, now seems as eager for the opposite, declaring that it has been found to be almost anything but knowledge, which would make it quite unteachable! Now I, Protagoras, observing the extraordinary tangle into which we have managed to get the whole matter, am most anxious to have it thoroughly cleared up. And I should like to work our way through it until at last we reach what virtue is, and then go back and consider whether it is teachable or not, lest perchance your Epimetheus beguile and trip us up in our investigation as he overlooked us in your account of his distribution. I like the Prometheus of your fable better than the Epimetheus; for he is of use to me, and I take Promethean thought continually for my own life when I am occupied with all these questions; so, with your consent, as I said at the beginning, I should be delighted to have your aid in the inquiry. I approve your zeal, Socrates, said Protagoras, and the way you develop your arguments; for I think I am not ill-natured, and I am the last person on earth to be envious. Indeed I have told many people how I regard you—as the man I admire far above any that I meet, and as quite an exception to men of your age; and I say I should not be surprised if you won high repute for wisdom. We shall pursue the subject on some other occasion, at your pleasure: for the present, it is time to turn to another affair.

Section 362

I quite agree, said I, if you think so: for I was long ago due to be where I told you I was going; I stayed merely to oblige our excellent Callias. Here our colloquy ended, and each went his way.

Contents — 31 sections

1. Section 70
2. Section 71
3. Section 72
4. Section 73
5. Section 74
6. Section 75
7. Section 76
8. Section 77
9. Section 78
10. Section 79
11. Section 80
12. Section 81
13. Section 82
14. Section 83
15. Section 84
16. Section 85
17. Section 86
18. Section 87
19. Section 88
20. Section 89
21. Section 90
22. Section 91
23. Section 92
24. Section 93
25. Section 94
26. Section 95
27. Section 96
28. Section 97
29. Section 98
30. Section 99
31. Section 100

Section 70

Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue can be taught, or is acquired by practice, not teaching? Or if neither by practice nor by learning, whether it comes to mankind by nature or in some other way?

Meno, of old the Thessalians were famous and admired among the Greeks for their riding and their riches; but now they have a name, I believe, for wisdom also, especially your friend Aristippus’s people, the Larisaeans. For this you have to thank Gorgias: for when he came to that city he made the leading men of the Aleuadae—among them your lover Aristippus—and the Thessalians generally enamored of wisdom. Nay more, he has given you the regular habit of answering any chance question in a fearless, magnificent manner, as befits those who know: for he sets the example of offering himself to be questioned by any Greek who chooses, and on any point one likes, and he has an answer for everybody.

Section 71

Now in this place, my dear Meno, we have a contrary state of things: a drought of wisdom, as it were, has come on; and it seems as though wisdom had deserted our borders in favour of yours. You have only to ask one of our people a question such as that, and he will be sure to laugh and say: Stranger, you must think me a specially favoured mortal, to be able to tell whether virtue can be taught, or in what way it comes to one: so far am I from knowing whether it can be taught or not, that I actually do not even know what the thing itself, virtue, is at all. And I myself, Meno, am in the same case; I share my townsmen’s poverty in this matter: I have to reproach myself with an utter ignorance about virtue; and if I do not know what a thing is, how can I know what its nature may be? Or do you imagine it possible, if one has no cognizance at all of Meno, that one could know whether he is handsome or rich or noble, or the reverse of these? Do you suppose that one could?

Not I. But is it true, Socrates, that you do not even know what virtue is? Are we to return home with this report of you?

Not only this, my friend, but also that I never yet came across anybody who did know, in my opinion.

What? You did not meet Gorgias when he was here?

I did.

And you didn’t consider that he knew?

I have not a very good memory, Meno, so I cannot tell at the moment how he struck me then. It may be that he did know, and that you know what he said: remind me therefore how he expressed it; or if you like, make your own statement, for I expect you share his views.

I do.

Then let us pass him over, since in fact he is not present, and do you tell me, in heaven’s name, what is your own account of virtue. Speak out frankly, that I may find myself the victim of a most fortunate falsehood, if you and Gorgias prove to have knowledge of it, while I have said that I never yet came across anyone who had.

Why, there is no difficulty, Socrates, in telling. First of all, if you take the virtue of a man, it is easily stated that a man’s virtue is this—that he be competent to manage the affairs of his city, and to manage them so as to benefit his friends and harm his enemies, and to take care to avoid suffering harm himself. Or take a woman’s virtue: there is no difficulty in describing it as the duty of ordering the house well, looking after the property indoors, and obeying her husband. And the child has another virtue—one for the female, and one for the male; and there is another for elderly men—one, if you like, for freemen, and yet another for slaves.

Section 72

And there are very many other virtues besides, so that one cannot be at a loss to explain what virtue is; for it is according to each activity and age that every one of us, in whatever we do, has his virtue; and the same, I take it, Socrates, will hold also of vice.

I seem to be in a most lucky way, Meno; for in seeking one virtue I have discovered a whole swarm of virtues there in your keeping. Now, Meno, to follow this figure of a swarm, suppose I should ask you what is the real nature of the bee, and you replied that there are many different kinds of bees, and I rejoined: Do you say it is by being bees that they are of many and various kinds and differ from each other, or does their difference lie not in that, but in something else—for example, in their beauty or size or some other quality? Tell me, what would be your answer to this question?

Why, this—that they do not differ, as bees, the one from the other.

And if I went on to say: Well now, there is this that I want you to tell me, Meno: what do you call the quality by which they do not differ, but are all alike? You could find me an answer, I presume?

I could.

And likewise also with the virtues, however many and various they may be, they all have one common character whereby they are virtues, and on which one would of course be wise to keep an eye when one is giving a definitive answer to the question of what virtue really is. You take my meaning, do you not?

My impression is that I do; but still I do not yet grasp the meaning of the question as I could wish.

Is it only in the case of virtue, do you think, Meno, that one can say there is one kind belonging to a man, another to a woman, and so on with the rest, or is it just the same, too, in the case of health and size and strength? Do you consider that there is one health for a man, and another for a woman? Or, wherever we find health, is it of the same character universally, in a man or in anyone else?

I think that health is the same, both in man and in woman.

Then is it not so with size and strength also? If a woman is strong, she will be strong by reason of the same form and the same strength; by the same I mean that strength does not differ as strength, whether it be in a man or in a woman. Or do you think there is any difference?

I do not.

Section 73

And will virtue, as virtue, differ at all whether it be in a child or in an elderly person, in a woman or in a man?

I feel somehow, Socrates, that here we cease to be on the same ground as in those other cases.

Why? Were you not saying that a man’s virtue is to manage a state well, and a woman’s a house?

I was.

And is it possible to manage a state well, or a house, or anything at all, if you do not manage it temperately and justly?

Surely not.

Then whoever manages temperately and justly will manage with temperance and justice?

That must be.

Then both the woman and the man require the same qualities of justice and temperance, if they are to be good.

Evidently.

And what of a child or an old man? Can they ever hope to be good if they are intemperate and unjust?

Surely not.

Only if they are temperate and just?

Yes.

So all mankind are good in the same way; for they become good when they acquire the same qualities.

So it seems.

And I presume, if they had not the same virtue, they would not be good in the same way.

No, indeed.

Seeing then that it is the same virtue in all cases, try and tell me, if you can recollect, what Gorgias—and you in agreement with him—say it is.

Simply that it is the power of governing mankind— if you want some single description to cover all cases.

That is just what I am after. But is virtue the same in a child, Meno, and in a slave—an ability to govern each his master? And do you think he who governed would still be a slave?

I should say certainly not, Socrates.

No, indeed, it would be unlikely, my excellent friend. And again, consider this further point: you say it is to be able to govern; shall we not add to that—justly, not unjustly?

Yes, I think so; for justice, Socrates, is virtue.

Virtue, Meno, or a virtue?

What do you mean by that?

What I would in any other case. To take roundness, for instance; I should call it a figure, and not figure pure and simple. And I should name it so because there are other figures as well.

You would be quite right—just as I say there are other virtues besides justice.

Section 74

What are they? Tell me. In the same way as I can tell you of other figures, if you request me, so do you tell me of other virtues.

Well then, courage, I consider, is a virtue, and temperance, and wisdom, and loftiness of mind; and there are a great many others.

Once more, Meno, we are in the same plight: again we have found a number of virtues when we were looking for one, though not in the same way as we did just now; but the one that runs through them all, this we are not able to find.

No, for I am not yet able, Socrates, to follow your line of search, and find a single virtue common to all, as one can in other cases.

And no wonder; but I will make an effort, so far as I can, to help us onward. You understand, of course, that this principle of mine applies to everything: if someone asked you the question I put to you just now: What is figure, Meno? and you replied: Roundness; and then he said, as I did: Is roundness figure or a figure? I suppose you would answer: A figure.

Certainly.

And for this reason—that there are other figures as well?

Yes.

And if he went on to ask you of what sort they were, you would tell him?

I would.

And if he asked likewise what color is, and on your answering white your questioner then rejoined: Is white color or a color? your reply would be: A color; because there are other colors besides.

It would.

And if he bade you mention other colors, you would tell him of others that are colors just as much as white?

Yes.

Now suppose that, like me, he pursued the argument and said: We are always arriving at a variety of things, but let me have no more of that: since you call these many things by one single name, and say they are figures, every one of them, even when they are opposed to one another, tell me what is that which comprises round and straight alike, and which you call figure— including straight equally with round under that term. For that is your statement, is it not?

It is.

And in making it, do you mean to say that round is no more round than straight, or straight no more straight than round?

No, to be sure, Socrates.

What you mean is that the round shape is no more a figure than the straight, or the straight than the round.

Quite right.

Section 75

Then what can this thing be, which bears the name of figure? Try and tell me. Suppose that, on being asked this question by someone, either about figure or about color, you had replied: Why, I don’t so much as understand what you want, sir, or even know what you are saying: he might well have shown surprise, and said: Do you not understand that I am looking for that which is the same common element in all these things? Or would you still be unable to reply, Meno, if you were approached on other terms, and were asked: What is it that is common to the round and the straight and everything else that you call figures—the same in all? Try and tell me it will be good practice for your answer about virtue.

No, it is you who must answer, Socrates.

You wish me to do you the favour?

By all means.

And then you will agree to take your turn and answer me on virtue?

I will.

Well then, I must make the effort, for it is worth our while.

Certainly.

Come now, let me try and tell you what figure is. Just consider if you accept this description of it: figure, let us say, is the only existing thing that is found always following color. Are you satisfied, or are you looking for something different? I am sure I should be content with a similar account of virtue from you.

But it is such a silly one, Socrates.

How do you mean?

Well, figure, as I understand by your account, is what always follows color. Very good; but if some one said he did not know color, and was in the same difficulty about it as about figure, what answer do you suppose would have come from you?

The truth, from me; and if my questioner were a professor of the eristic and contentious sort, I should say to him: I have made my statement; if it is wrong, your business is to examine and refute it. But if, like you and me on this occasion, we were friends and chose to have a discussion together, I should have to reply in some milder tone more suited to dialectic. The more dialectical way, I suppose, is not merely to answer what is true, but also to make use of those points which the questioned person acknowledges he knows. And this is the way in which I shall now try to argue with you. Tell me, is there something you call an end? Such a thing, I mean, as a limit, or extremity—I use all these terms in the same sense, though I daresay Prodicus might quarrel with us. But you, I am sure, refer to a thing as terminated or ended: something of that sort is what I mean—nothing complicated.

Yes, I do, and I think I grasp your meaning.

Section 76

Well then, you speak of a surface, and also of a solid—the terms employed in geometrical problems?

I do.

So now you are able to comprehend from all this what I mean by figure. In every instance of figure I call that figure in which the solid ends; and I may put that more succinctly by saying that figure is limit of solid.

And what do you say of color, Socrates?

How overbearing of you, Meno, to press an old man with demands for answers, when you will not trouble yourself to recollect and tell me what account Gorgias gives of virtue!

When you have answered my question, Socrates, I will answer yours.

One might tell even blindfolded, Meno, by the way you discuss, that you are handsome and still have lovers.

Why so?

Because you invariably speak in a peremptory tone, after the fashion of spoilt beauties, holding as they do a despotic power so long as their bloom is on them. You have also, I daresay, made a note of my weakness for handsome people. So I will indulge you, and answer.

You must certainly indulge me.

Then would you like me to answer you in the manner of Gorgias, which you would find easiest to follow?

I should like that, of course.

Do not both of you say there are certain effluences of existent things, as Empedocles held?

Certainly.

And passages into which and through which the effluences pass?

To be sure.

And some of the effluences fit into various passages, while some are too small or too large?

That is so.

And further, there is what you call sight?

Yes.

So now conceive my meaning, as Pindar says: color is an effluence of figures, commensurate with sight and sensible.

Your answer, Socrates, seems to me excellently put.

Yes, for I expect you find its terms familiar; and at the same time I fancy you observe that it enables you to tell what sound and smell are, and numerous other things of the kind.

Certainly.

It is an answer in the high poetic style, Meno, and so more agreeable to you than that about figure.

Yes, it is.

But yet, son of Alexidemus, I am inclined to think the other was the better of the two; and I believe you also would prefer it, if you were not compelled, as you were saying yesterday, to go away before the mysteries, and could stay awhile and be initiated.

Section 77

But I should stay, Socrates, if you would give me many such answers.

Well then, I will spare no endeavor, both for your sake and for my own, to continue in that style; but I fear I may not succeed in keeping for long on that level. But come now, you in your turn must try and fulfil your promise by telling me what virtue is in a general way; and you must stop producing a plural from the singular, as the wags say whenever one breaks something, but leave virtue whole and sound, and tell me what it is. The pattern you have now got from me.

Well, in my view, Socrates, virtue is, in the poet’s words, to rejoice in things honorable and be able for them ; and that, I say, is virtue—to desire what is honorable and be able to procure it.

Do you say that he who desires the honorable is desirous of the good?

Certainly.

Implying that there are some who desire the evil, and others the good? Do not all men, in your opinion, my dear sir, desire the good?

I think not.

There are some who desire the evil?

Yes.

Thinking the evil to be good, do you mean, or actually recognizing it to be evil, and desiring it nevertheless?

Both, I believe.

Do you really believe, Meno, that a man knows the evil to be evil, and still desires it?

Certainly.

What do you mean by desires? Desires the possession of it?

Yes; what else could it be?

And does he think the evil benefits him who gets it, or does he know that it harms him who has it?

There are some who think the evil is a benefit, and others who know that it does harm.

And, in your opinion, do those who think the evil a benefit know that it is evil?

I do not think that at all.

Obviously those who are ignorant of the evil do not desire it, but only what they supposed to be good, though it is really evil; so that those who are ignorant of it and think it good are really desiring the good. Is not that so?

It would seem to be so in their case.

Well now, I presume those who, as you say, desire the evil, and consider that the evil harms him who gets it, know that they will be harmed by it?

Section 78

They needs must.

But do they not hold that those who are harmed are miserable in proportion to the harm they suffer?

That too must be.

And are not the miserable ill-starred?

I think so.

Then is there anyone who wishes to be miserable and ill-starred?

I do not suppose there is, Socrates.

No one, then, Meno, desires evil, if no one desires to be such an one: for what is being miserable but desiring evil and obtaining it?

It seems that what you say is true, Socrates, and that nobody desires evil.

Well now, you were saying a moment ago that virtue is the desire and ability for good?

Yes, I was.

One part of the statement—the desire—belongs to our common nature, and in this respect one man is no better than another?

Apparently.

But it is plain that if one man is not better than another in this, he must be superior in the ability.

Certainly.

Then virtue, it seems by your account, is ability to procure goods.

I entirely agree, Socrates, with the view which you now take of the matter.

Then let us see whether your statement is true in another respect; for very likely you may be right. You say virtue is the ability to procure goods?

I do.

And do you not mean by goods such things as health and wealth?

Yes, and I include the acquisition of gold and silver, and of state honors and offices.

Are there any things besides this sort, that you class as goods?

No, I refer only to everything of that sort.

Very well: procuring gold and silver is virtue, according to Meno, the ancestral friend of the Great King. Tell me, do you add to such procuring, Meno, that it is to be done justly and piously, or is this indifferent to you, but even though a man procures these things unjustly, do you call them virtue all the same?

Surely not, Socrates.

Rather, vice.

Yes, of course.

Then it seems that justice or temperance or holiness or some other part of virtue must accompany the procuring of these things; otherwise it will not be virtue, though it provides one with goods.

Yes, for how, without these, could it be virtue?

And not to procure gold and silver, when it would be unjust—what we call the want of such things—is virtue, is it not?

Apparently.

Section 79

So the procuring of this sort of goods will be no more virtue than the want of them; but it seems that whatever comes accompanied by justice will be virtue, and whatever comes without any such quality, vice.

I agree that it must be as you say.

And were we saying a little while ago that each of these things was a part of virtue—justice and temperance and the rest of them?

Yes.

And here you are, Meno, making fun of me?

How so, Socrates?

Because after my begging you not to break up virtue into small change, and giving you a pattern on which you should answer, you have ignored all this, and now tell me that virtue is the ability to procure good things with justice; and this, you tell me, is a part of virtue?

I do.

Then it follows from your own admission that doing whatever one does with a part of virtue is itself virtue; for you say that justice is a part of virtue, and so is each of such qualities. You ask the meaning of my remark. It is that after my requesting you to speak of virtue as a whole, you say not a word as to what it is in itself, but tell me that every action is virtue provided that it is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me what virtue is in the whole, and I must understand it forthwith—when you are really splitting it up into fragments! I think therefore that you must face the same question all over again, my dear Meno—What is virtue?—if we are to be told that every action accompanied by a part of virtue is virtue; for that is the meaning of the statement that every action accompanied by justice is virtue. Or do you not agree that you have to meet the same question afresh? Do you suppose that anyone can know a part of virtue when he does not know virtue itself?

No, I do not.

And I daresay you remember, when I answered you a while ago about figure, how we rejected the sort of answer that attempts to proceed in terms which are still under inquiry and has not yet been admitted.

Yes, and we were right in rejecting it, Socrates.

Well then, my good sir, you must not in your turn suppose that while the nature of virtue as a whole is still under inquiry you will explain it to anyone by replying in terms of its parts, or by any other statement on the same lines: you will only have to face the same question over again—What is this virtue, of which you are speaking all the time? Or do you see no force in what I say?

I think what you say is right.

Then answer me again from the beginning: what do both you and your associate say that virtue is?

Section 80

Socrates, I used to be told, before I began to meet you, that yours was just a case of being in doubt yourself and making others doubt also: and so now I find you are merely bewitching me with your spells and incantations, which have reduced me to utter perplexity. And if I am indeed to have my jest, I consider that both in your appearance and in other respects you are extremely like the flat torpedo sea-fish; for it benumbs anyone who approaches and touches it, and something of the sort is what I find you have done to me now. For in truth I feel my soul and my tongue quite benumbed, and I am at a loss what answer to give you. And yet on countless occasions I have made abundant speeches on virtue to various people—and very good speeches they were, so I thought—but now I cannot say one word as to what it is. You are well advised, I consider, in not voyaging or taking a trip away from home; for if you went on like this as a stranger in any other city you would very likely be taken up for a wizard.

You are a rogue, Meno, and had almost deceived me.

How is that, Socrates?

I perceive your aim in thus comparing me.

What was it?

That I might compare you in return. One thing I know about all handsome people is this—they delight in being compared to something. They do well over it, since fine features, I suppose, must have fine similes. But I am not for playing your game. As for me, if the torpedo is torpid itself while causing others to be torpid, I am like it, but not otherwise. For it is not from any sureness in myself that I cause others to doubt: it is from being in more doubt than anyone else that I cause doubt in others. So now, for my part, I have no idea what virtue is, whilst you, though perhaps you may have known before you came in touch with me, are now as good as ignorant of it also. But none the less I am willing to join you in examining it and inquiring into its nature.

Why, on what lines will you look, Socrates, for a thing of whose nature you know nothing at all? Pray, what sort of thing, amongst those that you know not, will you treat us to as the object of your search? Or even supposing, at the best, that you hit upon it, how will you know it is the thing you did not know?

I understand the point you would make, Meno. Do you see what a captious argument you are introducing—that, forsooth, a man cannot inquire either about what he knows or about what he does not know? For he cannot inquire about what he knows, because he knows it, and in that case is in no need of inquiry; nor again can he inquire about what he does not know, since he does not know about what he is to inquire.

Section 81

Now does it seem to you to be a good argument, Socrates?

It does not.

Can you explain how not?

I can; for I have heard from wise men and women who told of things divine that—

What was it they said ?

Something true, as I thought, and admirable.

What was it? And who were the speakers?

They were certain priests and priestesses who have studied so as to be able to give a reasoned account of their ministry; and Pindar also and many another poet of heavenly gifts. As to their words, they are these: mark now, if you judge them to be true. They say that the soul of man is immortal, and at one time comes to an end, which is called dying, and at another is born again, but never perishes. Consequently one ought to live all one’s life in the utmost holiness.For from whomsoever Persephone shall accept requital for ancient wrong, the souls of these she restores in the ninth year to the upper sun again; from them arise glorious kings and men of splendid might and surpassing wisdom, and for all remaining time are they called holy heroes amongst mankind.Seeing then that the soul is immortal and has been born many times, and has beheld all things both in this world and in the nether realms, she has acquired knowledge of all and everything; so that it is no wonder that she should be able to recollect all that she knew before about virtue and other things. For as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things, there is no reason why we should not, by remembering but one single thing—an act which men call learning—discover everything else, if we have courage and faint not in the search; since, it would seem, research and learning are wholly recollection. So we must not hearken to that captious argument: it would make us idle, and is pleasing only to the indolent ear, whereas the other makes us energetic and inquiring. Putting my trust in its truth, I am ready to inquire with you into the nature of virtue.

Yes, Socrates, but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that what we call learning is recollection? Can you instruct me that this is so?

Section 82

I remarked just now, Meno, that you are a rogue and so here you are asking if I can instruct you, when I say there is no teaching but only recollection: you hope that I may be caught contradicting myself forthwith.

I assure you, Socrates; that was not my intention I only spoke from habit. But if you can somehow prove to me that it is as you say, pray do so.

It is no easy matter, but still I am willing to try my best for your sake. Just call one of your own troop of attendants there, whichever one you please, that he may serve for my demonstration.

Certainly. You, I say, come here.

He is a Greek, I suppose, and speaks Greek?

Oh yes, to be sure—born in the house.

Now observe closely whether he strikes you as recollecting or as learning from me.

I will.

Tell me, boy, do you know that a square figure is like this?

I do.

Now, a square figure has these lines, four in number, all equal?

Certainly.

And these, drawn through the middle, are equal too, are they not?

Yes.

And a figure of this sort may be larger or smaller?

To be sure.

Now if this side were two feet and that also two, how many feet would the whole be? Or let me put it thus: if one way it were two feet, and only one foot the other, of course the space would be two feet taken once ?

Yes.

But as it is two feet also on that side, it must be twice two feet?

It is.

Then the space is twice two feet?

Yes.

Well, how many are twice two feet? Count and tell me.

Four, Socrates.

And might there not be another figure twice the size of this, but of the same sort, with all its sides equal like this one?

Yes.

Then how many feet will it be?

Eight.

Come now, try and tell me how long will each side of that figure be. This one is two feet long: what will be the side of the other, which is double in size?

Clearly, Socrates, double.

Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but merely asking him each time? And now he supposes that he knows about the line required to make a figure of eight square feet; or do you not think he does?

I do.

Well, does he know?

Certainly not.

He just supposes it, from the double size required?

Yes.

Section 83

Now watch his progress in recollecting, by the proper use of memory. Tell me, boy, do you say we get the double space from the double line? The space I speak of is not long one way and short the other, but must be equal each way like this one, while being double its size—eight square feet. Now see if you still think we get this from a double length of line.

I do.

Well, this line is doubled, if we add here another of the same length?

Certainly.

And you say we shall get our eight-foot space from four lines of this length?

Yes.

Then let us describe the square, drawing four equal lines of that length. This will be what you say is the eight-foot figure, will it not?

Certainly.

And here, contained in it, have we not four squares, each of which is equal to this space of four feet?

Yes.

Then how large is the whole? Four times that space, is it not?

It must be.

And is four times equal to double?

No, to be sure.

But how much is it?

Fourfold.

Thus, from the double-sized line, boy, we get a space, not of double, but of fourfold size.

That is true.

And if it is four times four it is sixteen, is it not?

Yes.

What line will give us a space of eight feet? This one gives us a fourfold space, does it not?

It does.

And a space of four feet is made from this line of half the length?

Yes.

Very well; and is not a space of eight feet double the size of this one, and half the size of this other?

Yes.

Will it not be made from a line longer than the one of these, and shorter than the other?

I think so.

Excellent: always answer just what you think. Now tell me, did we not draw this line two feet, and that four?

Yes.

Then the line on the side of the eight-foot figure should be more than this of two feet, and less than the other of four?

It should.

Try and tell me how much you would say it is.

Three feet.

Then if it is to be three feet, we shall add on a half to this one, and so make it three feet? For here we have two, and here one more, and so again on that side there are two, and another one; and that makes the figure of which you speak.

Yes.

Now if it be three this way and three that way, the whole space will be thrice three feet, will it not?

So it seems.

And thrice three feet are how many?

Nine.

And how many feet was that double one to be?

Eight.

So we fail to get our eight-foot figure from this three-foot line.

Yes, indeed.

Section 84

But from what line shall we get it? Try and tell us exactly; and if you would rather not reckon it out, just show what line it is.

Well, on my word, Socrates, I for one do not know.

There now, Meno, do you observe who progress he has already made in his recollection? At first he did not know what is the line that forms the figure of eight feet, and he does not know even now: but at any rate he thought he knew then, and confidently answered as though he knew, and was aware of no difficulty; whereas now he feels the difficulty he is in, and besides not knowing does not think he knows.

That is true.

And is he not better off in respect of the matter which he did not know?

I think that too is so.

Now, by causing him to doubt and giving him the torpedo’s shock, have we done him any harm?

I think not.

And we have certainly given him some assistance, it would seem, towards finding out the truth of the matter: for now he will push on in the search gladly, as lacking knowledge; whereas then he would have been only too ready to suppose he was right in saying, before any number of people any number of times, that the double space must have a line of double the length for its side.

It seems so.

Now do you imagine he would have attempted to inquire or learn what he thought he knew, when he did not know it, until he had been reduced to the perplexity of realizing that he did not know, and had felt a craving to know?

I think not, Socrates.

Then the torpedo’s shock was of advantage to him?

I think so.

Now you should note how, as a result of this perplexity, he will go on and discover something by joint inquiry with me, while I merely ask questions and do not teach him; and be on the watch to see if at any point you find me teaching him or expounding to him, instead of questioning him on his opinions. Tell me, boy: here we have a square of four feet, have we not? You understand?

Yes.

And here we add another square equal to it?

Yes.

And here a third, equal to either of them?

Yes.

Now shall we fill up this vacant space in the corner?

By all means.

So here we must have four equal spaces? BOY. Yes.

Well now, how many times larger is this whole space than this other?

Four times.

But it was to have been only twice, you remember?

To be sure.

Section 85

And does this line, drawn from corner to corner, cut in two each of these spaces?

Yes.

And have we here four equal lines containing this space?

We have.

Now consider how large this space is.

I do not understand.

Has not each of the inside lines cut off half of each of these four spaces?

Yes.

And how many spaces of that size are there in this part?

Four.

And how many in this?

Two.

And four is how many times two?

Twice.

And how many feet is this space?

Eight feet.

From what line do we get this figure?

From this.

From the line drawn corner-wise across the (our-foot figure?

Yes.

The professors call it the diagonal: so if the diagonal is its name, then according to you, Meno’s boy, the double space is the square of the diagonal.

Yes, certainly it is, Socrates.

What do you think, Meno? Was there any opinion that he did not give as an answer of his own thought?

No, they were all his own.

But you see, he did not know, as we were saying a while since.

That is true.

Yet he had in him these opinions, had he not?

Yes.

So that he who does not know about any matters, whatever they be, may have true opinions on such matters, about which he knows nothing?

Apparently.

And at this moment those opinions have just been stirred up in him, like a dream; but if he were repeatedly asked these same questions in a variety of forms, you know he will have in the end as exact an understanding of them as anyone.

So it seems.

Without anyone having taught him, and only through questions put to him, he will understand, recovering the knowledge out of himself?

Yes.

And is not this recovery of knowledge, in himself and by himself, recollection?

Certainly.

And must he not have either once acquired or always had the knowledge he now has?

Yes.

Now if he always had it, he was always in a state of knowing; and if he acquired it all some time, he could not have acquired it in this life. Or has someone taught him geometry? You see, he can do the same as this with all geometry and every branch of knowledge. Now, can anyone have taught him all this? You ought surely to know, especially as he was born and bred in your house.

Well, I know that no one has ever taught him.

And has he these opinions, or has he not?

He must have them, Socrates, evidently.

Section 86

And if he did not acquire them in this present life, is it not obvious at once that he had them and learnt them during some other time?

Apparently.

And this must have been the time when he was not a human being?

Yes.

So if in both of these periods—when he was and was not a human being—he has had true opinions in him which have only to be awakened by questioning to become knowledge, his soul must have had this cognizance throughout all time? For clearly he has always either been or not been a human being.

Evidently.

And if the truth of all things that are is always in our soul, then the soul must be immortal; so that you should take heart and, whatever you do not happen to know at present—that is, what you do not remember—you must endeavor to search out and recollect?

What you say commends itself to me, Socrates, I know not how.

And so it does to me, Meno. Most of the points I have made in support of my argument are not such as I can confidently assert; but that the belief in the duty of inquiring after what we do not know will make us better and braver and less helpless than the notion that there is not even a possibility of discovering what we do not know, nor any duty of inquiring after it—this is a point for which I am determined to do battle, so far as I am able, both in word and deed.

There also I consider that you speak aright, Socrates.

Then since we are of one mind as to the duty of inquiring into what one does not know, do you agree to our attempting a joint inquiry into the nature of virtue?

By all means. But still, Socrates, for my part I would like best of all to examine that question I asked at first, and hear your view as to whether in pursuing it we are to regard it as a thing to be taught, or as a gift of nature to mankind, or as arriving to them in some other way which I should be glad to know.

Had I control over you, Meno, as over myself, we should not have begun considering whether virtue can or cannot be taught until we had first inquired into the main question of what it is. But as you do not so much as attempt to control yourself—you are so fond of your liberty— and both attempt and hold control over me, I will yield to your request—what else am I to do? So it seems we are to consider what sort of thing it is of which we do not yet know what it is! Well, the least you can do is to relax just a little of your authority, and allow the question—whether virtue comes by teaching or some other way—to be examined by means of hypothesis.

Section 87

I mean by hypothesis what the geometricians often do in dealing with a question put to them; for example, whether a certain area is capable of being inscribed as a triangular space in a given circle: they reply—I cannot yet tell whether it has that capability; but I think, if I may put it so, that I have a certain helpful hypothesis for the problem, and it is as follows: If this area is such that when you apply it to the given line of the circle you find it falls short by a space similar to that which you have just applied, then I take it you have one consequence, and if it is impossible for it to fall so, then some other. Accordingly I wish to put a hypothesis, before I state our conclusion as regards inscribing this figure in the circle by saying whether it is impossible or not. In the same way with regard to our question about virtue, since we do not know either what it is or what kind of thing it may be, we had best make use of a hypothesis in considering whether it can be taught or not, as thus: what kind of thing must virtue be in the class of mental properties, so as to be teachable or not? In the first place, if it is something dissimilar or similar to knowledge, is it taught or not—or, as we were saying just now, remembered? Let us have no disputing about the choice of a name: is it taught? Or is not this fact plain to everyone—that the one and only thing taught to men is knowledge?

I agree to that.

Then if virtue is a kind of knowledge, clearly it must be taught?

Certainly.

So you see we have made short work of this question—if virtue belongs to one class of things it is teachable, and if to another, it is not.

To be sure.

The next question, it would seem, that we have to consider is whether virtue is knowledge, or of another kind than knowledge.

I should say that is the next thing we have to consider.

Well now, surely we call virtue a good thing, do we not, and our hypothesis stands, that it is good?

Certainly we do.

Then if there is some good apart and separable from knowledge, it may be that virtue is not a kind of knowledge; but if there is nothing good that is not embraced by knowledge, our suspicion that virtue is a kind of knowledge would be well founded.

Quite so.

Now it is by virtue that we are good?

Yes.

And if good, profitable; for all good things are profitable, are they not?

Yes.

So virtue is profitable?

That must follow from what has been admitted.

Then let us see, in particular instances, what sort of things they are that profit us. Health, let us say, and strength, and beauty, and wealth—these and their like we call profitable, do we not?

Yes.

Section 88

But these same things, we admit, actually harm us at times; or do you dispute that statement?

No, I agree.

Consider now, what is the guiding condition in each case that makes them at one time profitable, and at another harmful. Are they not profitable when the use of them is right, and harmful when it is not?

To be sure.

Then let us consider next the goods of the soul: by these you understand temperance, justice, courage, intelligence, memory, magnanimity, and so forth?

Yes.

Now tell me; such of these as you think are not knowledge, but different from knowledge—do they not sometimes harm us, and sometimes profit us? For example, courage, if it is courage apart from prudence, and only a sort of boldness: when a man is bold without sense, he is harmed; but when he has sense at the same time, he is profited, is he not?

Yes.

And the same holds of temperance and intelligence: things learnt and coordinated with the aid of sense are profitable, but without sense they are harmful?

Most certainly.

And in brief, all the undertakings and endurances of the soul, when guided by wisdom, end in happiness, but when folly guides, in the opposite?

So it seems.

Then if virtue is something that is in the soul, and must needs be profitable, it ought to be wisdom, seeing that all the properties of the soul are in themselves neither profitable nor harmful, but are made either one or the other by the addition of wisdom or folly; and hence, by this argument, virtue being profitable must be a sort of wisdom.

I agree.

Then as to the other things, wealth and the like, that we mentioned just now as being sometimes good and sometimes harmful—are not these also made profitable or harmful by the soul according as she uses and guides them rightly or wrongly: just as, in the case of the soul generally, we found that the guidance of wisdom makes profitable the properties of the soul, while that of folly makes them harmful?

Certainly.

And the wise soul guides rightly, and the foolish erroneously?

That is so.

Section 89

Then may we assert this as a universal rule, that in man all other things depend upon the soul, while the things of the soul herself depend upon wisdom, if they are to be good; and so by this account the profitable will be wisdom, and virtue, we say, is profitable?

Certainly.

Hence we conclude that virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom?

It seems to me that your statement, Socrates, is excellent.

Then if this is so, good men cannot be good by nature.

I think not.

No, for then, I presume, we should have had this result: if good men were so by nature, we surely should have had men able to discern who of the young were good by nature, and on their pointing them out we should have taken them over and kept them safe in the citadel, having set our mark on them far rather than on our gold treasure, in order that none might have tampered with them, and that when they came to be of age, they might be useful to their country.

Yes, most likely, Socrates.

So since it is not by nature that the good become good, is it by education?

We must now conclude, I think, that it is; and plainly, Socrates, on our hypothesis that virtue is knowledge, it must be taught.

Yes, I daresay; but what if we were not right in agreeing to that?

Well, it seemed to be a correct statement a moment ago.

Yes, but not only a moment ago must it seem correct, but now also and hereafter, if it is to be at all sound.

Why, what reason have you to make a difficulty about it, and feel a doubt as to virtue being knowledge?

I will tell you, Meno. I do not withdraw as incorrect the statement that it is taught, if it is knowledge; but as to its being knowledge, consider if you think I have grounds for misgiving. For tell me now: if anything at all, not merely virtue, is teachable, must there not be teachers and learners of it?

I think so.

Then also conversely, if a thing had neither teachers nor learners, we should be right in surmising that it could not be taught?

That is so: but do you think there are no teachers of virtue?

Section 90

I must say I have often inquired whether there were any, but for all my pains I cannot find one. And yet many have shared the search with me, and particularly those persons whom I regard as best qualified for the task. But look, Meno: here, at the very moment when he was wanted, we have Anytus sitting down beside us, to take his share in our quest. And we may well ask his assistance; for our friend Anytus, in the first place, is the son of a wise and wealthy father, Anthemion, who became rich not by a fluke or a gift—like that man the other day, Ismenias the Theban, who has come into the fortune of a Polycrates—but as the product of his own skill and industry; and secondly, he has the name of being in general a well-conducted, mannerly person, not insolent towards his fellow-citizens or arrogant and annoying; and further, he gave his son a good upbringing and education, as the Athenian people think, for they choose him for the highest offices. This is the sort of man to whom one may look for help in the inquiry as to whether there are teachers of virtue or not, and who they may be. So please, Anytus, join with me and your family-friend Meno in our inquiry about this matter—who can be the teachers. Consider it thus: if we wanted Meno here to be a good doctor, to whom should we send him for instruction? Would it not be to the doctors?

Certainly.

And if we wanted him to become a good cobbler, should we not send him to the cobblers?

Yes.

And in the same way with every other trade?

Certainly.

Now let me ask you something more about these same instances. We should be right, we say, in sending him to the doctors if we wanted him to be a doctor. When we say this, do we mean that we should be wise in sending him to those who profess the art rather than those who do not, and to those who charge a fee for the particular thing they do, as avowed teachers of anyone who wishes to come and learn of them? If these were our reasons, should we not be right in sending him?

Yes.

And the same would hold in the case of flute-playing, and so on with the rest? What folly, when we wanted to make someone a flute-player, to refuse to send him to the professed teachers of the art, who charge a regular fee, and to bother with requests for instruction other people who neither set up to be teachers nor have a single pupil in that sort of study which we expect him, when sent, to pursue! Do you not consider this would be grossly unreasonable?

Yes, on my word, I do, and stupid to boot.

Section 91

Quite right. And now there is an opportunity of your joining me in a consultation on my friend Meno here. He has been declaring to me ever so long, Anytus, that he desires to have that wisdom and virtue whereby men keep their house or their city in good order, and honor their parents, and know when to welcome and when to speed citizens and strangers as befits a good man. Now tell me, to whom ought we properly to send him for lessons in this virtue? Or is it clear enough, from our argument just now, that he should go to these men who profess to be teachers of virtue and advertise themselves as the common teachers of the Greeks, and are ready to instruct anyone who chooses in return for fees charged on a fixed scale?

To whom are you referring, Socrates?

Surely you know as well as anyone; they are the men whom people call sophists.

For heaven’s sake hold your tongue, Socrates! May no kinsman or friend of mine, whether of this city or another, be seized with such madness as to let himself be infected with the company of those men; for they are a manifest plague and corruption to those who frequent them.

What is this, Anytus? Of all the people who set up to understand how to do us good, do you mean to single out these as conveying not merely no benefit, such as the rest can give, but actually corruption to anyone placed in their hands? And is it for doing this that they openly claim the payment of fees? For my part I cannot bring myself to believe you; for I know of one man, Protagoras, who amassed more money by his craft than Pheidias—so famous for the noble works he produced—or any ten other sculptors. And yet how surprising that menders of old shoes and furbishers of clothes should not be able to go undetected thirty days if they should return the clothes or shoes in worse condition than they received them, and that such doings on their part would quickly starve them to death, while for more than forty years all Greece failed to notice that Protagoras was corrupting his classes and sending his pupils away in a worse state than when he took charge of them! For I believe he died about seventy years old, forty of which he spent in the practice of his art;

Section 92

and he retains undiminished to this day the high reputation he has enjoyed all that time—and not only Protagoras, but a multitude of others too: some who lived before him, and others still living. Now are we to take it, according to you, that they wittingly deceived and corrupted the youth, or that they were themselves unconscious of it? Are we to conclude those who are frequently termed the wisest of mankind to have been so demented as that?

Demented! Not they, Socrates: far rather the young men who pay them money, and still more the relations who let the young men have their way; and most of all the cities that allow them to enter, and do not expel them, whether such attempt be made by stranger or citizen.

Tell me, Anytus, has any of the sophists wronged you? What makes you so hard on them?

No, heaven knows I have never in my life had dealings with any of them, nor would I let any of my people have to do with them either.

Then you have absolutely no experience of those persons?

And trust I never may.

How then, my good sir, can you tell whether a thing has any good or evil in it, if you are quite without experience of it?

Easily: the fact is, I know what these people are, whether I have experience of them or not.

You are a wizard, perhaps, Anytus; for I really cannot see, from what you say yourself, how else you can know anything about them. But we are not inquiring now who the teachers are whose lessons would make Meno wicked; let us grant, if you will, that they are the sophists: I only ask you to tell us, and do Meno a service as a friend of your family by letting him know, to whom in all this great city he should apply in order to become eminent in the virtue which I described just now.

Why not tell him yourself?

I did mention to him the men whom I supposed to be teachers of these things; but I find, from what you say, that I am quite off the track, and I daresay you are on it. Now you take your turn, and tell him to whom of the Athenians he is to go. Give us a name—anyone you please.

Why mention a particular one? Any Athenian gentleman he comes across, without exception, will do him more good, if he will do as he is bid, than the sophists.

Section 93

And did those gentlemen grow spontaneously into what they are, and without learning from anybody are they able, nevertheless, to teach others what they did not learn themselves?

I expect they must have learnt in their turn from the older generation, who were gentlemen: or does it not seem to you that we have had many good men in this city?

Yes, I agree, Anytus; we have also many who are good at politics, and have had them in the past as well as now. But I want to know whether they have proved good teachers besides of their own virtue: that is the question with which our discussion is actually concerned; not whether there are, or formerly have been, good men here amongst us or not, but whether virtue is teachable; this has been our problem all the time. And our inquiry into this problem resolves itself into the question: Did the good men of our own and of former times know how to transmit to another man the virtue in respect of which they were good, or is it something not to be transmitted or taken over from one human being to another? That is the question I and Meno have been discussing all this time. Well, just consider it in your own way of speaking: would you not say that Themistocles was a good man?

I would, particularly so.

And if any man ever was a teacher of his own virtue, he especially was a good teacher of his?

In my opinion, yes, assuming that he wished to be so.

But can you suppose he would not have wished that other people should become good, honorable men—above all, I presume, his own son? Or do you think he was jealous of him, and deliberately refused to impart the virtue of his own goodness to him? Have you never heard how Themistocles had his son Cleophantus taught to be a good horseman? Why, he could keep his balance standing upright on horseback, and hurl the javelin while so standing, and perform many other wonderful feats in which his father had had him trained, so as to make him skilled in all that could be learnt from good masters. Surely you must have heard all this from your elders?

I have.

Then there could be no complaints of badness in his son’s nature?

I daresay not.

But I ask you—did you ever hear anybody, old or young, say that Cleophantus, son of Themistocles, had the same goodness and accomplishments as his father?

Certainly not.

And can we believe that his father chose to train his own son in those feats, and yet made him no better than his neighbors in his own particular accomplishments—if virtue, as alleged, was to be taught?

On my word, I think not.

Section 94

Well, there you have a fine teacher of virtue who, you admit, was one of the best men of past times. Let us take another, Aristeides, son of Lysimachus: do you not admit that he was a good man?

I do, absolutely, of course.

Well, did he not train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all that masters could teach him? And in the result, do you consider he has turned out better than anyone else? You have been in his company, I know, and you see what he is like. Or take another example— the splendidly accomplished Pericles: he, as you are aware, brought up two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.

Yes.

And, you know as well as I, he taught them to be the foremost horsemen of Athens, and trained them to excel in music and gymnastics and all else that comes under the head of the arts; and with all that, had he no desire to make them good men? He wished to, I imagine, but presumably it is not a thing one can be taught. And that you may not suppose it was only a few of the meanest sort of Athenians who failed in this matter, let me remind you that Thucydides’ also brought up two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, and that besides giving them a good general education he made them the best wrestlers in Athens: one he placed with Xanthias, and the other with Eudorus—masters who, I should think, had the name of being the best exponents of the art. You remember them, do you not?

Yes, by hearsay.

Well, is it not obvious that this father would never have spent his money on having his children taught all those things, and then have omitted to teach them at no expense the others that would have made them good men, if virtue was to be taught? Will you say that perhaps Thucydides was one of the meaner sort, and had no great number of friends among the Athenians and allies? He, who was of a great house and had much influence in our city and all over Greece, so that if virtue were to be taught he would have found out the man who was likely to make his sons good, whether one of our own people or a foreigner, were he himself too busy owing to the cares of state! Ah no, my dear Anytus, it looks as though virtue were not a teachable thing.

Section 95

Socrates, I consider you are too apt to speak ill of people. I, for one, if you will take my advice, would warn you to be careful: in most cities it is probably easier to do people harm than good, and particularly in this one; I think you know that yourself.

Meno, I think Anytus is angry, and I am not at all surprised: for he conceives, in the first place, that I am speaking ill of these gentlemen; and in the second place, he considers he is one of them himself. Yet, should the day come when he knows what speaking ill means, his anger will cease; at present he does not know. Now you must answer me: are there not good and honorable men among your people also?

Certainly.

Well then, are they willing to put themselves forward as teachers of the young, and avow that they are teachers and that virtue is to be taught?

No, no, Socrates, I assure you: sometimes you may hear them refer to it as teachable, but sometimes as not.

Then are we to call those persons teachers of this thing, when they do not even agree on that great question?

I should say not, Socrates.

Well, and what of the sophists? Do you consider these, its only professors, to be teachers of virtue?

That is a point, Socrates, for which I admire Gorgias: you will never hear him promising this, and he ridicules the others when he hears them promise it. Skill in speaking is what he takes it to be their business to produce.

Then you do not think the sophists are teachers of virtue?

I cannot say, Socrates. I am in the same plight as the rest of the world: sometimes I think that they are, sometimes that they are not.

And are you aware that not only you and other political folk are in two minds as to whether virtue is to be taught, but Theognis the poet also says, you remember, the very same thing?

In which part of his poems?

In those elegiac lines where he says—Eat and drink with these men; sit with them, and be pleasing unto them, who wield great power; for from the good wilt thou win thee lessons in the good; but mingle with the bad, and thou wilt lose even the sense that thou hast.Do you observe how in these words he implies that virtue is to be taught?

He does, evidently.

Section 96

But in some other lines he shifts his ground a little, saying—Could understanding be created and put into a man (I think it runs thus) many high rewards would they obtain for he would have followed the precepts of wisdom: but not by teaching wilt thou ever make the had man good You notice how in the second passage he contradicts himself on the same point?

Apparently.

Well, can you name any other subject in which the professing teachers are not only refused recognition as teachers of others, but regarded as not even understanding it themselves, and indeed as inferior in the very quality of which they claim to be teachers; while those who are themselves recognized as men of worth and honor say at one time that it is teachable, and at another that it is not? When people are so confused about this or that matter, can you say they are teachers in any proper sense of the word?

No, indeed, I cannot.

Well, if neither the sophists nor the men who are themselves good and honorable are teachers of the subject, clearly no others can be?

I agree.

And if there are no teachers, there can be no disciples either?

I think that statement is true.

And we have admitted that a thing of which there are neither teachers nor disciples cannot be taught?

We have.

So nowhere are any teachers of virtue to be found?

That is so.

And if no teachers, then no disciples?

So it appears.

Hence virtue cannot be taught?

It seems likely, if our investigation is correct. And that makes me wonder, I must say, Socrates, whether perhaps there are no good men at all, or by what possible sort of process good people can come to exist?

I fear, Meno, you and I are but poor creatures, and Gorgias has been as faulty an educator of you as Prodicus of me. So our first duty is to look to ourselves, and try to find somebody who will have some means or other of making us better. I say this with special reference to our recent inquiry, in which I see that we absurdly failed to note that it is not only through the guidance of knowledge that human conduct is right and good; and it is probably owing to this that we fail to perceive by what means good men can be produced.

To what are you alluding, Socrates?

Section 97

I mean that good men must be useful: we were right, were we not, in admitting that this must needs be so?

Yes.

And in thinking that they will be useful if they give us right guidance in conduct: here also, I suppose, our admission was correct?

Yes.

But our assertion that it is impossible to give right guidance unless one has knowledge looks very like a mistake.

What do you mean by that?

I will tell you. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or any other place you please, and walked there and led others, would he not give right and good guidance?

Certainly.

Well, and a person who had a right opinion as to which was the way, but had never been there and did not really know, might give right guidance, might he not?

Certainly.

And so long, I presume, as he has right opinion about that which the other man really knows, he will be just as good a guide—if he thinks the truth instead of knowing it—as the man who has the knowledge.

Just as good.

Hence true opinion is as good a guide to rightness of action as knowledge; and this is a point we omitted just now in our consideration of the nature of virtue, when we stated that knowledge is the only guide of right action; whereas we find there is also true opinion.

So it seems.

Then right opinion is just as useful as knowledge.

With this difference, Socrates, that he who has knowledge will always hit on the right way, whereas he who has right opinion will sometimes do so, but sometimes not.

How do you mean? Will not he who always has right opinion be always right, so long as he opines rightly?

It appears to me that he must; and therefore I wonder, Socrates, this being the case, that knowledge should ever be more prized than right opinion, and why they should be two distinct and separate things.

Well, do you know why it is that you wonder, or shall I tell you?

Please tell me.

It is because you have not observed with attention the images of Daedalus. But perhaps there are none in your country.

What is the point of your remark?

That if they are not fastened up they play truant and run away; but, if fastened, they stay where they are.

Well, what of that?

Section 98

To possess one of his works which is let loose does not count for much in value; it will not stay with you any more than a runaway slave: but when fastened up it is worth a great deal, for his productions are very fine things And to what am I referring in all this? To true opinion. For these, so long as they stay with us, are a fine possession, and effect all that is good; but they do not care to stay for long, and run away out of the human soul, and thus are of no great value until one makes them fast with causal reasoning. And this process, friend Meno, is recollection, as in our previous talk we have agreed. But when once they are fastened, in the first place they turn into knowledge, and in the second, are abiding. And this is why knowledge is more prized than right opinion: the one transcends the other by its trammels.

Upon my word, Socrates, it seems to be very much as you say.

And indeed I too speak as one who does not know but only conjectures: yet that there is a difference between right opinion and knowledge is not at all a conjecture with me but something I would particularly assert that I knew: there are not many things of which I would say that, but this one, at any rate, I will include among those that I know.

Yes, and you are right, Socrates, in so saying.

Well, then, am I not right also in saying that true opinion leading the way renders the effect of each action as good as knowledge does?

There again, Socrates, I think you speak the truth.

So that right opinion will be no whit inferior to knowledge in worth or usefulness as regards our actions, nor will the man who has right opinion be inferior to him who has knowledge.

That is so.

And you know that the good man has been admitted by us to be useful.

Yes.

Since then it is not only because of knowledge that men will be good and useful to their country, where such men are to be found, but also on account of right opinion; and since neither of these two things—knowledge and true opinion—is a natural property of mankind, being acquired—or do you think that either of them is natural?

Not I.

Then if they are not natural, good people cannot be good by nature either.

Of course not.

And since they are not an effect of nature, we next considered whether virtue can be taught.

Yes.

And we thought it teachable if virtue is wisdom?

Yes.

And if teachable, it must be wisdom?

Certainly.

And if there were teachers, it could be taught, but if there were none, it could not?

Quite so.

But surely we acknowledged that it had no teachers?

That is true.

Then we acknowledged it neither was taught nor was wisdom?

Certainly.

But yet we admitted it was a good?

Yes.

And that which guides rightly is useful and good?

Certainly.

Section 99

And that there are only two things— true opinion and knowledge—that guide rightly and a man guides rightly if he have these; for things that come about by chance do not occur through human guidance; but where a man is a guide to what is right we find these two things—true opinion and knowledge.

I agree.

Well now, since virtue is not taught, we no longer take it to be knowledge?

Apparently not.

So of two good and useful things one has been rejected: knowledge cannot be our guide in political conduct.

I think not.

Therefore it was not by any wisdom, nor because they were wise, that the sort of men we spoke of controlled their states—Themistocles and the rest of them, to whom our friend Anytus was referring a moment ago. For this reason it was that they were unable to make others like unto themselves—because their qualities were not an effect of knowledge.

The case is probably as you say, Socrates.

And if not by knowledge, as the only alternative it must have been by good opinion. This is the means which statesmen employ for their direction of states, and they have nothing more to do with wisdom than soothsayers and diviners; for these people utter many a true thing when inspired, but have no knowledge of anything they say.

I daresay that is so.

And may we, Meno, rightly call those men divine who, having no understanding, yet succeed in many a great deed and word?

Certainly.

Then we shall be right in calling those divine of whom we spoke just now as soothsayers and prophets and all of the poetic turn; and especially we can say of the statesmen that they are divine and enraptured, as being inspired and possessed of God when they succeed in speaking many great things, while knowing nought of what they say.

Certainly.

And the women too, I presume, Meno, call good men divine; and the Spartans, when they eulogize a good man, say—He is a divine person.

And to all appearance, Socrates, they are right; though perhaps our friend Anytus may be annoyed at your statement.

Section 100

For my part, I care not. As for him, Meno, we will converse with him some other time. At the moment, if through all this discussion our queries and statements have been correct, virtue is found to be neither natural nor taught, but is imparted to us by a divine dispensation without understanding in those who receive it, unless there should be somebody among the statesmen capable of making a statesman of another. And if there should be any such, he might fairly be said to be among the living what Homer says Teiresias was among the dead—He alone has comprehension; the rest are flitting shades. In the same way he on earth, in respect of virtue, will be a real substance among shadows.

I think you put it excellently, Socrates.

Then the result of our reasoning, Meno, is found to be that virtue comes to us by a divine dispensation, when it does come. But the certainty of this we shall only know when, before asking in what way virtue comes to mankind, we set about inquiring what virtue is, in and by itself. It is time now for me to go my way, but do you persuade our friend Anytus of that whereof you are now yourself persuaded, so as to put him in a gentler mood; for if you can persuade him, you will do a good turn to the people of Athens also.

Contents — 37 sections

1. Section 271
2. Section 272
3. Section 273
4. Section 274
5. Section 275
6. Section 276
7. Section 277
8. Section 278
9. Section 279
10. Section 280
11. Section 281
12. Section 282
13. Section 283
14. Section 284
15. Section 285
16. Section 286
17. Section 287
18. Section 288
19. Section 289
20. Section 290
21. Section 291
22. Section 292
23. Section 293
24. Section 294
25. Section 295
26. Section 296
27. Section 297
28. Section 298
29. Section 299
30. Section 300
31. Section 301
32. Section 302
33. Section 303
34. Section 304
35. Section 305
36. Section 306
37. Section 307

Section 271

Who was it, Socrates, that you were talking with yesterday at the Lyceum? Why, there was such a crowd standing about you that when I came up in the hope of listening I could hear nothing distinctly: still, by craning over I got a glimpse, and it appeared to me that it was a stranger with whom you were talking. Who was he?

About which are you asking, Crito? There were two of them, not one.

The man whom I mean was sitting next but one to you, on your right: between you was Axiochus’ boy; and he, Socrates, seemed to me to have grown a great deal, so as to look almost the same age as my Critobulus, who is rather puny whereas this boy has come on finely, and has a noble air about him.

Euthydemus is the person to whom you refer, Crito, and the one sitting on my left was his brother, Dionysodorus. He too takes part in our discussions.

Neither of them is known to me, Socrates. A pair of fresh additions, I suppose, to our sophists. Where do they hail from, and what science do they profess?

By birth I believe they belong to these parts, that is to say, Chios; they went out as colonists to Thurii, but have been exiled thence and have spent a good many years now in various parts of this country. As to what you ask of their profession, it is a wonderful one, Crito. These two men are absolutely omniscient: I never knew before what all-round sportsmen were. They are a pair of regular all-round fighters—not in the style of the famous all-round athletes, the two brothers of Acamania; they could fight with their bodies only. But these two, in the first place, are most formidable in body and in fight against all comers

Section 272

—for they are not only well skilled themselves in fighting under arms, but are able to impart that skill, for a fee, to another; and further, they are most competent also to fight the battle of the law-courts and teach others how to speak, or to have composed for them, such speeches as may win their suits. Formerly they had merely some ability for this; but now they have put the finishing touch to their skill as all-round sportsmen. The one feat of fighting yet unperformed by them they have now accomplished, so that nobody dares stand up to them for a moment; such a faculty they have acquired for wielding words as their weapons and confuting any argument as readily if it be true as if it be false. And so I, Crito, am minded to place myself in these two gentlemen’s hands; for they say it would take them but a little while to make anyone else clever in just the same way.

What, Socrates! Are you not afraid, at your time of life, that you may be too old for that now?

Not at all, Crito: I have enough proof and reassurance to the contrary. These same two persons were little less than old men at the time of their taking up this science, which I desire to have, of disputation. Last year, or the year before, they were as yet without their science. The only thing I am afraid of is that I may bring the same disgrace upon our two visitors as upon Connus, son of Metrobius, the harper, who is still trying to teach me the harp; so that the boys who go to his lessons with me make fun of me and call Connus the gaffers’ master. This makes me fear that someone may make the same reproach to the two strangers; and, for aught I know, their dread of this very thing may make them unwilling to accept me. So, Crito, just as in the other case I have persuaded some elderly men to come and have lessons with me, in this affair I am going to try and persuade another set. Now you, I am sure, will come with me to school; and we will take your sons as a bait to entice them, for I have no doubt that the attraction of these young fellows will make them include us also in the class.

I have no objection, Socrates, if you think fit to do so. But first you must explain to me what is the science these men profess, that I may know what it is we are going to learn.

You shall be told at once; for I cannot plead that I did not give them my attention, since I not only attended closely but remember and will try to expound the whole thing from the beginning. By some providence I chanced to be sitting in the place where you saw me, in the undressing-room, alone, and was just intending to get up and go; but the moment I did so, there came my wonted spiritual sign.

Section 273

So I sat down again, and after a little while these two persons entered—Euthydemus and Dionysodorus—and accompanying them, quite a number, as it seemed to me, of their pupils: the two men came in and began walking round inside the cloister. Hardly had they taken two or three turns, when in stepped Cleinias, who you say has come on so much, and you are right: behind him was a whole troop of lovers, and among them Ctesippus, a young fellow from Paeania, of gentle birth and breeding, except for a certain insolence of youth. So when Cleinias as he entered caught sight of me sitting there alone, he came straight across and sat beside me on my right, just as you say. Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, when they saw him, stood at first talking with each other, and casting an occasional glance at us—for my attention was fixed on them—but then one of them, Euthydemus, took a seat by the youth, and the other next to me on my left; the rest, where each happened to find one. So I greeted the two brothers, as not having seen them for some time; after that I said to Cleinias: My dear Cleinias, these two men, you know, are skilled not in little things, but in great. For they understand all about war, that is, as much as is needful for him who is to be a good general; both the tactics and the strategy of armies, and all the teaching of troops under arms; and they can also enable one to get redress in the law courts for a wrong that one may have suffered. When I had said this, I saw they despised me for it, and they both laughed, looking at each other; then Euthydemus said: No, no, Socrates, we do not make those matters our business now; we deal with them as diversions. At this I wondered and said: Your business must be a fine one, if such great matters are indeed diversions to you; so I beseech you, tell me what this fine business is. Virtue, Socrates, he replied, is what we deem ourselves able to purvey in a pre-eminently excellent and speedy manner. Good heavens, I exclaimed, a mighty affair indeed! Where did you have the luck to pick it up? I was still considering you, as I remarked just now, to be chiefly skilled in fighting under arms, and so spoke of you in those terms: for when you visited, our city before, this, I recollect, was the profession you made.

Section 274

But if you now in truth possess this other knowledge, have mercy—you see I address you just as though you were a couple of gods, beseeching you to forgive my former remarks. But make sure, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, that you spoke the truth: for the vastness of your promise gives me some excuse for disbelieving. You may be sure, Socrates, they replied, it is as we say. Then I congratulate you on your acquisition far more than I do the great king on his empire: only tell me whether you intend to exhibit this science of yours, or what you have determined to do. We are here for the very purpose, Socrates, of exhibiting and expounding it to anyone who wishes to learn. Well, I guarantee that all who do not possess it will wish to—myself to begin with, then Cleinias here and, besides us, Ctesippus and all these others, I said, showing him the lovers of Cleinias, who were by this time standing about us. For Ctesippus, as it happened, was sitting some way from Cleinias, I noticed; and by chance, as Euthydemus leant forward in talking to me he obscured Ctesipus’ view of Cleinias, who was between us. Then Ctesippus, desiring to gaze on his favorite and being also an eager listener, led the way by jumping up and placing himself opposite us; and this made the others, on seeing what he did, stand around us, both Cleinias’ lovers and the followers of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. Pointing to these, I told Euthydemus that they were all ready to learn; to which Ctesippus assented with great eagerness, and so did the rest; and they all joined in urging the two men to exhibit the power of their wisdom. On this I remarked: My good Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, you must do your very best to gratify my friends and, for my sake also, to give us an exhibition. To do it in full, of course, would obviously be a lengthy performance: but tell me one thing—will you be able to make a good man of him only who is already convinced that he should learn of you, or of him also who is not yet so convinced, owing to an absolute disbelief that virtue is a thing that can be learnt or that you are teachers of it? Come now, is it the business of this same art to persuade such a man that virtue is teachable and that you are the men of whom one may best learn it, or does this need some other art? No, this same one can do it, Socrates, said Dionysodorus.

Section 275

Then you two, Dionysodorus, I said, would be the best persons now on earth to incite one to the pursuit of knowledge and the practice of virtue? We think so, at least, Socrates. Well then, please defer the display of all the rest to some other occasion, I said, and exhibit this one thing. You are to persuade this young fellow here that he ought to ensue wisdom and practise virtue, and so you will oblige both me and all these present. This youth happens to be in just the sort of condition I speak of; and I and all of us here are at this moment anxious for him to become as good as possible. He is the son of Axiochus, son of the former Alcibiades, and is own cousin to the Alcibiades that now is: his name is Cleinias. He is young; and so we have fears for him, as well one may for a young man, lest someone forestall us and turn his inclination to some other course of life, and so corrupt him. Hence your arrival now is most happy. Come now, if it is all the same to you, make trial of the lad and talk with him in our presence. When I had thus spoken, in almost these very words, Euthydemus answered in a tone both manly and dashing: Oh, it is all the same to us, Socrates, provided the youth is willing to answer us. Why, in fact, I said, that is just what he is used to: these people here are constantly coming to him and asking him a number of questions and debating with him, so he is a fairly fearless answerer. What ensued, Crito, how am I to relate in proper style? For no slight matter it is to be able to recall in description such enormous knowledge as theirs. Consequently, like the poets, I must needs begin my narrative with an invocation of the Muses and Memory. Well, Euthydemus set to work, so far as I remember, in terms very much the same as these: Cleinias, which sort of men are the learners, the wise or the foolish? At this the young man, feeling the embarrassment of the question, blushed and glanced at me in his helplessness. So I, perceiving his confusion, said: Have no fear, Cleinias; answer bravely, whichever you think it is: for perchance he is doing you the greatest service in the world. Meanwhile Dionysodorus leant over a little to me, with a broad smile on his face, and whispered in my ear: Let me tell you, Socrates, beforehand that, whichever way the lad answers, he will be confuted.

Section 276

While he was saying this, Cleinias made his reply, so that I was unable even to advise the boy to be wary: he replied that it was the wise who were the learners. Then Euthydemus asked: And are there persons whom you call teachers, or not? He agreed that there were. And the teachers of the learners are teachers in the same way as your lute-master and your writing-master, I suppose, were teachers of you and the other boys, while you were pupils? He assented. Now, of course, when you were learning, you did not yet know the things you were learning? No, he said. So were you wise, when you did not know those things? No, to be sure, he said. Then if not wise, foolish? Certainly. So when you learnt what you did not know, you learnt while being foolish. To this the lad nodded assent. Hence it is the foolish who learn, Cleinias, and not the wise, as you suppose. When he had thus spoken, all those followers of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus raised a cheer and a laugh, like a chorus at the signal of their director; and before the boy could fairly and fully recover his breath Dionysodorus took up the cudgels and said: Well now, Cleinias, whenever your writing-master dictated from memory, which of the boys learnt the piece recited, the wise or the foolish? The wise, said Cleinias. So it is the wise who learn, and not the foolish: hence the answer you gave just now to Euthydemus was a bad one. Thereupon arose a great deal of laughter and loud applause from the pair’s adorers, in admiration of their cleverness; while we on our side were dismayed and held our peace. Then Euthydemus, observing our dismay, and seeking to astonish us still further, would not let the boy go, but went on questioning him and, like a skilful dancer, gave a twofold twist to his questions on the same point: Now, do the learners learn what they know, he asked, or what they do not? Then Dionysodorus whispered to me again softly: Here comes a second one, Socrates, just like the first. Heavens! I replied: surely the first question served you well enough. All our questions, Socrates, he said, are like that; they leave no escape. And consequently, as it seems to me, I remarked, you have this high repute among your disciples.

Section 277

Meanwhile Cleinias answered Euthydemus, that learners learnt what they did not know; so he had to meet the same course of questions as before: Well then, asked the other, do you not know your letters? Yes, he said. All of them? He admitted it. Now when anyone dictates some piece or other, does he not dictate letters? He admitted it. And he dictates things of which you know something, since you know all of them? He admitted this too. Well now, said the other, surely you do not learn whatever such a person dictates; it is rather he who does not know his letters that learns? No, he replied; I learn. Then you learn what you know, since you know all your letters. He agreed. So your answer was not correct, he said. The last word was hardly out of Euthydemus’ mouth when Dionysodorus caught, as it were, the ball of the argument and, aiming at the boy again, said: Euthydemus is deceiving you, Cleinias. Tell me, is not learning the reception of knowledge of that which one learns? Cleinias agreed. And is not knowing, he went on, just having knowledge at the time? He assented. So that not knowing is not yet having knowledge? He agreed with him. Then are those who receive anything those who have it already, or those who have it not? Those who have it not. And you have admitted that those who do not know belong also to this class of those who have it not? He nodded assent. And the learners belong to the class of the receiving and not to that of the having? He agreed. Hence it is those who do not know that learn, Cleinias, and not those who know. Euthydemus was proceeding to press the youth for the third fall, when I, perceiving the lad was going under, and wishing to give him some breathing-space lest he should shame us by losing heart, encouraged him with these words: Cleinias, do not be surprised that these arguments seem strange to you; for perhaps you do not discern what our two visitors are doing to you. They are acting just like the celebrants of the Corybantic rites, when they perform the enthronement of the person whom they are about to initiate. There, as you know, if you have been through it, they have dancing and merrymaking: so here these two are merely dancing about you and performing their sportive gambols with a view to your subsequent initiation. You must now, accordingly, suppose you are listening to the first part of the professorial mysteries.

Section 278

First of all, as Prodicus says, you have to learn about the correct use of words—the very point that our two visitors are making plain to you, namely, that you were unaware that learning is the name which people apply on the one hand to the case of a man who, having originally no knowledge about some matter, in course of time receives such knowledge; and on the other hand the same word is applied when, having the knowledge already, he uses that knowledge for the investigation of the same matter whether occurring in action or in speech. It is true that they tend rather to call it understanding than learning, but occasionally they call it learning too; and this point, as our friends are demonstrating, has escaped your notice—how the same word is used for people who are in the opposite conditions of knowing and not knowing. A similar point underlay the second question, where they asked you whether people learn what they know, or what they do not. Such things are the sport of the sciences—and that is why I tell you these men are making game of you; I call it sport because, although one were to learn many or even all of such tricks, one would be not a whit the wiser as to the true state of the matters in hand, but only able to make game of people, thanks to the difference in the sense of the words, by tripping them up and overturning them; just as those who slyly pull stools away from persons who are about to sit down make merry and laugh when they see one sprawling on one’s back. So far, then, you are to regard these gentlemen’s treatment of you as mere play: but after this they will doubtless display to you their own serious object, while I shall keep them on the track and see that they fulfil the promise they gave me. They said they would exhibit their skill in exhortation; but instead, I conceive, they thought fit to make sport with you first. So now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, let us have done with your sport: I daresay you have had as much as you want. What you have next to do is to give us a display of exhorting this youth as to how he should devote himself to wisdom and virtue. But first I shall explain to you how I regard this matter and how I desire to hear it dealt with. If I strike you as treating it in a crude and ridiculous manner, do not laugh me to scorn; for in my eagerness to listen to your wisdom I shall venture to improvise in your presence. So both you and your disciples must restrain yourselves and listen without laughing; and you, son of Axiochus, answer me this: Do all we human beings wish to prosper? Or is this question one of the absurdities I was afraid of just now? For I suppose it is stupid merely to ask such things, since every man must wish to prosper.

Section 279

Everyone in the world, said Cleinias. Well then, I asked, as to the next step, since we wish to prosper, how can we prosper? Will it be if we have many good things? Or is this an even sillier question than the other? For surely this too must obviously be so. He agreed. Come now, of things that are, what sort do we hold to be really good? Or does it appear to be no difficult matter, and no problem for an important person, to find here too a ready answer? Anyone will tell us that to be rich is good, surely? Quite true, he said. Then it is the same with being healthy and handsome, and having the other bodily endowments in plenty? He agreed. Again, it is surely clear that good birth and talents and distinctions in one’s own country are good things. He admitted it. Then what have we still remaining, I asked, in the class of goods? What of being temperate, and just, and brave? I bay you tell me, Cleinias, do you think we shall be right in ranking these as goods, or in rejecting them? For it may be that someone will dispute it. How does it strike you? They are goods, said Cleinias. Very well, I went on, and where in the troupe shall we station wisdom? Among the goods, or how? Among the goods. Then take heed that we do not pass over any of the goods that may deserve mention. I do not think we are leaving any out, said Cleinias. Hereupon I recollected one and said: Yes, by Heaven, we are on the verge of omitting the greatest of the goods. What is that? he asked. Good fortune, Cleinias: a thing which all men, even the worst fools, refer to as the greatest of goods. You are right, he said. Once again I reconsidered and said: We have almost made ourselves laughing-stocks, you and I, son of Axiochus, for our visitors. What is wrong now? he asked. Why, after putting good fortune in our former list, we have just been discussing the same thing again. What is the point? Surely it is ridiculous, when a thing has been before us all the time, to set it forth again and go over the same ground twice. To what are you referring? he asked. Wisdom, I replied, is presumably good fortune: even a child could see that. He wondered at this—he is still so young and simple-minded: then I, perceiving his surprise, went on: Can you be unaware, Cleinias, that for success in flute-music it is the flute-players that have the best fortune? He agreed to this. Then in writing and reading letters it will be the schoolmasters. Certainly. Well now, for the dangers of a sea-voyage, do you consider any pilots to he more fortunate, as a general rule, than the wise ones? No, to be sure.

Section 280

Well, then, suppose you were on a campaign, with which kind of general would you prefer to share both the peril and the luck—a wise one, or an ignorant? With a wise one. Well then, supposing you were sick, with which kind of doctor would you like to venture yourself a wise one, or an ignorant? With a wise one. And your reason, I said, is this, that you would fare with better fortune in the hands of a wise one than of an ignorant one? He assented. So that wisdom everywhere causes men to be fortunate: since I presume she could never err, but must needs be right in act and result; otherwise she could be no longer wisdom. We came to an agreement somehow or other in the end that the truth in general was this: when wisdom is present, he with whom it is present has no need of good fortune as well; and as we had agreed on this I began to inquire of him over again what we should think, in this case, of our previous agreements. For we agreed, said I, that if many goods were present to us we should be happy and prosper. Yes, he said. Then would we be happy because of our present goods, if they gave us no benefit, or if they gave us some? If they gave us benefit, he said. And would a thing benefit us if we merely had it and did not use it? For instance, if we had a lot of provisions, but did not eat them, or liquor, and did not drink it, could we be said to be benefited? Of course not, he answered. Well then, if every craftsman found the requisites for his particular work all ready prepared for him, and then made no use of them, would he prosper because of these acquisitions, as having acquired all the things necessary for a craftsman to have at hand? For example, if a carpenter were furnished with all his tools and a good supply of wood, but did no carpentry, is it possible he could be benefited by what he had got? By no means, he said. Well now, suppose a man had got wealth and all the goods that we mentioned just now, but made no use of them; would he be happy because of his possessing these goods? Surely not, Socrates. So it seems one must not merely have acquired such goods if one is to be happy, but use them too; else there is no benefit gained from their possession. True. Then have we here enough means, Cleinias, for making a man happy—in the possession of these goods and using them? I think so. Shall we say, I asked, if he uses them rightly, or just as much if he does not? If rightly.

Section 281

Well answered, I said; for I suppose there is more mischief when a man uses anything wrongly than when he lets it alone. In the one case there is evil; in the other there is neither evil nor good. May we not state it so? He agreed. To proceed then: in the working and use connected with wood, is there anything else that effects the right use than the knowledge of carpentry? Surely not, he said. Further, I presume that in the working connected with furniture it is knowledge that effects the right work. Yes, he said. Then similarly, I went on, in the use of the goods we mentioned at first—wealth and health and beauty—was it knowledge that showed the way to the right use of all those advantages and rectified their conduct, or was it something else? Knowledge, he replied. So that knowledge, it would seem, supplies mankind not only with good luck, but with welfare, in all that he either possesses or conducts. He agreed. Then can we, in Heaven’s name, get any benefit from all the other possessions without understanding and wisdom? Shall we say that a man will profit more by possessing much and doing much when he has no sense, than he will if he does and possesses little? Consider it this way: would he not err less if he did less; and so, erring less, do less ill; and hence, doing less ill, be less miserable? Certainly, he said. In which of the two cases, when one is poor or when one is rich, will one be more likely to do less? When one is poor, he said. And when one is weak, or when one is strong? Weak. And when one has high position, or has none? None. When one is brave and self-controlled, will one do less, or when one is a coward? A coward. So too, when idle rather than busy? He agreed. And slow rather than quick, and dim of sight and hearing rather than sharp? We agreed with each other as to these and all such cases. To sum up then, Cleinias, I proceeded, it seems that, as regards the whole lot of things which at first we termed goods, the discussion they demand is not on the question of how they are in themselves and by nature goods, but rather, I conceive, as follows: if they are guided by ignorance, they are greater evils than their opposites, according as they are more capable of ministering to their evil guide; whereas if understanding and wisdom guide them, they are greater goods; but in themselves neither sort is of any worth. I think the case appears, he replied, to be as you suggest. Now what result do we get from our statements? Is it not precisely that, of all the other things, not one is either good or bad, but of these two, wisdom is good and ignorance bad? He agreed.

Section 282

Let us consider then, I said, the further conclusion that lies before us. Since we are all eager to be happy, and since we were found to become so by not only using things but using them aright, while knowledge, we saw, was that which provided the rightness and good fortune, it seems that every man must prepare himself by all available means so that he may be as wise as possible. Is it not so? Yes, he said. And if a man thinks, as well he may, that he ought to get this endowment from his father much more than money, and also from his guardians and his ordinary friends, and from those who profess to be his lovers, whether strangers or fellow-citizens—praying and beseeching them to give him his share of wisdom; there is no disgrace, Cleinias, or reprobation in making this a reason for serving and being a slave to either one’s lover or any man, and being ready to perform any service that is honorable in one’s eagerness to become wise. Is not this your view? I asked. I think you are perfectly right, he replied. Yes, Cleinias, I went on, if wisdom is teachable, and does not present itself to mankind of its own accord—for this is a question that we have still to consider as not yet agreed on by you and me. For my part, Socrates, he said, I think it is teachable. At this I was glad, and said: Well spoken indeed, my excellent friend! How good of you to relieve me of a long inquiry into this very point, whether wisdom is teachable or not teachable! So now, since you think it is both teachable and the only thing in the world that makes man happy and fortunate, can you help saying that it is necessary to pursue wisdom or intending to pursue it yourself? Why, said he, I do say so, Socrates, with all my might. So I, delighted to hear this, said: There, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, is my illustration of what I desire a hortatory argument to be—rough and ready, perhaps, and expressed at laborious length: now let either of you who wishes to do so give us an example of an artist’s handling of this same matter. If you do not wish to do that, let your display begin where I left off, and show the lad whether he ought to acquire every kind of knowledge, or whether there is a single sort of it which one must obtain if one is to be both happy and a good man, and what it is. For as I was saying at the outset, it really is a matter of great moment to us that this youth should become wise and good.

Section 283

These were my words, Crito; and I set about giving the closest attention to what should follow, and observing in what fashion they would deal with the question, and how they would start exhorting the youth to practise wisdom and virtue. So then the elder of them, Dionysodorus, entered first upon the discussion, and we all turned our eyes on him expecting to hear, there and then, some wonderful arguments. And this result we certainly got; for wondrous, in a way, Crito, was the argument that the man then ushered forth, which is worth your hearing as a notable incitement to virtue. Tell me, Socrates, he said, and all you others who say you desire this youth to become wise, whether you say this in jest or truly and earnestly desire it. At this I reflected that previously, as it seemed, they took us to be jesting, when we urged them to converse with the youth, and hence they made a jest of it and did not take it seriously. This reflection therefore made me insist all the more that we were in deadly earnest. Then Dionysodorus said: Yet be careful, Socrates, that you do not have to deny what you say now. I know what I am about, I said: I know I shall never deny it. Well now, he proceeded; you tell me you wish him to become wise? Certainly. And at present, he asked, is Cleinias wise or not? He says he is not yet so—he is no vain pretender. And you, he went on, wish him to become wise, and not to be ignorant? We agreed. So you wish him to become what he is not, and to be no longer what he now is. When I heard this I was confused; and he, striking in on my confusion, said: Of course then, since you wish him to be no longer what he now is, you wish him, apparently, to be dead. And yet what valuable friends and lovers they must be, who would give anything to know their darling was dead and gone! Ctesippus, on hearing this, was annoyed on his favorite’s account, and said: Stranger of Thurii, were it not rather a rude thing to say, I should tell you, ill betide your design of speaking so falsely of me and my friends as to make out—what to me is almost too profane even to repeat—that I could wish this boy to be dead and gone!

Section 284

Why, Ctesippus, said Euthydemus, do you think it possible to lie? To be sure, I do, he replied: I should be mad otherwise. Do you mean, when one tells the thing about which one is telling, or when one does not? When one tells it, he said. Then if you tell it, you tell just that thing which you tell, of all that are, and nothing else whatever? Of course, said Ctesippus. Now the thing that you tell is a single one, distinct from all the others there are. Certainly. Then the person who tells that thing tells that which is? Yes. But yet, surely he who tells what is, and things that are, tells the truth: so that Dionysodorus, if he tells things that are, tells the truth and speaks no lie about you. Yes, said Ctesippus; but he who speaks as he did, Euthydemus, does not say things that are. Then Euthydemus asked him: And the things which are not, surely are not? They are not. Then nowhere can the things that are not be? Nowhere. Then is it possible for anyone whatever so to deal with these things that are not as to make them be when they are nowhere? I think not, said Ctesippus. Well now, when orators speak before the people, do they do nothing? No, they do something, he replied. Then if they do, they also make? Yes. Now, is speaking doing and making? He agreed that it is. No one, I suppose, speaks what is not—for thereby he would be making something; and you have agreed that one cannot so much as make what is not—so that, by your account, no one speaks what is false, while if Dionysodorus speaks, he speaks what is true and is. Yes, in faith, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but somehow or other he speaks what is, only not as it is. How do you mean, Ctesippus? said Dionysodorus. Are there persons who tell things as they are? Why surely, he replied, there are gentlemen—people who speak the truth? Well, he went on, good things are in good case, bad in bad, are they not? He assented. And you admit that gentlemen tell things as they are. I do. Then, Ctesippus, good people speak evil of evil things, if they speak of them as they are. Yes, I can tell you, very much so, when for instance they speak of evil men; among whom, if you take my advice, you will beware of being included, that the good may not speak ill of you. For, I assure you, the good speak ill of the evil. And they speak greatly of the great, asked Euthydemus, and hotly of the hot? Certainly, I presume, said Ctesippus: I know they speak frigidly of the frigid, and call their way of arguing frigid. You are turning abusive, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, quite abusive!

Section 285

Not I, on my soul, Dionysodorus, for I like you: I am only giving you a friendly hint, and endeavoring to persuade you never to say anything so tactless in my presence as that I wish these my most highly valued friends to be dead and gone. So then I, observing that they were getting rather savage with each other, began to poke fun. at Ctesippus, saying: Ctesippus, my feeling is that we ought to accept from our visitors what they tell us, if they are so good as to give it, and should not quarrel over a word. For if they understand how to do away with people in such sort as to change them from wicked and witless to honest and intelligent, and that too whether they have discovered for themselves or learnt from somebody else this peculiar kind of destruction or undoing, which enables them to destroy a man in his wickedness and set him up again in honesty; if they understand this—and obviously they do; you know they said that their newly discovered art was to turn wicked men into good—let us then accord them this power; let them destroy the lad for us, and make him sensible, and all the rest of us likewise. If you young fellows are afraid, let the experiment be made on me as a corpus vile; for I, being an elderly person, am ready to take the risk and put myself in the hands of Dionysodorus here, as if he were the famous Medea of Colchis. Let him destroy me, and if he likes let him boil me down, or do to me whatever he pleases: only he must make me good. Then Ctesippus said: I too, Socrates, am ready to offer myself to be skinned by the strangers even more, if they choose, than they are doing now, if my hide is not to end by being made into a wine-skin, like that of Marsyas, but into the shape of virtue. And yet Dionysodorus here believes I am vexed with him. I am not vexed at all; I only contradict the remarks which I think he has improperly aimed at me. Come now, my generous Dionysodorus, do not call contradiction abuse: abuse is quite another thing. On this Dionysodorus said: As though there were such a thing as contradiction! Is that the way you argue, Ctesippus? Yes, to be sure, he replied, indeed I do; and do you, Dionysodorus, hold that there is not? Well, you at any rate, he said, could not prove that you had ever heard a single person contradicting another. Is that so? he replied: well, let us hear now whether I can prove a case of it—Ctesippus contradicting Dionysodorus. Now, will you make that good? Certainly, he said.

Section 286

Well then, proceeded the other, each thing that is has its own description? Certainly. Then do you mean, as each is, or as it is not? As it is. Yes, he said, for if you recollect, Ctesippus, we showed just now that no one speaks of a thing as it is not; since we saw that no one speaks what is not. Well, what of that? asked Ctesippus: are you and I contradicting any the less? Now tell me, he said, could we contradict if we both spoke the description of the same thing? In this case should we not surely speak the same words? He agreed. But when neither of us speaks the description of the thing, he asked, then we should contradict? Or in this case shall we say that neither of us touched on the matter at all? This also he admitted. Well now, when I for my part speak the description of the thing, while you give another of another thing, do we contradict then? Or do I describe the thing, while you do not describe it at all? How can he who does not describe contradict him who does? At this Ctesippus was silent; but I, wondering at the argument, said: How do you mean, Dionysodorus? For, to be plain with you, this argument, though I have heard it from many people on various occasions, never fails to set me wondering—you know the followers of Protagoras made great use of it, as did others even before his time, but to me it always seems to have a wonderful way of upsetting not merely other views but itself also—and I believe I shall learn the truth of it from you far better than from anyone else. There is no such thing as speaking false—that is the substance of your statement, is it not? Either one must speak and speak the truth, or else not speak? He agreed. Then shall we say that speaking false is not, but thinking false is? No, it is the same with thinking, he said. So neither is there any false opinion, I said, at all. No, he said. Nor ignorance, nor ignorant men; or must not ignorance occur, if it ever can, when we put things falsely? Certainly, he said. But there is no such thing as this, I said. No, he said. Is it merely to save your statement, Dionysodorus, that you state it so—just to say something startling—or is it really and truly your view that there is no such thing as an ignorant man? But you, he replied, are to refute me. Well, does your argument allow of such a thing as refutation, if there is nobody to speak false? There is no such thing, said Euthydemus. So neither did Dionysodorus just now bid me refute him? I asked. No, for how can one bid something that is not? Do you bid such a thing? Well, Euthydemus, I said, it is because I do not at all understand these clever devices and palpable hits: I am only a dull sort of thinker. And so I may perhaps be going to say something rather clownish; but you must forgive me.

Section 287

Here it is: if there is no such thing as speaking false or thinking false or being stupid, surely there can be no making a mistake either, when one does something. For in doing it there is no mistaking the thing that is done. You will state it so, will you not? Certainly, he said. My clownish question, I went on, is now already before you. If we make no mistake either in doing or saying or intending, I ask you what in Heaven’s name, on that assumption, is the subject you two set up to teach. Or did you not say just now that your speciality was to put any man who wished in the way of learning virtue? Now really, Socrates, interposed Dionysodorus, are you such an old dotard as to recollect now what we said at first, and will you now recollect what I may have said last year, and yet be at a loss how to deal with the arguments urged at the moment? Well, you see, I replied, they are so very hard, and naturally so; for they fall from the lips of wise men; and this is further shown by the extreme difficulty of dealing with this last one you put forward. For what on earth do you mean, Dionysodorus, by saying I am at a loss how to deal with it? Or is it clear that you mean I am at a loss how to refute it? You must tell me what else your phrase can intend, at a loss how to deal with the arguments. But it is not so very hard to deal with that phrase of yours, he said. Just answer me. Before you answer me, Dionysodorus? I protested. You refuse to answer? he said. Is it fair? Oh yes, it is fair enough, he replied On what principle? I asked: or is it plainly on this one—that you present yourself to us at this moment as universally skilled in discussion, and thus can tell when an answer is to be given, and when not? So now you will not answer a word, because you discern that you ought not to. What nonsense you talk, he said, instead of answering as you should. Come, good sir, do as I bid you and answer, since you confess to my wisdom. Well then, I must obey, I said, and of necessity, it seems; for you are the master here. Now for your question. Then tell me, do things that intend have life when they intend, or do lifeless things do it too? Only those that have life. Now do you know any phrase that has life? Upon my soul, I do not. Why then did you ask just now what my phrase intended? Of course I made a great mistake, I said: I am such a dullard. Or perhaps it was not a mistake, and I was right in saying what I did, that phrases intend. Do you say I was mistaken or not?

Section 288

If I was not, then you will not refute me, with all your skill, and you are at a loss how to deal with the argument; while if I was mistaken, you are in the wrong there, too, for you assert that there is no such thing as making a mistake; and what I say is not aimed at what you said last year. But it seems, I went on, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, that our argument remains just where it was, and still suffers from the old trouble of knocking others down and then falling itself, and even your art has not yet discovered a way of avoiding this failure—in spite, too, of the wonderful show it makes of accurate reasoning. Here Ctesippus exclaimed: Yes, your way of discussion is marvellous, you men of Thurii or Chios or wherever or however it is you are pleased to get your names; for you have no scruple about babbling like fools. At this I was afraid we might hear some abuse, so I soothed Ctesippus down once more, saying: Ctesippus, I repeat to you what I said to Cleinias just now, that you do not perceive the wonderful nature of our visitors’ skill. Only they are unwilling to give us a display of it in real earnest, but treat us to jugglers’ tricks in the style of Proteus the Egyptian adept. So let us take our cue from Menelaus, and not leave hold of these gentlemen till they give us a sight of their own serious business. I believe something very fine will be found in them as soon as they begin to be serious. Come, let us beg and exhort and beseech them to let their light shine. For my part, then, I am minded to take the lead once more in showing what sort of persons I pray may be revealed in them: starting from where I left off before, I shall try, as best I can, to describe what follows on from that, to see if I can rouse them to action and make them, in merciful commensuration of my earnest endeavor, be earnest themselves. Will you, Cleinias, I asked, please remind me of the point at which we left off? Now, as far as I can tell, it was something like this: we ended by agreeing that one ought to pursue wisdom, did we not? Yes, he said. And this pursuit—called philosophy—is an acquiring of knowledge. Is it not so? I asked. Yes, he said. Then what knowledge should we acquire if we acquired it rightly? Is it not absolutely clear that it must be that knowledge which will profit us? Certainly, he said. Now will it profit us at all, if we know how to tell, as we go about, where the earth has most gold buried in it? Perhaps, he said.

Section 289

But yet, I went on, we refuted that former proposition, agreeing that even if without any trouble or digging the earth we got all the gold in the world, we should gain nothing, so that not if we knew how to turn the rocks into gold would our knowledge be of any worth. For unless we know how to use the gold, we found no advantage in it. Do you not remember? I asked. Certainly I do, he said. Nor, it seems, do we get any advantage from all other knowledge, whether of money-making or medicine or any other that knows how to make things, without knowing how to use the thing made. Is it not so? He agreed. Nor again, if there is a knowledge enabling one to make men immortal, does this, if we lack the knowledge how to use immortality, seem to bring any advantage either, if we are to infer anything from our previous admissions. On all these points we agreed. Then the sort of knowledge we require, fair youth, I said, is that in which there happens to be a union of making and knowing how to use the thing made. Apparently, he said. So we ought, it seems, to aim at something far other than being lyre-makers or possessing that kind of knowledge. For in this case the art that makes and the art that uses are quite distinct, dealing in separation with the same thing; since there is a wide difference between the art of making lyres and that of harp-playing. Is it not so? He agreed. Nor again, obviously, do we require an art of flute-making; for this is another of the same kind. He assented. Now in good earnest, I asked, if we were to learn the art of speech-making, can that be the art we should acquire if we would be happy? I for one think not, said Cleinias, interposing. On what proof do you rely? I asked. I see, he said, certain speech-writers who do not know how to use the special arguments composed by themselves, just as lyre-makers in regard to their lyres: in the former case also there are other persons able to use what the makers produced, while being themselves unable to make the written speech. Hence it is clear that in speech likewise there are two distinct arts, one of making and one of using. I think you give sufficient proof, I said, that this art of the speech-writers cannot be that whose acquisition would make one happy. And yet I fancied that somewhere about this point would appear the knowledge which we have been seeking all this while. For not only do these speech-writers themselves, when I am in their company, impress me as prodigiously clever, Cleinias, but their art itself seems so exalted as to be almost inspired. However, this is not surprising; for it is a part of the sorcerer’s art, and only slightly inferior to that.

Section 290

The sorcerer’s art is the charming of snakes and tarantulas and scorpions and other beasts and diseases, while the other is just the charming and soothing of juries, assemblies, crowds, and so forth. Or does it strike you differently? I asked. No, it appears to me, he replied, to be as you say. Which way then, said I, shall we turn now? What kind of art shall we try? For my part, he said, I have no suggestion. Why, I think I have found it myself, I said. What is it? said Cleinias. Generalship, I replied, strikes me as the art whose acquisition above all others would make one happy. I do not think so. Why not? I asked. In a sense, this is an art of hunting men. What then? I said. No part of actual hunting, he replied, covers more than the province of chasing and overcoming; and when they have overcome the creature they are chasing, they are unable to use it: the huntsmen or the fishermen hand it over to the caterers, and so it is too with the geometers, astronomers, and calculators— for these also are hunters in their way, since they are not in each case diagram-makers, but discover the realities of things—and so, not knowing how to use their prey, but only how to hunt, I take it they hand over their discoveries to the dialecticians to use properly, those of them, at least, who are not utter blockheads. Very good, I said, most handsome and ingenious Cleinias; and is this really so? To be sure it is; and so, in the same way, with the generals. When they have hunted either a city or an army, they hand it over to the politicians—since they themselves do not know how to use what they have hunted—just as quail-hunters, I suppose, hand over their birds to the quail-keepers. If, therefore, he went on, we are looking for that art which itself shall know how to use what it has acquired either in making or chasing, and if this is the sort that will make us blest, we must reject generalship, he said, and seek out some other.

What is this, Socrates? Such a pronouncement from that stripling!

You do not believe it is his, Crito?

I should rather think not. For I am sure, if he spoke thus, he has no need of education from Euthydemus or anyone else.

But then, Heaven help me! I wonder if it was Ctesippus who said it, and my memory fails me.

Section 291

Very like Ctesippus!

Well, of this at any rate I am certain, that it was neither Euthydemus nor Dionysodorus who said it. Tell me, mysterious Crito, was it some superior power that was there to speak it? For that speech I heard, I am sure.

Yes, I promise you, Socrates: I fancy it was indeed some superior power—very much so. But after that, did you go on looking for a suitable art? Did you find the one which you had as the object of your search, or not?

Find it, my good fellow! No, we were in a most ridiculous state; like children who run after crested larks, we kept on believing each moment we were just going to catch this or that one of the knowledges, while they as often slipped from our grasp. What need to tell you the story at length? When we reached the kingly art, and were examining it to see if we had here what provides and produces happiness, at this point we were involved in a labyrinth: when we supposed we had arrived at the end, we twisted about again and found ourselves practically at the beginning of our search, and just as sorely in want as when we first started on it.

How did this happen to you, Socrates?

I will tell you. We took the view that the statesman’s and the monarch’s arts were one and the same.

Well, what then?

To this art, we thought, generalship and the other arts handed over the management of the productions of their own trades, as this one alone knew how to use them. So it seemed clear to us that this was the one we were seeking, and was the cause of right conduct in the state, and precisely as Aeschylus’ line expresses it, is seated alone at the helm of the city, steering the whole, commanding the whole, and making the whole useful.

And surely your notion was a good one, Socrates?

You shall judge of that, Crito, if you care to hear what befell us thereafter. For later on we reconsidered it somewhat in this manner: Look now, does the monarch’s art, that rules over all, produce any effect or not? Certainly it does, of course, we said to one another. Would you not say so too, Crito?

I would.

Section 292

Then what would you say is its effect? For instance, if I were to ask you whether medicine, in ruling over all that comes under its rule, has any effect to show; would you not say: Yes, health?

I would.

And what about your art of agriculture? In ruling over all that comes under its rule, what effect does it produce? Would you not say that it supplies us with food from the earth?

I would.

And what of the monarch’s art? In ruling over all that comes under its rule, what does it produce? Perhaps you are not quite ready with the answer.

I am not indeed, Socrates.

Nor were we, Crito; yet so much you know, that if this is really the one we are seeking, it must be beneficial.

Certainly.

Then surely it must purvey something good?

Necessarily, Socrates.

And you know we agreed with each other, Cleinias and I, that nothing can be good but some sort of knowledge.

Yes, so you told me.

And it was found that all effects in general that you may ascribe to statesmanship—and a great many of them there must be, presumably, if the citizens are to be made wealthy and free and immune from faction—all these things were neither bad nor good, while this art must make us wise and impart knowledge, if it really was to be the one which benefited us and made us happy.

True: so at all events you agreed then, by your account of the discussion.

Then do you think that kingship makes men wise and good?

Why not, Socrates?

But does it make all men good, and in all things? And is this the art that confers every sort of knowledge—shoe-making and carpentry and so forth?

No, I think not, Socrates.

Well, what knowledge does it give ? What use can we make of it? It is not to be a producer of any of the effects which are neither bad nor good, while it is to confer no other knowledge but itself. Shall we try and say what it is, and what use we shall make of it? Do you mind if we describe it, Crito, as that whereby we shall make other men good?

I quite agree.

And in what respect are we going to have these men good, and in what useful? Or shall we venture to say they are to make others so, and these again others? In what respect they can possibly be good is nowhere evident to us, since we have discredited all the business commonly called politics, and it is merely a case of the proverbial Corinthus Divine; and, as I was saying, we are equally or even worse at fault as to what that knowledge can be which is to make us happy.

Upon my word, Socrates, you got yourselves there, it seems, into a pretty fix.

Section 293

So then I myself, Crito, finding I had fallen into this perplexity, began to exclaim at the top of my voice, beseeching the two strangers as though I were calling upon the Heavenly Twins to save us, the lad and myself, from the mighty wave of the argument, and to give us the best of their efforts, and this done, to make plain to us what that knowledge can be of which we must get hold if we are to spend the remainder of our lives in a proper way

Well, did Euthydemus consent to propound anything for you?

Why, certainly; and he began his discourse, my good friend, in this very lofty-minded fashion: Would you rather, Socrates, that I instructed you as to this knowledge which has baffled you all this while, or propound that you have it? O gifted sir, I exclaimed, and have you the power to do this? Certainly I have, he replied. Then for Heaven’s sake, I cried, propound that I have it! This will be much easier than learning foraman of my age. Come then, answer me this, he said: Do you know anything? Yes, indeed, I replied. and many things, though trifles. That is enough, he said; now do you think it possible that anything that is should not be just that which it actually is? On my soul, not I. Now you, he said, know something? I do. Then you are knowing, if you really know? Certainly, in just that something. That makes no difference; you are not under a necessity of knowing everything, if you are knowing? No, to be sure, I replied; for there are many other things which I do not know. Then if you do not know something, you are not knowing? Not in that thing, my dear sir, I replied. Are you therefore any the less unknowing? Just now you said you were knowing; so here you are, actually the very man that you are, and again, not that man, in regard to the same matter and at the same time! Admitted, Euthydemus, I said: as the saying goes, well said whate’er you say. How therefore do I know that knowledge which we were seeking? Since forsooth it is impossible for the same thing to be so and not be so; by knowing one thing I know all;—for I could not be at once both knowing and unknowing;—and as I know everything I have that knowledge to boot: is that your line of argument? Is this your wisdom? Yes, you see, Socrates, he said, your own words refute you. Well, but, Euthydemus, I continued, are you not in the same plight? I assure you, so long as I had you and this dear fellow Dionysodorus to share my lot, however hard, I should have nothing to complain of. Tell me, you both know some existent things, of course, and others you do not? By no means, Socrates, said Dionysodorus. How do you mean? I asked: do you then not know anything? Oh yes, we do, he said.

Section 294

So you know everything, I asked, since you know anything? Everything, he replied; yes, and you too, if you know one thing, know all. Good Heavens, I cried, what a wonderful statement! What a great blessing to boast of! And the rest of mankind, do they know everything or nothing? Surely, he said, they cannot know some things and not others, and so be at once knowing and unknowing. But what then? I asked. All men, he replied, know all things, if they know one. In the name of goodness, Dionysodorus, I said—for now I can see both of you are serious; before, I could hardly prevail on you to be so—do you yourselves really know everything? Carpentry, for instance, and shoe-making? Certainly, he said. And you are good hands at leather-stitching? Why yes, in faith, and cobbling, he said. And are you good also at such things as counting the stars, and the sand? Certainly, he said: can you think we would not admit that also? Here Ctesippus broke in: Be so good, Dionysodorus, he said, as to place some such evidence before me as will convince me that what you say is true. What shall I put forward? he asked. Do you know how many teeth Euthydemus has, and does Euthydemus know how many you have? Are you not content, he rejoined, to be told that we know everything? No, do not say that, he replied: only tell us this one thing more, and propound to us that you speak the truth. Then, if you tell us how many teeth each of you has, and you are found by our counting to have known it, we shall believe you thenceforth in everything else likewise. Well, as they supposed we were making fun of them, they would not do it: only they agreed that they knew all subjects, when questioned on them, one after the other, by Ctesippus; who, before he had done with them, asked them if they knew every kind of thing, even the most unseemly, without the least reserve; while they most valiantly encountered his questions, agreeing that they had the knowledge in each case, like boars when driven up to face the spears: so that I for my part, Crito, became quite incredulous,and had to ask in the end if Dionysodorus knew also how to dance. To which he replied: Certainly. I do not suppose, I said, that you have attained such a degree of skill as to do sword-dancing, or be whirled about on a wheel, at your time of life? There is nothing, he said, that I cannot do. Then tell me, I went on, do you know everything at present only, or for ever? For ever too, he said. And when you were children, and were just born, you knew? Everything, they both replied together.

Section 295

Now, to us the thing seemed incredible: then Euthydemus said: You do not believe it, Socrates? I will only say, I replied, that you must indeed be clever. Why, he said, if you will consent to answer me, I will propound that you too admit these surprising facts. Oh, I am only too glad, I replied, to be refuted in the matter. For if I am not aware of my own cleverness, and you are going to show me that I know everything always, what greater stroke of luck than this could befall me in all my living days? Then answer me, he said. Ask: I am ready to answer. Well then, Socrates, he asked, have you knowledge of something, or not? I have. And tell me, do you know with that whereby you have knowledge, or with something else? With that whereby I have knowledge: I think you mean the soul, or is not that your meaning? Are you not ashamed, Socrates, he said, to ask a question on your side when you are being questioned? Very well, I said: but how am I to proceed? I will do just as you bid me. When I cannot tell what you are asking, is it your order that I answer all the same, without asking a question upon it? Why, he replied, you surely conceive some meaning in what I say? I do, I replied. Answer then to the meaning you conceive to be in my words. Well, I said, if you ask a question with a different meaning in your mind from that which I conceive, and I answer to the latter, are you content I should answer nothing to the point? For my part, he replied, I shall be content: you, however, will not, so far as I can see. Then I declare I shall not answer, I said, before I get it right. You refuse to answer, he said, to the meaning you conceive in each case, because you will go on driveling, you hopeless old dotard! Here I perceived he was annoyed with me for distinguishing between the phrases used, when he wanted to entrap me in his verbal snares. So I remembered Connus, how he too is annoyed with me whenever I do not give in to him, with the result that he now takes less trouble over me as being a stupid person. So being minded to take lessons from this new teacher, I decided that I had better give in, lest he should take me for a blockhead and not admit me to his classes. So I said: Well, if you think fit, Euthydemus, to proceed thus, we must do so; in any case I suppose you understand debating better than I do—you are versed in the method, and I am but a layman. Begin your questions, then, over again. Now, answer me once more, he said: do you know what you know by means of something, or not? I do, I replied; by means of my soul.

Section 296

There he is again, he said, answering more than he is asked. For I am not asking what the means is, but only whether you know by some means. Yes, I did again answer more than I ought, I said, through lack of education. But forgive me, and I will now simply reply that I know what I know by some means. By one and the same means always, he asked, or sometimes by one and sometimes by another? Always, whenever I know, I replied, it is by this means. There again, he cried, you really must stop adding these qualifications. But I am so afraid this word always may bring us to grief. Not us, he rejoined, but, if anyone, you. Now answer: do you know by this means always? Always, I, replied, since I must withdraw the whenever. Then you always know by this means: that being the case, do you know some things by this means of knowing, and some things by another means, or everything by this? Everything by this, I replied; everything, that is, that I know. There it comes again, he cried; the same qualification! Well, I withdraw my that is, that I know. No, do not withdraw a single word, he said: I ask you for no concession. Only answer me: could you know all things if you did not know everything? It would be most surprising, I said. Then he went on: You may therefore add on now whatever you please: for you admit that you know all things. It seems I do, I replied, seeing that my that I know has no force, and I know everything. Now you have also admitted that you know always by the means whereby you know, whenever you know—or however you like to put it. For you have admitted that you always know and, at the same time, everything. Hence it is clear that even as a child you knew, both when you were being born and when you were being conceived: and before you yourself came into being or heaven and earth existed, you knew all things, since you always know. Yes, and I declare, he said, you yourself will always know all things, if it be my pleasure. Oh, pray let it be your pleasure, I replied, most worshipful Euthydemus, if what you say is really true. Only I do not quite trust in your efficacy, if your pleasure is not to he also that of your brother here, Dionysodorus: if it is, you will probably prevail. And tell me, I went on, since I cannot hope in a general way to dispute the statement that I know everything with persons so prodigiously clever—since it is your statement—how am I to say I know certain things, Euthydemus; for instance, that good men are unjust? Come, tell me, do I know this or not? You know it certainly, he said. What? I said. That the good are not unjust.

Section 297

Quite so, I said: I knew that all the time; but that is not what I ask: tell me, where did I learn that the good are unjust? Nowhere, said Dionysodorus. Then I do not know this, I said. You are spoiling the argument, said Euthydemus to Dionysodorus, and we shall find that this fellow does not know, and is at once both knowing and unknowing. At this Dionysodorus reddened. But you, I said, what do you mean, Euthydemus. Do you find that your brother, who knows everything, has not spoken aright? I a brother of Euthydemus? quickly interposed Dionysodorus. Whereupon I said: Let me alone, good sir, till Euthydemus has taught me that I know that good men are unjust, and do not grudge me this lesson. You are running away, Socrates, said Dionysodorus; you refuse to answer. Yes, and with good reason, I said: for I am weaker than either one of you, so I have no scruple about running away from the two together. You see, I am sadly inferior to Hercules, who was no match for the hydra—that she-professor who was so clever that she sent forth many heads of debate in place of each one that was cut off; nor for another sort of, crab-professor from the sea— freshly, I fancy, arrived on shore; and, when the hero was so bothered with its leftward barks and bites, he summoned his nephew Iolaus to the rescue, and he brought him effective relief. But if my Iolaus were to come, he would do more harm than good. Well, answer this, said Dionysodorus, now you have done your descanting: Was Iolaus more Hercules’ nephew than yours? I see I had best answer you, Dionysodorus, I said. For you will never cease putting questions—I think I may say I am sure of this—in a grudging, obstructing spirit, so that Euthydemus may not teach me that bit of cleverness. Then answer, he said. Well, I answer, I said, that Iolaus was Hercules’ nephew, but not mine, so far as I can see, in any way whatever. For Patrocles, my brother, was not his father; only Hercules’ brother Iphicles had a name somewhat similar to his. And Patrocles, he said, is your brother? Certainly, I said: that is, by the same mother, but not by the same father. Then he is your brother and not your brother. Not by the same father, worthy sir, I replied. His father was Chaeredemus, mine Sophroniscus. So Sophroniscus and Chaeredemus, he said, were father?

Section 298

Certainly, I said: the former mine, the latter his. Then surely, he went on, Chaeredemus was other than father? Than mine, at any rate, I said. Why then, he was father while being other than father. Or are you the same as the stone? I fear you may prove that of me, I said, though I do not feel like it. Then are you other than the stone? Other, I must say. Then of course, he went on, if you are other than stone, you are not stone? And if you are other than gold, you are not gold? Quite so. Hence Chaeredemus, he said, being other than father, cannot be father. It seems, I said, that he is not a father. No, for I presume, interposed Euthydemus, that if Chaeredemus is a father Sophroniscus in his turn, being other than a father, is not a father; so that you, Socrates, are fatherless. Here Ctesippus took it up, observing: And your father too, is he not in just the same plight? Is he other than my father? Not in the slightest, said Euthydemus. What, asked the other, is he the same? The same, to be sure. I should not like to think he was: but tell me, Euthydemus, is he my father only, or everybody else’s too? Everybody else’s too, he replied; or do you suppose that the same man, being a father, can be no father? I did suppose so, said Ctesippus. Well, said the other, and that a thing being gold could be not gold? Or being a man, not man? Perhaps, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, you are knotting flax with cotton, as they say: for it is a strange result that you state, if your father is father of all. He is, though, was the reply. Of all men, do you mean? asked Ctesippus, or of horses too, and all other animals? Of all, he said. And is your mother a mother in the same way? My mother too. And is your mother a mother of sea-urchins? Yes, and yours is also, he replied. So then you are a brother of the gudgeons and whelps and porkers. Yes, and so are you, he said. Then your father is a boar and a dog. And so is yours, he said. Yes, said Dionysodorus, and it will take you but a moment, if you will answer me, Ctesippus, to acknowledge all this. Just tell me, have you a dog? Yes, a real rogue, said Ctesippus. Has he got puppies? Yes, a set of rogues like him. Then is the dog their father? Yes, indeed; I saw him with my own eyes covering the bitch. Well now, is not the dog yours? Certainly, he said. Thus he is a father, and yours, and accordingly the dog turns out to be your father, and you a brother of whelps. Hereupon Dionysodorus struck in again quickly, lest Ctesippus should get a word in before him: Answer me just one more little point: do you beat this dog? Ctesippus laughed and said: My word, yes; since I cannot beat you! So you beat your own father? he said.

Section 299

There would be much more justice, though, he replied, in my beating yours, for being so ill-advised as to beget clever sons like you. Yet I doubt, Ctesippus went on, if your father, Euthydemus—the puppies’ father—has derived much good from this wisdom of yours. Why, he has no need of much good, Ctesippus, neither he nor you. And have you no need either, yourself, Euthydemus? he asked. No, nor has any other man. Just tell me, Ctesippus, whether you think it good for a sick man to drink physic when he wants it, or whether you consider it not good; or for a man to go to the wars with arms rather than without them. With them, I think, he replied: and yet I believe you are about to utter one of your pleasantries. You will gather that well enough, he said: only answer me. Since you admit that physic is good for a man to drink when necessary, surely one ought to drink this good thing as much as possible; and in such a case it will be well to pound and infuse in it a cart-load of hellebore? To this Ctesippus replied: Quite so, to be sure, Euthydemus, at any rate if the drinker is as big as the Delphian statue. Then, further, since in war, he proceeded, it is good to have arms, one ought to have as many spears and shields as possible, if we agree that it is a good thing? Yes, I suppose, said Ctesippus; and you, Euthydemus, do you take the other view, that it should be one shield and one spear? Yes, I do. What, he said, and would you arm Geryon also and Briareus in this way? I thought you more of an expert than that, considering you are a man-at-arms, and your comrade here too! At this Euthydemus was silent; then Dionysodorus asked some questions on Ctesippus’ previous answers, saying: Well now, gold is in your opinion a good thing to have? Certainly, and—here I agree—plenty of it too, said Ctesippus. Well then, do you not think it right to have good things always and everywhere? Assuredly, he said. Then do you admit that gold is also a good? Why, I have admitted it, he replied. Then we ought always to have it, and everywhere, and above all, in oneself? And one will be happiest if one has three talents of gold in one’s belly, a talent in one’s skull, and a stater of gold in each eye? Well, Euthydemus, replied Ctesippus, they say that among the Scythians those are the happiest and best men who have a lot of gold in their own skulls—somewhat as you were saying a moment ago that dog is father; and a still more marvellous thing is told, how they drink out of their skulls when gilded, and gaze inside them, holding their own headpiece in their hands.

Section 300

Tell me, said Euthydemus, do the Scythians and men in general see things possible of sight, or things impossible? Possible, I presume. And you do so too? I too. Then you see our cloaks? Yes. And have they power of sight? Quite extraordinarily, said Ctesippus. What do they see? he asked. Nothing. Perhaps you do not think they see—you are such a sweet innocent. I should say, Euthydemus, that you have fallen asleep with your eyes open and, if it be possible to speak and at the same time say nothing, that this is what you are doing. Why, asked Dionysodorus, may there not be a speaking of the silent? By no means whatever, replied Ctesippus. Nor a silence of speaking? Still less, he said. Now, when you speak of stones and timbers and irons, are you not speaking of the silent? Not if I walk by a smithy, for there, as they say, the irons speak and cry aloud, when they are touched; so here your wisdom has seduced you into nonsense. But come, you have still to propound me your second point, how on the other hand there may be a silence of speaking. (It struck me that Ctesippus was specially excited on account of his young friend’s presence.) When you are silent, said Euthydemus, are you not making a silence of all things? Yes, he replied. Then it is a silence of speaking things also, if the speaking are among all things. What, said Ctesippus, are not all things silent? I presume not, said Euthydemus. But then, my good sir, do all things speak? Yes, I suppose, at least those that speak. But that is not what I ask, he said: are all things silent or do they speak? Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, snatching the word from him: I am quite sure that is an answer that will baffle you! At this Ctesippus, as his manner was, gave a mighty guffaw, and said: Ah, Euthydemus, your brother has made the argument ambiguous with his both, and is worsted and done for. Then Cleinias was greatly delighted and laughed, so that Ctesippus felt his strength was as the strength of ten: but I fancy Ctesippus—he is such a rogue—had picked up these very words by overhearing the men themselves, since in nobody else of the present age is such wisdom to be found. So I remarked: Why are you laughing, Cleinias, at such serious and beautiful things? What, have you, Socrates, ever yet seen a beautiful thing? asked Dionysodorus. Yes, I have, I replied, and many of them, Dionysodorus.

Section 301

Did you find them different from the beautiful, he said, or the same as the beautiful? Here I was desperately perplexed, and felt that I had my deserts for the grunt I had made: however, I replied that they were different from the beautiful itself, though each of them had some beauty present with it. So if an ox is present with you, he said, you are an ox, and since I am now present with you, you are Dionysodorus. Heavens, do not say that! I cried. But in what way can one thing, by having a different thing present with it, be itself different? Are you at a loss there? I asked: already I was attempting to imitate the cleverness of these men, I was so eager to get it. Can I help being at a loss, he said, I and likewise everybody else in the world, in face of what cannot be? What is that you say, Dionysodorus? I asked: is not the beautiful beautiful, and the ugly ugly? Yes, if it seems so to me, he replied. Then does it seem so? Certainly, he said. Then the same also is the same, and the different different? For I presume the different cannot be the same; nay, I thought not even a child would doubt that the different is different. But, Dionysodorus, you have deliberately passed over this one point; though, on the whole, I feel that, like craftsmen finishing off each his special piece of work, you two are carrying out your disputation in excellent style. Well, he asked, do you know what is each craftsman’s special piece of work? First of all, whose proper task is it to forge brass? Can you tell? I can: a brazier’s. Well, again, whose to make pots? A potter’s. Once more, whose to slaughter and skin, and after cutting up the joints to stew and roast? A caterer’s, I said. Now, if one does one’s proper work, he said, one will do rightly? Yes, to be sure. And is it, as you say, the caterer’s proper work to cut up and skin? Did you admit this or not? I did so, I replied, but pray forgive me. It is clear then, he proceeded, that if someone slaughters the caterer and cuts him up, and then stews or roasts him, he will be doing his proper work; and if he hammers the brazier himself, and moulds the potter, he will be doing his business likewise. Poseidon! I exclaimed, there you give the finishing touch to your wisdom. I wonder if this skill could ever come to me in such manner as to be my very own. Would you recognize it, Socrates, he asked, if it came to be your own? Yes, if only you are agreeable, I replied, without a doubt. Why, he went on, do you imagine you perceive what is yours? Yes, if I take your meaning aright: for all my hopes arise from you, and end in Euthydemus here.

Section 302

Then tell me, he asked, do you count those things yours which you control and are free to use as you please? For instance, an ox or a sheep,would you count these as yours, if you were free to sell or bestow them, or sacrifice them to any god you chose? And things which you could not treat thus are not yours? Hereupon, since I knew that some brilliant result was sure to bob up from the mere turn of the questions, and as I also wanted to hear it as quickly as possible, I said: It is precisely as you say; only such things are mine. Well now, he went on: you call those things animals which have life? Yes, I said. And you admit that only those animals are yours which you are at liberty to deal with in those various ways that I mentioned just now? I admit that. Then—after a very ironical pause, as though he were pondering some great matter—he proceeded: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral Zeus? Here I suspected the discussion was approaching the point at which it eventually ended, and so I tried what desperate wriggle I could to escape from the net in which I now felt myself entangled. My answer was: I have not, Dionysodorus. What a miserable fellow you must be, he said, and no Athenian at all, if you have neither ancestral gods, nor shrines, nor anything else that denotes a gentleman! Enough, Dionysodorus; speak fair words, and don’t browbeat your pupil! For I have altars and shrines, domestic and ancestral, and everything else of the sort that other Athenians have. Then have not other Athenians, he asked, their ancestral Zeus? None of the Ionians, I replied, give him this title, neither we nor those who have left this city to settle abroad: they have an ancestral Apollo, because of Ion’s parentage. Among us the name ancestral is not given to Zeus, but that of houseward and tribal, and we have a tribal Athena. That will do, said Dionysodorus; you have, it seems, Apollo and Zeus and Athena. Certainly, I said. Then these must be your gods? he said. My ancestors, I said, and lords. Well, at least, you have them, he said: or have you not admitted they are yours? I have admitted it, I replied: what else could I do? And are not these gods animals? he asked: you know you have admitted that whatever has life is an animal. Or have these gods no life? They have, I replied. Then are they not animals? Yes, animals, I said. And those animals, he went on, you have admitted to be yours, which you are free to bestow and sell and sacrifice to any god you please. I have admitted it, I replied; there is no escape for me, Euthydemus.

Section 303

Come then, tell me straight off, he said; since you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, are you free to sell or bestow them or treat them just as you please, like the other animals? Well, Crito, here I must say I was knocked out, as it were, by the argument, and lay speechless; then Ctesippus rushed to the rescue and—Bravo, Hercules! he cried, a fine argument! Whereat Dionysodorus asked: Now, do you mean that Hercules is a bravo, or that bravo is Hercules? Ctesippus replied: Poseidon, what a frightful use of words! I give up the fight: these two are invincible. Hereupon I confess, my dear Crito, that everyone present without exception wildly applauded the argument and the two men, till they all nearly died of laughing and clapping and rejoicing. For their previous successes had been highly acclaimed one by one, but only by the devotees of Euthydemus; whereas now almost the very pillars of the Lyceum took part in the joyful acclamations in honor of the pair. For myself, I was quite disposed to admit that never had I set eyes on such clever people, and I was so utterly enthralled by their skill that I betook myself to praising and congratulating them, and said: Ah, happy pair! What amazing genius, to acquire such a great accomplishment so quickly and in so short a time! Among the many fine points in your arguments, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, there is one that stands out in particular magnificence—that you care not a jot for the multitude, or for any would-be important or famous people, but only for those of your own sort. And I am perfectly sure that there are but a few persons like yourselves who would be satisfied with these arguments: the rest of the world regard them only as arguments with which, I assure you, they would feel it a greater disgrace to refute others than to be refuted themselves. And further, there is at the same time a popular and kindly feature in your talk: when you say there is nothing either beautiful, or good, or white, and so on, and no difference of things at all, in truth you simply stitch up men’s mouths, as you expressly say you do; while as to your apparent power of stitching up your own mouths as well, this is a piece of agreeable manners that takes off any offence from your talk. But the greatest thing of all is, that this faculty of yours is such, and is so skilfully contrived, that anyone in the world may learn it of you in a very short time; this fact I perceived myself by watching Ctesippus and observing how quickly he was able to imitate you on the spot.

Section 304

Now, in so far as your accomplishment can be quickly imparted, it is excellent; but for public discussions it is not suitable: if I may advise you, beware of talking before a number of people, lest they learn the whole thing in a trice and give you no credit for it. The best thing for you is to talk to each other by yourselves, in private; failing that, if a third person is present, it must be someone who will pay you a good fee. And if you are prudent you will give this same counsel to your pupils also—that they are never to converse with anybody except you and each other. For it is the rare, Euthydemus, that is precious, while water is cheapest, though best, as Pindar said. But come, I said, see if you can admit both me and Cleinias here to your class. This, Crito, was our conversation, and after exchanging a few more words we went off. Now you must arrange to join us in taking lessons from the pair; for they say they are able to teach anyone who is willing to pay good money, and that no sort of character or age—and it is well that you especially should be told that they promise that their art is no hindrance to money-making—need deter anyone from an easy acquisition of their wisdom.

Indeed, Socrates, I love listening, and would be glad to learn from them; but I am afraid I am one of the sort who are not like Euthydemus, but who, as you described them just now, would prefer being refuted to refuting with such arguments. Now, although I feel it is absurd to admonish you, I wish nevertheless to report to you what was told me just now. Do you know, one of the people who had left your discussion came up to me as I was taking a stroll—a man who thinks himself very wise, one of those who are so clever at turning out speeches for the law-courts—and said: Crito, do you take no lessons from these wise men? No, in truth, I replied: there was such a crowd that, though I stood quite close, I was unable to catch what was said. Well, let me tell you, he said, it was something worth hearing. What was it? I asked. You would have heard the disputation of men who are the most accomplished of our day in that kind of speaking. To this I replied: Well, what did they show forth to you? Merely the sort of stuff, he said, that you may hear such people babbling about at any time—making an inconsequent ado about matters of no consequence (in some such parlance he expressed himself). Whereupon—Well, all the same, I said, philosophy is a charming thing.

Section 305

Charming is it, my dear innocent? he exclaimed: nay, a thing of no consequence. Why, had you been in that company just now, you would have been filled with shame, I fancy, for your particular friend: he was so strangely willing to lend himself to persons who care not a straw what they say, but merely fasten on any phrase that turns up. And these, as I said just now, are the heads of their profession today. But the fact is, Crito, he went on, the business itself and the people who follow it are worthless and ridiculous. Now, in my opinion, Socrates, he was not right in decrying the pursuit: he is wrong, and so is anyone else who decries it: though I must say I felt he was right in blaming the readiness to engage in discussion with such people before a large company.

Crito, these people are very odd. But I do not yet know what answer I shall give you. Of which party was he who came up to you and blamed philosophy? Was he one of those who excel in the contests of the courts, an orator; or of those who equip the orators for the fray, a composer of the speeches they deliver in their contests?

Nothing of an orator, I dare swear, nor do I think he has ever appeared in court: only he is reputed to know about the business, so they declare, and to be a clever person, and compose clever speeches.

Now I understand: it was of these people that I was just now going to speak myself. They are the persons, Crito, whom Prodicus described as the border-ground between philosopher and politician, yet they fancy that they are the wisest of all mankind, and that they not merely are but are thought so by a great many people; and accordingly they feel that none but the followers of philosophy stand in the way of their universal renown. Hence they believe that, if they can reduce the latter to a status of no esteem, the prize of victory will by common consent be awarded to them, without dispute or delay, and their claim to wisdom will be won. For they consider themselves to be in very truth the wisest, but find that, when caught in private conversation, they are cut off short by Euthydemus and his set. This conceit of their wisdom is very natural, since they regard themselves as moderately versed in philosophy, and moderately too in politics, on quite reasonable grounds: for they have dipped into both as far as they needed, and, evading all risk and struggle, are content to gather the fruits of wisdom.

Well, now, do you consider, Socrates, that there is anything in what they say? It is not to be denied that these men have some color for their statements.

Section 306

Yes, that is so, Crito; color rather than truth. It is no easy matter to persuade them that either people or things, which are between two other things and have a certain share of both, if compounded of bad and good are found to be better than the one and worse than the other; but if compounded of two good things which have not the same object, they are worse than either of their components in relation to the object to which each of them is adapted; while if they are compounded of two bad things which have not the same object, and stand between them, this is the only case where they are better than either of the two things of which they have a share. Now if philosophy and the statesman’s business are both good things, and each of them has a different object, and if these persons, partaking of both, are between them, their claims are nought; for they are inferior to both: if one is good and the other bad, they are better than the one and worse than the other: while if both are bad, in this case there would be some truth in their statement, but in any other case there is none. Now I do not think they will admit either that both these things are bad, or that one is bad and the other good: the truth is that these people, partaking of both, are inferior to both in respect of the objects for which statesmanship and philosophy are important; and while they are really in the third place they seek to be accorded the first. However, we ought to be indulgent towards their ambition and not feel annoyed, while still judging them to be what they actually are. For we should be glad of anyone, whoever he may be, who says anything that verges on good sense, and labours steadily and manfully in its pursuit.

Now I myself, Socrates, as I so often tell you, am in doubt about my sons, as to what I am to do with them. The younger is as yet quite small; but Critobulus is already grown up, and needs someone who will be of service to him. When I am in your company, the effect on me is such as to make me feel it is mere madness to have taken ever so much pains in various directions for the good of my children— first in so marrying that they should be of very good blood on their mother’s side; then in making money so that they might be as well off as possible; while I have neglected the training of the boys themselves. But when I glance at one of the persons who profess to educate people, I am dismayed, and feel that each one of them, when I consider them, is wholly unsuitable— to tell you the truth between ourselves. So that I cannot see how I am to incline the lad towards philosophy.

Section 307

My dear Crito are you not aware that in every trade the duffers are many and worthless, whereas the good workers are few and worth any price? Why, do you not hold athletics, and money-making, and rhetoric, and generalship, to be fine things?

Certainly I do, of course.

Well then, in each of these, do you not see most men making a ridiculous show at their respective tasks?

Yes, I know: what you say is perfectly true.

Then will you yourself on this account eschew all these pursuits, and not let your son have anything to do with them?

No, there would be no good reason for that, Socrates.

Then avoid at least what is wrong, Crito: let those who practise philosophy have their way, whether they are helpful or mischievous; and when you have tested the matter itself, well and truly, if you find it to be a poor affair, turn everyone you can away from it, not only your sons: but if you find it to be such as I think it is, pursue and ply it without fear, both you, as they say, and yours.

Contents — 58 sections

1. Section 383
2. Section 384
3. Section 385
4. Section 386
5. Section 387
6. Section 388
7. Section 389
8. Section 390
9. Section 391
10. Section 392
11. Section 393
12. Section 394
13. Section 395
14. Section 396
15. Section 397
16. Section 398
17. Section 399
18. Section 400
19. Section 401
20. Section 402
21. Section 403
22. Section 404
23. Section 405
24. Section 406
25. Section 407
26. Section 408
27. Section 409
28. Section 410
29. Section 411
30. Section 412
31. Section 413
32. Section 414
33. Section 415
34. Section 416
35. Section 417
36. Section 418
37. Section 419
38. Section 420
39. Section 421
40. Section 422
41. Section 423
42. Section 424
43. Section 425
44. Section 426
45. Section 427
46. Section 428
47. Section 429
48. Section 430
49. Section 431
50. Section 432
51. Section 433
52. Section 434
53. Section 435
54. Section 436
55. Section 437
56. Section 438
57. Section 439
58. Section 440

Section 383

Hermogenes. Here is Socrates; shall we take him as a partner in our discussion?

Cratylus. If you like.

Hermogenes. Cratylus, whom you see here, Socrates, says that everything has a right name of its own, which comes by nature, and that a name is not whatever people call a thing by agreement, just a piece of their own voice applied to the thing, but that there is a kind of inherent correctness in names, which is the same for all men, both Greeks and barbarians. So I ask him whether his name is in truth Cratylus, and he agrees that it is. And what is Socrates’ name? I said. Socrates, said he. Then that applies to all men, and the particular name by which we call each person is his name? And he said, Well, your name is not Hermogenes, even if all mankind call you so.

Section 384

Hermogenes. Now, though I am asking him and am exerting myself to find out what in the world he means, he does not explain himself at all; he meets me with dissimulation, claiming to have some special knowledge of his own about it which would, if he chose to speak it out clearly, make me agree entirely with him. Now if you could interpret Cratylus’s oracular speech, I should like to hear you; or rather, I should like still better to hear, if you please, what you yourself think about the correctness of names.

Socrates. Hermogenes, son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying that knowledge of high things is hard to gain; and surely knowledge of names is no small matter. Now if I had attended Prodicus’s fifty-drachma course of lectures, after which, as he himself says, a man has a complete education on this subject, there would be nothing to hinder your learning the truth about the correctness of names at once; but I have heard only the one-drachma course, and so I do not know what the truth is about such matters. However, I am ready to join you and Cratylus in looking for it. But as for his saying that Hermogenes is not truly your name, I suspect he is making fun of you; for perhaps he thinks that you want to make money and fail every time. But, as I said, it is difficult to know such things. We must join forces and try to find out whether you are right, or Cratylus.

Hermogenes. For my part, Socrates, I have often talked with Cratylus and many others, and cannot come to the conclusion that there is any correctness of names other than convention and agreement. For it seems to me that whatever name you give to a thing is its right name; and if you give up that name and change it for another, the later name is no less correct than the earlier, just as we change the names of our servants; for I think no name belongs to any particular thing by nature, but only by the habit and custom of those who employ it and who established the usage. But if this is not the case, I am ready to hear and to learn from Cratylus or anyone else.

Section 385

Socrates. It may be that you are right, Hermogenes; but let us see. Whatever name we decide to give each particular thing is its name?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Whether the giver be a private person or a state?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Well, then, suppose I give a name to some thing or other, designating, for instance, that which we now call man as horse and that which we now call horse as man, will the real name of the same thing be man for the public and horse for me individually, and in the other case horse for the public and man for me individually? Is that your meaning?

Hermogenes. Yes, that is my opinion.

Socrates. Now answer this question. Is there anything which you call speaking the truth and speaking falsehood?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Then there would be true speech and false speech?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then that speech which says things as they are is true, and that which says them as they are not is false?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. It is possible, then, to say in speech that which is and that which is not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. But is true speech true only as a whole, and are its parts untrue?

Hermogenes. No, its parts also are true.

Socrates. Are the large parts true, but not the small ones, or are all true?

Hermogenes. All, in my opinion.

Socrates. Is there, then, anything which you say is a smaller part of speech than a name?

Hermogenes. No, that is the smallest.

Socrates. And the name is spoken as a part of the true speech?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Then it is, according to you, true.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And a part of false speech is false, is it not?

Hermogenes. It is.

Socrates. Then it is possible to utter either a false or a true name, since one may utter speech that is either true or false?

Hermogenes. Yes, of course.

Socrates. Then whatever each particular person says is the name of anything, that is its name for that person?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And whatever the number of names anyone says a thing has, it will really have that number at the time when he says it?

Hermogenes. Yes, Socrates, for I cannot conceive of any other kind of correctness in names than this; I may call a thing by one name, which I gave, and you by another, which you gave. And in the same way, I see that states have their own different names for the same things, and Greeks differ from other Greeks and from barbarians in their use of names.

Section 386

Socrates. Now, Hermogenes, let us see. Do you think this is true of the real things, that their reality is a separate one for each person, as Protagoras said with his doctrine that man is the measure of all things—that things are to me such as they seem to me, and to you such as they seem to you—or do you think things have some fixed reality of their own?

Hermogenes. It has sometimes happened to me, Socrates, to be so perplexed that I have been carried away even into this doctrine of Protagoras; but I do not at all believe he is right.

Socrates. Well, have you ever been carried away so far as not to believe at all that any man is bad?

Hermogenes. Lord, no; but I have often been carried away into the belief that certain men, and a good many of them, are very bad.

Socrates. Well, did you never think any were very good?

Hermogenes. Very few.

Socrates. But you did think them so?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And what is your idea about that? Are the very good very wise and the very bad very foolish?

Hermogenes. Yes, that is my opinion.

Socrates. Now if Protagoras is right and the truth is as he says, that all things are to each person as they seem to him, is it possible for some of us to be wise and some foolish?

Hermogenes. No, it is not.

Socrates. And you are, I imagine, strongly of the opinion that if wisdom and folly exist, it is quite impossible that Protagoras is right, for one man would not in reality be at all wiser than another if whatever seems to each person is really true to him.

Hermogenes. Quite right.

Socrates. But neither do you believe with Euthydemus that all things belong equally to all men at the same time and perpetually, for on this assumption also some could not be good and others bad, if virtue and its opposite were always equally possessed by all.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Then if neither all things belong equally to all men at the same time and perpetually nor each thing to each man individually, it is clear that things have some fixed reality of their own, not in relation to us nor caused by us; they do not vary, swaying one way and another in accordance with our fancy, but exist of themselves in relation to their own reality imposed by nature.

Hermogenes. I think, Socrates, that is the case.

Socrates. Can things themselves, then, possess such a nature as this, and that of their actions be different? Or are not actions also a class of realities?

Hermogenes. Certainly they are.

Section 387

Socrates. Then actions also are performed according to their own nature, not according to our opinion. For instance, if we undertake to cut anything, ought we to cut it as we wish, and with whatever instrument we wish, or shall we, if we are willing to cut each thing in accordance with the nature of cutting and being cut, and with the natural instrument, succeed in cutting it, and do it rightly, whereas if we try to do it contrary to nature we shall fail and accomplish nothing?

Hermogenes. I think the way is as you suggest.

Socrates. Then, too, if we undertake to burn anything, we must burn not according to every opinion, but according to the right one? And that is as each thing naturally burns or is burned and with the natural instrument?

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. And all other actions are to be performed In like manner?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And speaking is an action, is it not?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Then if a man speaks as he fancies he ought to speak, will he speak rightly, or will he succeed in speaking if he speaks in the way and with the instrument in which and with which it is natural for us to speak and for things to be spoken, whereas otherwise he will fail and accomplish nothing?

Hermogenes. I think the way you suggest is the right one.

Socrates. Now naming is a part of speaking, for in naming I suppose people utter speech.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then is not naming also a kind of action, if speaking is a kind of action concerned with things?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. But we saw that actions are not merely relative to us, but possess a separate nature of their own?

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Then in naming also, if we are to be consistent with our previous conclusions, we cannot follow our own will, but the way and the instrument which the nature of things prescribes must be employed, must they not? And if we pursue this course we shall be successful in our naming, but otherwise we shall fail.

Hermogenes. I think you are right.

Socrates. And again, what has to be cut, we said, has to be cut with something.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And what has to be woven, has to be woven with something, and what has to be bored, has to be bored with something?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And then what has to be named, has to be named with something?

Section 388

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. And what is that with which we have to bore?

Hermogenes. A borer.

Socrates. And that with which we weave?

Hermogenes. A shuttle.

Socrates. And that with which we must name?

Hermogenes. A name.

Socrates. Right. A name also, then, is a kind of instrument.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then if I were to ask What instrument is the shuttle? Is it not that with which we weave?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And what do we do when we weave? Do we not separate the mingled threads of warp and woof?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And you could give a similar answer about the borer and the rest, could you not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And can you say something of the same kind about a name? The name being an instrument, what do we do with it when we name?

Hermogenes. I cannot tell.

Socrates. Do we not teach one another something, and separate things according to their natures?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. A name is, then, an instrument of teaching and of separating reality, as a shuttle is an instrument of separating the web?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. But the shuttle is an instrument of weaving?

Hermogenes. Of course.

Socrates. The weaver, then, will use the shuttle well, and well means like a weaver; and a teacher will use a name well, and well means like a teacher.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Whose work will the weaver use well when he uses the shuttle?

Hermogenes. The carpenter’s.

Socrates. Is every one a carpenter, or he who has the skill?

Hermogenes. He who has the skill.

Socrates. And whose work will the hole-maker use when he uses the borer?

Hermogenes. The smith’s.

Socrates. And is every one a smith, or he who has the skill?

Hermogenes. He who has the skill.

Socrates. And whose work will the teacher use when he uses the name?

Hermogenes. I cannot tell that, either.

Socrates. And can you not tell this, either, who gives us the names we use?

Hermogenes. No.

Socrates. Do you not think it is the law that gives them to us?

Hermogenes. Very likely.

Socrates. Then the teacher, when he uses a name, will be using the work of a lawgiver?

Hermogenes. I think so.

Socrates. Do you think every man is a lawgiver, or only he who has the skill?

Hermogenes. He who has the skill.

Section 389

Socrates. Then it is not for every man, Hermogenes, to give names, but for him who may be called the name-maker; and he, it appears, is the lawgiver, who is of all the artisans among men the rarest.

Hermogenes. So it appears.

Socrates. See now what the lawgiver has in view in giving names. Look at it in the light of what has gone before. What has the carpenter in view when he makes a shuttle? Is it not something the nature of which is to weave?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Well, then, if the shuttle breaks while he making it, will he make another with his mind fixed on that which is broken, or on that form with reference to which he was making the one which he broke?

Hermogenes. On that form, in my opinion.

Socrates. Then we should very properly call that the absolute or real shuttle?

Hermogenes. Yes, I think so.

Socrates. Then whenever he has to make a shuttle for a light or a thick garment, or for one of linen or of wool or of any kind whatsoever, all of them must contain the form or ideal of shuttle, and in each of his products he must embody the nature which is naturally best for each?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And the same applies to all other instruments. The artisan must discover the instrument naturally fitted for each purpose and must embody that in the material of which he makes the instrument, not in accordance with his own will, but in accordance with its nature. He must, it appears, know how to embody in the iron the borer fitted by nature for each special use.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And he must embody in the wood the shuttle fitted by nature for each kind of weaving.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. For each kind of shuttle is, it appears, fitted by nature for its particular kind of weaving, and the like is true of other instruments.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Then, my dear friend, must not the law-giver also know how to embody in the sounds and syllables that name which is fitted by nature for each object? Must he not make and give all his names with his eye fixed upon the absolute or ideal name, if he is to be an authoritative giver of names? And if different lawgivers do not embody it in the same syllables, we must not forget this ideal name on that account; for different smiths do not embody the form in the same iron, though making the same instrument for the same purpose, but so long as they reproduce the same ideal, though it be in different iron, still the instrument is as it should be, whether it be made here or in foreign lands, is it not?

Section 390

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. On this basis, then, you will judge the law-giver, whether he be here or in a foreign land, so long as he gives to each thing the proper form of the name, in whatsoever syllables, to be no worse lawgiver, whether here or anywhere else, will you not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Now who is likely to know whether the proper form of shuttle is embodied in any piece of wood? The carpenter who made it, or the weaver who is to use it ?

Hermogenes. Probably the one who is to use it, Socrates.

Socrates. Then who is to use the work of the lyre-maker? Is not he the man who would know best how to superintend the making of the lyre and would also know whether it is well made or not when it is finished?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Who is he?

Hermogenes. The lyre-player.

Socrates. And who would know best about the work of the ship-builder?

Hermogenes. The navigator.

Socrates. And who can best superintend the work of the lawgiver and judge of it when it is finished, both here and in foreign countries? The user, is it not?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And is not this he who knows how to ask questions?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And the same one knows also how to make replies?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And the man who knows how to ask and answer questions you call a dialectician?

Hermogenes. Yes, that is what I call him.

Socrates. The work of the carpenter, then, is to make a rudder under the supervision of the steersman, if he rudder is to be a good one.

Hermogenes. Evidently.

Socrates. And the work of the lawgiver, as it seems, is to make a name, with the dialectician as his supervisor, if names are to be well given.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Then, Hermogenes, the giving of names can hardly be, as you imagine, a trifling matter, or a task for trifling or casual persons: and Cratylus is right in saying that names belong to things by nature and that not every one is an artisan of names, but only he who keeps in view the name which belongs by nature to each particular thing and is able to embody its form in the letters and syllables.

Section 391

Hermogenes. I do not know how to answer you, Socrates; nevertheless it is not easy to change my conviction suddenly. I think you would be more likely to convince me, if you were to show me just what it is that you say is the natural correctness of names.

Socrates. I, my dear Hermogenes, do not say that there is any. You forget what I said a while ago, that I did not know, but would join you in looking for the truth. And now, as we are looking, you and I, we already see one thing we did not know before, that names do possess a certain natural correctness, and that not every man knows how to give a name well to anything whatsoever. Is not that true?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then our next task is to try to find out, if you care to know about it, what kind of correctness that is which belongs to names.

Hermogenes. To be sure I care to know.

Socrates. Then investigate.

Hermogenes. How shall I investigate?

Socrates. The best way to investigate, my friend, is with the help of those who know; and you make sure of their favour by paying them money. They are the sophists, of Protagoras altogether, should desire what is said in such a Truth, as if it were of any value.

Socrates. Then if you do not like that, you ought to learn from Homer and the other poets.

Hermogenes. Why, Socrates, what does Homer say about names, and where?

Socrates. In many passages; but chiefly and most admirably in those in which he distinguishes between the names by which gods and men call the same things. Do you not think he gives in those passages great and wonderful information about the correctness of names? For clearly the gods call things by the names that are naturally right. Do you not think so?

Hermogenes. Of course I know that if they call things, they call them rightly. But what are these instances to which you refer?

Socrates. Do you not know that he says about the river in Troy which had the single combat with Hephaestus,whom the gods call Xanthus, but men call Scamander?

Hermogenes. Oh yes.

Section 392

Socrates. Well, do you not think this is a grand thing to know, that the name of that river is rightly Xanthus, rather than Scamander? Or, if you like, do you think it is a slight thing to learn about the bird which he says gods call chalcis, but men call cymindis, that it is much more correct for the same bird to be called chalcis than cymindis? Or to learn that the hill men call Batieia is called by the gods Myrina’s tomb, and many other such statements by Homer and other poets? But perhaps these matters are too high for us to understand; it is, I think, more within human power to investigate the names Scamandrius and Astyanax, and understand what kind of correctness he ascribes to these, which he says are the names of Hector’s son. You recall, of course: the lines which contain the words to which I refer.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Which of the names of the boy do you imagine Homer thought was more correct, Astyanax or Scamandrius?

Hermogenes. I cannot say.

Socrates. Look at it in this way: suppose you were asked, Do the wise or the unwise give names more correctly?

Hermogenes. The wise, obviously, I should say.

Socrates. And do you think the women or the men of a city, regarded as a class in general, are the wiser?

Hermogenes. The men.

Socrates. And do you not know that Homer says the child of Hector was called Astyanax by the men of Troy; so he must have been called Scamandrius by the women, since the men called him Astyanax?

Hermogenes. Yes, probably.

Socrates. And Homer too thought the Trojan men were wiser than the women?

Hermogenes. I suppose he did.

Socrates. Then he thought Astyanax was more rightly the boy’s name than Scamandrius?

Hermogenes. So it appears.

Socrates. Let us, then, consider the reason for this. Does he not himself indicate the reason most admirably? For he says— He alone defended their city and long walls. Therefore, as it seems, it is right to call the son of the defender Astyanax (Lord of the city), ruler of that which his father, as Homer says, defended.

Hermogenes. That is clear to me.

Socrates. Indeed? I do not yet understand about it myself, Hermogenes. Do you?

Hermogenes. No, by Zeus, I do not.

Section 393

Socrates. But, my good friend, did not Homer himself also give Hector his name?

Hermogenes. Why do you ask that?

Socrates. Because that name seems to me similar to Astyanax, and both names seem to be Greek. For lord (ἄναξ) and holder (ἕκτωρ) mean nearly the same thing, indicating that they are names of a king; for surely a man is holder of that of which he is lord; for it is clear that he rules it and possesses it and holds it. Or does it seem to you that there is nothing in what I am saying, and am I wrong in imagining that I have found a clue to Homer’s opinion about the correctness of names?

Hermogenes. No, by Zeus, you are not wrong, in my opinion; I think perhaps you have found a clue.

Socrates. It is right, I think, to call a lion’s offspring a lion and a horse’s offspring a horse. I am not speaking of prodigies, such as the birth of some other kind of creature from a horse, but of the natural offspring of each species after its kind. If a horse, contrary to nature, should bring forth a calf, the natural offspring of a cow, it should be called a calf, not a colt, nor if any offspring that is not human should be born from a human being, should that other offspring be called a human being; and the same applies to trees and all the rest. Do you not agree?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Good; but keep watch of me, and do not let me trick you; for by the same argument any offspring of a king should be called a king; and whether the same meaning is expressed in one set of syllables or another makes no difference; and if a letter is added or subtracted, that does not matter either, so long as the essence of the thing named remains in force and is made plain in the name.

Hermogenes. What do you mean?

Socrates. Something quite simple. For instance, when we speak of the letters of the alphabet, you know, we speak their names, not merely the letters themselves, except in the case of four, ε, υ, ο, ω. We make names for all the other vowels and consonants by adding other letters to them; and so long as we include the letter in question and make its force plain, we may properly call it by that name, and that will designate it for us. Take beta, for instance, The addition of e(η), t(τ), a(α) does no harm and does not prevent the whole name from making clear the nature of that letter which the lawgiver wished to designate; he knew so well how to give names to letters.

Hermogenes. I think you are right.

Section 394

Socrates. Does not the same reasoning apply to a king? A king’s son will probably be a king, a good man’s good, a handsome man’s handsome, and so forth; the offspring of each class will be of the same class, unless some unnatural birth takes place; so they should be called by the same names. But variety in the syllables is admissible, so that names which are the same appear different to the uninitiated, just as the physicians’ drugs, when prepared with various colors and perfumes, seem different to us, though they are the same, but to the physician, who considers only their medicinal value, they seem the same, and he is not confused by the additions. So perhaps the man who knows about names considers their value and is not confused if some letter is added, transposed, or subtracted, or even if the force of the name is expressed in entirely different letters. So, for instance, in the names we were just discussing, Astyanax and Hector, none of the letters is the same, except T, but nevertheless they have the same meaning. And what letters has Archepolis (ruler of the city) in common with them? Yet it means the same thing; and there are many other names which mean simply king. Others again mean general, such as Agis (leader), Polemarchus (war-lord), and Eupolemus (good warrior); and others indicate physicians, as Iatrocles (famous physician) and Acesimbrotus (healer of mortals); and we might perhaps find many others which differ in syllables and letters, but express the same meaning. Do you think that is true, or not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. To those, then, who are born in accordance with nature the same names should be given.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And how about those who are born contrary to nature as prodigies? For instance, when an impious son is born to a good and pious man, ought he not, as in our former example when a mare brought forth a calf, to have the designation of the class to which he belongs, instead of that of his parent?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then the impious son of a pious father ought to receive the name of his class.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Not Theophilus (beloved of God) or Mnesitheus (mindful of God) or anything of that sort; but something of opposite meaning, if names are correct.

Hermogenes. Most assuredly, Socrates.

Socrates. As the name of Orestes (mountain man) is undoubtedly correct, Hermogenes, whether it was given him by chance or by some poet who indicated by the name the fierceness, rudeness, and mountain-wildness of his nature.

Section 395

Hermogenes. So it seems, Socrates.

Socrates. And his father’s name also appears to be in accordance with nature.

Hermogenes. It seems so.

Socrates. Yes, for Agamemnon (admirable for remaining) is one who would resolve to toil to the end and to endure, putting the finish upon his resolution by virtue. And a proof of this is his long retention of the host at Troy and his endurance. So the name Agamemnon denotes that this man is admirable for remaining. And so, too, the name of Atreus is likely to be correct; for his murder of Chrysippus and the cruelty of his acts to Thyestes are all damaging and ruinous (ἀτηρά) to his virtue. Now the form of his name is slightly deflected and hidden, so that it does not make the man’s nature plain to every one; but to those who understand about names it makes the meaning of Atreus plain enough; for indeed in view of his stubbornness (ἀτειρές) and fearlessness (ἄτρεστον) and ruinous acts (ἀτηρά) the name is correctly given to him on every ground. And I think Pelops also has a fitting name; for this name means that he who sees only what is near deserves this designation.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Socrates. Why it is said of him that in murdering Myrtilus he was quite unable to forecast or foresee the ultimate effects upon his whole race, and all the misery with which it was overwhelmed, because he saw only the near at hand and the immediate— that is to say, πέλας (near)—in his eagerness to win by all means the hand of Hippodameia. And any one would think the name of Tantalus was given rightly and in accordance with nature, if the stories about him are true.

Hermogenes. What are the stories?

Socrates. The many terrible misfortunes that happened to him both in his life, the last of which was the utter overthrow of his country, and in Hades, after his death, the balancing (ταλαντεία) of the stone above his head, in wonderful agreement with his name; and it seems exactly as if someone who wished to call him most wretched (ταλάντατον) disguised the name and said Tantalus instead; in some such way as that chance seems to have affected his name in the legend.

Section 396

Socrates. And his father also, who is said to be Zeus, appears to have a very excellent name, but it is not easy to understand; for the name of Zeus is exactly like a sentence; we divide it into two parts, and some of us use one part, others the other; for some call him Zena (Ζῆνα), and others Dia (Δία); but the two in combination express the nature of the god, which is just what we said a name should be able to do. For certainly no one is so much the author of life (ζῆν) for us and all others as the ruler and king of all. Thus this god is correctly named, through whom (δι’ ὅν) all living beings have the gift of life (ζῆν). But, as I say, the name is divided, though it is one name, into the two parts, Dia and Zena. And it might seem, at first hearing, highly irreverent to call him the son of Cronus and reasonable to say that Zeus is the offspring of some great intellect; and so he is, for κόρος (for Κρόνος) signifies not child, but the purity (καθαρόν) and unblemished nature of his mind. And Cronus, according to tradition, is the son of Uranus; but the upward gaze is rightly called by the name urania (οὐρανία), looking at the things above (ὁρῶ τὰ ἄνω), and the astronomers say, Hermogenes, that from this looking people acquire a pure mind, and Uranus is correctly named. If I remembered the genealogy of Hesiod and the still earlier ancestors of the gods he mentions, I would have gone on examining the correctness of their names until I had made a complete trial whether this wisdom which has suddenly come to me, I know not whence, will fail or not.

Hermogenes. Indeed, Socrates, you do seem to me to be uttering oracles, exactly like an inspired prophet.

Socrates. Yes, Hermogenes, and I am convinced that the inspiration came to me from Euthyphro the Prospaltian. For I was with him and listening to him a long time early this morning. So he must have been inspired, and he not only filled my ears but took possession of my soul with his superhuman wisdom. So I think this is our duty: we ought today to make use of this wisdom and finish the investigation of names, but tomorrow, if the rest of you agree, we will conjure it away and purify ourselves, when we have found some one, whether priest or sophist, who is skilled in that kind of purifying.

Section 397

Hermogenes. I agree, for I should be very glad to hear the rest of the talk about names.

Socrates. Very well. Then since we have outlined a general plan of investigation, where shall we begin, that we may discover whether the names themselves will bear witness that they are not at all distributed at haphazard, but have a certain correctness? Now the names of heroes and men might perhaps prove deceptive; for they are often given because they were names of ancestors, and in some cases, as we said in the beginning, they are quite inappropriate; many, too, are given as the expression of a prayer, such as Eutychides (fortunate), Sosias (saviour), Theophilus (beloved of God), and many others. I think we had better disregard such as these; but we are most likely to find the correct names in the nature of the eternal and absolute; for there the names ought to have been given with the greatest care, and perhaps some of them were given by a power more divine than is that of men.

Hermogenes. I think you are right, Socrates.

Socrates. Then is it not proper to begin with the gods and see how the gods are rightly called by that name?

Hermogenes. That is reasonable.

Socrates. Something of this sort, then, is what I suspect: I think the earliest men in Greece believed only in those gods in whom many foreigners believe today— sun, moon, earth, stars, and sky. They saw that all these were always moving in their courses and running, and so they called them gods (θεούς) from this running (θεῖν) nature; then afterwards, when they gained knowledge of the other gods, they called them all by the same name. Is that likely to be true, or not?

Hermogenes. Yes, very likely.

Socrates. What shall we consider next?

Hermogenes. Spirits, obviously.

Socrates. Hermogenes, what does the name spirits really mean? See if you think there is anything in what I am going to say.

Hermogenes. Go on and say it.

Socrates. Do you remember who Hesiod says the spirits are?

Hermogenes. I do not recall it.

Socrates. Nor that he says a golden race was the first race of men to be born?

Hermogenes. Yes, I do know that.

Section 398

Socrates. Well, he says of it:But since Fate has covered up this race, They are called holy spirits under the earth,Noble, averters of evil, guardians of mortal men.

Hermogenes. What of that?

Socrates. Why, I think he means that the golden race was not made of gold, but was good and beautiful. And I regard it as a proof of this that he further says we are the iron race.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Don’t you suppose that if anyone of our day is good, Hesiod would say he was of that golden race?

Hermogenes. Quite likely.

Socrates. But the good are the wise, are they not?

Hermogenes. Yes, they are the wise.

Socrates. This, then, I think, is what he certainly means to say of the spirits: because they were wise and knowing (δαήμονες) he called them spirits (δαίμονες) and in the old form of our language the two words are the same. Now he and all the other poets are right, who say that when a good man dies he has a great portion and honor among the dead, and becomes a spirit, a name which is in accordance with the other name of wisdom. And so I assert that every good man, whether living or dead, is of spiritual nature, and is rightly called a spirit.

Hermogenes. And I, Socrates, believe I quite agree with you in that. But what is the word hero?

Socrates. That is easy to understand; for the name has been but slightly changed, and indicates their origin from love (ἔρως).

Hermogenes. What do you mean?

Socrates. Why, they were all born because a god fell in love with a mortal woman, or a mortal man with a goddess. Now if you consider the word hero also in the old Attic pronunciation, you will understand better; for that will show you that it has been only slightly altered from the name of love (Eros), the source from which the heroes spring, to make a name for them. And either this is the reason why they are called heroes, or it is because they were wise and clever orators and dialecticians, able to ask questions (ἐρωτᾶν), for εἴρειν is the same as λέγειν (speak). Therefore, when their name is spoken in the Attic dialect, which I was mentioning just now, the heroes turn out to be orators and askers of questions, so that the heroic race proves to be a race of orators and sophists. That is easy to understand, but the case of men, and the reason why they are called men (ἄνθρωποι), is more difficult. Can you tell me what it is?

Hermogenes. No, my friend, I cannot; and even if I might perhaps find out, I shall not try, because I think you are more likely to find out than I am.

Section 399

Socrates. You have faith in the inspiration of Euthyphro, it seems.

Hermogenes. Evidently.

Socrates. And you are right in having it; for just at this very moment I think I have had a clever thought, and if I am not careful, before the day is over I am likely to be wiser than I ought to be. So pay attention. First we must remember in regard to names that we often put in or take out letters, making the names different from the meaning we intend, and we change the accent. Take, for instance, Διὶ φίλος; to change this from a phrase to a name, we took out the second iota and pronounced the middle syllable with the grave instead of the acute accent (Diphilus). In other instances, on the contrary, we insert letters and pronounce grave accents as acute.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Now it appears to me that the name of men (ἄνθρωπος) underwent a change of that sort. It was a phrase, but became a noun when one letter, alpha, was removed and the accent of the last syllable was dropped.

Hermogenes. What do you mean?

Socrates. I will tell you. The name man (ἄνθρωπος) indicates that the other animals do not examine, or consider, or look up at (ἀναθρεῖ) any of the things that they see, but man has no sooner seen—that is, ὄπωπε—than he looks up at and considers that which he has seen. Therefore of all the animals man alone is rightly called man (ἄνθρωπος), because he looks up at (ἀναθρεῖ) what he has seen (ὄπωπε).

Hermogenes. Of course. May I ask you about the next word I should like to have explained?

Socrates. Certainly.

Hermogenes. It seems to me to come naturally next after those you have discussed. We speak of man’s soul and body.

Socrates. Yes, of course.

Hermogenes. Let us try to analyze these, as we did the previous words.

Socrates. You mean consider soul (ψυχή) and see why it is properly called by that name, and likewise body (σῶμα)?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. To speak on the spur of the moment, I think those who gave the soul its name had something of this sort in mind: they thought when it was present in the body it was the cause of its living, giving it the power to breathe and reviving it (ἀναψῦχον), and when this revivifying force fails, the body perishes and comes to an end therefore, I think, they called it ψυχή. But—please keep still a moment. I fancy I see something which will carry more conviction to Euthyphro and his followers; for I think they would despise this attempt and would consider it cheap talk. Now see if you like the new one.

Section 400

Hermogenes. I am listening.

Socrates. Do you think there is anything which holds and carries the whole nature of the body, so that it lives and moves, except the soul?

Hermogenes. No; nothing.

Socrates. Well, and do you not believe the doctrine of Anaxagoras, that it is mind or soul which orders and holds the nature of all things?

Hermogenes. I do.

Socrates. Then there would be an admirable fitness in calling that power which carries and holds (ἔχει) nature (φύσιν) φυσέχη and this may be refined and pronounced ψυχή.

Hermogenes. Certainly; and I think this is a more scientific explanation than the other.

Socrates. Yes, it is. But it seems actually absurd that the name was given with such truth.

Hermogenes. Now what shall we say about the next word?

Socrates. You mean body (σῶμα)?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. I think this admits of many explanations, if a little, even very little, change is made; for some say it is the tomb (σῆμα) of the soul, their notion being that the soul is buried in the present life; and again, because by its means the soul gives any signs which it gives, it is for this reason also properly called sign (σῆμα). But I think it most likely that the Orphic poets gave this name, with the idea that the soul is undergoing punishment for something; they think it has the body as an enclosure to keep it safe, like a prison, and this is, as the name itself denotes, the safe (σῶμα) for the soul, until the penalty is paid, and not even a letter needs to be changed.

Hermogenes. I think, Socrates, enough has been said about these words; but might we not consider the names of the gods in the same way in which you were speaking about that of Zeus a few minutes ago, and see what kind of correctness there is in them?

Socrates. By Zeus, Hermogenes, we, if we are sensible, must recognize that there is one most excellent kind, since of the gods we know nothing, neither of them nor of their names, whatever they may be, by which they call themselves, for it is clear that they use the true names. But there is a second kind of correctness, that we call them, as is customary in prayers, by whatever names and patronymics are pleasing to them, since we know no other. Now I think that is an excellent custom.

Section 401

Socrates. So, if you like, let us first make a kind of announcement to the gods, saying that we are not going to investigate about them—for we do not claim to be able to do that—but about men, and let us inquire what thought men had in giving them their names; for in that there is no impiety.

Hermogenes. I think, Socrates, you are right; let us do as you say.

Socrates. Shall we, then, begin with Hestia, according to custom?

Hermogenes. That is the proper thing.

Socrates. Then what would you say the man had in mind who gave Hestia her name?

Hermogenes. By Zeus, I think that is no more easy question than the other.

Socrates. At any rate, my dear Hermogenes, the first men who gave names were no ordinary persons, but high thinkers and great talkers.

Hermogenes. What then?

Socrates. I am sure the names were given by men of that kind; and if foreign names are examined, the meaning of each of them is equally evident. Take, for instance, that which we call οὐσία (reality, essence); some people call it ἐσσία, and still others ὠσία. First, then, in connection with the second of these forms, it is reasonable that the essence of things be called Hestia; and moreover, because we ourselves say of that which partakes of reality it is, (ἔστιν), the name Hestia would be correct in this connection also; for apparently we also called οὐσία (reality) ἐσσία in ancient times. And besides, if you consider it in connection with sacrifices, you would come to the conclusion that those who established them understood the name in that way; for those who called the essence of things ἐσσία would naturally sacrifice to Hestia first of all the gods. Those on the other hand, who say ὠσία would agree, well enough with Heracleitus that all things move and nothing remains still. So they would say the cause and ruler of things was the pushing power (ὠθοῦν), wherefore it had been rightly named ὠσία. But enough of this, considering that we know nothing. After Hestia it is right to consider Rhea and Cronus. The name of Cronus, however, has already been discussed. But perhaps I am talking nonsense.

Hermogenes. Why, Socrates?

Socrates. My friend, I have thought of a swarm of wisdom.

Hermogenes. What is it?

Section 402

Socrates. It sounds absurd, but I think there is some probability in it.

Hermogenes. What is this probability?

Socrates. I seem to have a vision of Heracleitus saying some ancient words of wisdom as old as the reign of Cronus and Rhea, which Homer said too.

Hermogenes. What do you mean by that?

Socrates. Heracleitus says, you know, that all things move and nothing remains still, and he likens the universe to the current of a river, saying that you cannot step twice into the same stream.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Well, don’t you think he who gave to the ancestors of the other gods the names Rhea and Cronus had the same thought as Heracleitus? Do you think he gave both of them the names of streams merely by chance? Just so Homer, too, says—Ocean the origin of the gods, and their mother Tethys; and I believe Hesiod says that also. Orpheus, too, says—Fair-flowing Ocean was the first to marry, and he wedded his sister Tethys, daughter of his mother.See how they agree with each other and all tend towards the doctrine of Heracleitus.

Hermogenes. I think there is something in what you say, Socrates; but I do not know what the name of Tethys means.

Socrates. Why, the name itself almost tells that it is the name of a spring somewhat disguised; for that which is strained (διαττώμενον) and filtered (ἠθούμενον) represents a spring, and the name Tethys is compounded of those two words.

Hermogenes. That is very neat, Socrates.

Socrates. Of course it is. But what comes next? Zeus we discussed before.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Let us, then, speak of his brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, including also the other name of the latter.

Hermogenes. By all means.

Socrates. I think Poseidon’s name was given by him who first applied it, because the power the sea restrained him as he was walking and hindered his advance; it acted as a bond (δεσμός) of his feet (ποδῶν). So he called the lord of this power Poseidon, regarding him as a foot-bond (ποσί-δεσμον). The e is inserted perhaps for euphony.

Section 403

Socrates. But possibly that may not be right; possibly two lambdas were originally pronounced instead of the sigma, because the god knew (εἰδότος) many (πολλά) things. Or it may be that from his shaking he was called the Shaker (ὁ σείων), and the pi and delta are additions. As for Pluto, he was so named as the giver of wealth (πλοῦτος), because wealth comes up from below out of the earth. And Hades—I fancy most people think that this is a name of the Invisible (ἀειδής), so they are afraid and call him Pluto.

Hermogenes. And what do you think yourself, Socrates?

Socrates. I think people have many false notions about the power of this god, and are unduly afraid of him. They are afraid because when we are once dead we remain in his realm for ever, and they are also terrified because the soul goes to him without the covering of the body. But I think all these facts, and the office and the name of the god, point in the same direction.

Hermogenes. How so?

Socrates. I will tell you my own view. Please answer this question: Which is the stronger bond upon any living being to keep him in any one place, desire, or compulsion?

Hermogenes. Desire, Socrates, is much stronger.

Socrates. Then do you not believe there would be many fugitives from Hades, if he did not bind with the strongest bond those who go to him there?

Hermogenes. Of course there would.

Socrates. Apparently, then, if he binds them with the strongest bond, he binds them by some kind of desire, not by compulsion.

Hermogenes. Yes, that is plain.

Socrates. There are many desires, are there not?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Then he binds with the desire which is the strongest of all, if he is to restrain them with the strongest bond.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And is there any desire stronger than the thought of being made a better man by association with some one?

Hermogenes. No, by Zeus, Socrates, there certainly is not.

Socrates. Then, Hermogenes, we must believe that this is the reason why no one has been willing to come away from that other world, not even the Sirens, but they and all others have been overcome by his enchantments, so beautiful, as it appears, are the words which Hades has the power to speak; and from this point of view this god is a perfect sophist and a great benefactor of those in his realm, he who also bestows such great blessings upon us who are on earth; such abundance surrounds him there below, and for this reason he is called Pluto.

Section 404

Socrates. Then, too, he refuses to consort with men while they have bodies, but only accepts their society when the soul is pure of all the evils and desires of the body. Do you not think this shows him to be a philosopher and to understand perfectly that under these conditions he could restrain them by binding them with the desire of virtue, but that so long as they are infected with the unrest and madness of the body, not even his father Cronus could hold them to himself, though he bound them with his famous chains?

Hermogenes. There seems to be something in that, Socrates.

Socrates. And the name Hades is not in the least derived from the invisible (ἀειδές), but far more probably from knowing (εἰδέναι) all noble things, and for that reason he was called Hades by the lawgiver.

Hermogenes. Very well; what shall we say of Demeter, Hera, Apollo, Athena, Hephaestus, Ares, and the other gods

Socrates. Demeter appears to have been called Demeter, because like a mother (μήτηρ) she gives the gift of food, and Hera is a lovely one (ἐρατή), as indeed, Zeus is said to have married her for love. But perhaps the lawgiver had natural phenomena in mind, and called her Hera (Ἥρα) as a disguise for ἀήρ (air), putting the beginning at the end. You would understand, if you were to repeat the name Hera over and over. And Pherephatta!—How many people fear this name, and also Apollo! I imagine it is because they do not know about correctness of names. You see they change the name to Phersephone and its aspect frightens them. But really the name indicates that the goddess is wise; for since things are in motion (φερόμενα), that which grasps (ἐφαπτόμενον) and touches (ἐπαφῶν) and is able to follow them is wisdom. Pherepapha, or something of that sort, would therefore be the correct name of the goddess, because she is wise and touches that which is in motion (ἐπαφὴ τοῦ φερομένου)—and this is the reason why Hades, who is wise, consorts with her, because she is wise—but people have altered her name, attaching more importance to euphony than to truth, and they call her Pherephatta. Likewise in the case of Apollo, as I say, many people are afraid because of the name of the god, thinking that it has some terrible meaning. Have you not noticed that?

Hermogenes. Certainly; what you say is true.

Socrates. But really the name is admirably appropriate to the power of the god.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Section 405

Socrates. I will try to tell you what I think about it; for no single name could more aptly indicate the four functions of the god, touching upon them all and in a manner declaring his power in music, prophecy, medicine, and archery.

Hermogenes. Go on; you seem to imply that it is a remarkable name.

Socrates. His name and nature are in harmony; you see he is a musical god. For in the first place, purification and purgations used in medicine and in soothsaying, and fumigations with medicinal and magic drugs, and the baths and sprinklings connected with that sort of thing all have the single function of making a man pure in body and soul, do they not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. But this is the god who purifies and washes away (ἀπαλοούων) and delivers (ἀπολύων) from such evils, is he not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. With reference, then, to his acts of delivering and his washings, as being the physician of such diseases, he might properly be called Apoluon (ἀπαλούων, the washer), and with reference to soothsaying and truth and simplicity—for the two are identical—he might most properly be called by the name the Thessalians use; for all Thessalians call the god Aplun. And because he is always by his archery controller of darts (βολῶν) he is ever darting (ἀεὶ βάλλων). And with reference to music we have to understand that alpha often signifies together, and here it denotes moving together in the heavens about the poles, as we call them, and harmony in song, which is called concord; for, as the ingenious musicians and astronomers tell us, all these things move together by a kind of harmony. And this god directs the harmony, making them all move together, among both gods and men; and so, just as we call the ὁμοκέλευθον (him who accompanies), and ὁμόκοιτιν (bedfellow), by changing the ὁμο to alpha, ἀκόλουθον and ἄκοιτιν, so also we called him Apollo who was Homopolo, and the second lambda was inserted, because without it the name sounded of disaster (ἀπολῶ, ἀπόλωλα, etc.).

Section 406

Socrates. Even as it is, some have a suspicion of this, because they do not properly regard the force of the name, and therefore they fear it, thinking that it denotes some kind of ruin. But in fact, as was said, the name touches upon all the qualities of the god, as simple, ever-darting, purifying, and accompanying. The Muses and music in general are named, apparently, from μῶσθαι, searching, and philosophy; and Leto from her gentleness, because whatever is asked of her, she is willing (ἐθελήμων). But perhaps her name is Letho, as she is called by many foreigners; and those who call her by that name seem to do so on account of the mild and gentle (λεῖον, Ληθώ) kindness of her character. Artemis appears to get her name from her healthy (ἀρτεμές) and well-ordered nature, and her love of virginity; or perhaps he who named her meant that she is learned in virtue (ἀρετή), or possibly, too, that she hates sexual intercourse (ἄροτον μισεῖ) of man and woman; or he who gave the goddess her name may have given it for any or all of these reasons.

Hermogenes. What of Dionysus and Aphrodite?

Socrates. You ask great things of me, son of Hipponicus. You see there is both a serious and a facetious account of the form of the name of these deities. You will have to ask others for the serious one; but there is nothing to hinder my giving you the facetious account, for the gods also have a sense of humor. Dionysus, the giver (διδούς) of wine (οἶνος), might be called in jest Didoinysus, and wine, because it makes most drinkers think (οἴεσθαι) they have wit (νοῦς) when they have not, might very justly be called Oeonus (οἰόνους). As for Aphrodite, we need not oppose Hesiod; we can accept his derivation of the name from her birth out of the foam (ἀφροῦ).

Hermogenes. But surely you, as an Athenian, will not forget Athena, nor Hephaestus and Ares.

Socrates. That is not likely.

Hermogenes. No.

Socrates. It is easy to tell the reason of one of her two names.

Hermogenes. What name?

Socrates. We call her Pallas, you know.

Hermogenes. Yes, of course.

Socrates. Those of us are right, I fancy, who think this name is derived from armed dances, for lifting oneself or anything else from the ground or in the hands is called shaking (πάλλειν) and being shaken, or dancing and being danced.

Section 407

Hermogenes. Yes, certainly.

Socrates. So that is the reason she is called Pallas.

Hermogenes. And rightly called so. But what can you say of her other name?

Socrates. You mean Athena?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. That is a weightier matter, my friend. The ancients seem to have had the same belief about Athena as the interpreters of Homer have now; for most of these, in commenting on the poet, say that he represents Athena as mind (νοῦς) and intellect (διάνοια); and the maker of her name seems to have had a similar conception of her, but he gives her the still grander title of mind of God ἡ θεοῦ νόησις, seeming to say that she is a ἁ θεονόα; here he used the alpha in foreign fashion instead of eta, and dropped out the iota and sigma. But perhaps that was not his reason; he may have called her Theonoe because she has unequalled knowledge of divine things (τὰ θεῖα νοοῦσα). Perhaps, too, he may have wished to identify the goddess with wisdom of character (ἐν ἤθει νόησις) by calling her Ethonoe; and then he himself or others afterwards improved the name, as they thought, and called her Athenaa.

Hermogenes. And how do you explain Hephaestus?

Socrates. You ask about the noble master of light?

Hermogenes. To be sure.

Socrates. Hephaestus is Phaestus, with the eta added by attraction; anyone could see that, I should think.

Hermogenes. Very likely, unless some other explanation occurs to you, as it probably will.

Socrates. To prevent that, ask about Ares.

Hermogenes. I do ask.

Socrates. Ares, then, if you like, would be named for his virility and courage, or for his hard and unbending nature, which is called ἄρρατον; so Ares would be in every way a fitting name for the god of war.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. For God’s sake, let us leave the gods, as I am afraid to talk about them; but ask me about any others you please, that you may see what Euthyphro’s horses are.

Hermogenes. I will do so, but first one more god. I want to ask you about Hermes, since Cratylus says I am not Hermogenes (son of Hermes). Let us investigate the name of Hermes, to find out whether there is anything in what he says.

Section 408

Socrates. Well then, this name Hermes seems to me to have to do with speech; he is an interpreter (ἡρμηνεύς) and a messenger, is wily and deceptive in speech, and is oratorical. All this activity is concerned with the power of speech. Now, as I said before, εἴρειν denotes the use of speech; moreover, Homer often uses the word ἐμήσατο, which means contrive. From these two words, then, the lawgiver imposes upon us the name of this god who contrived speech and the use of speech—εἴρεινmeans speak— and tells us: Ye human beings, he who contrived speech (εἴρειν ἐμήσατο) ought to be called Eiremes by you. We, however, have beautified the name, as we imagine, and call him Hermes. Iris also seems to have got her name from εἴρειν, because she is a messenger.

Hermogenes. By Zeus, I believe Cratylus was right in saying I was not Hermogenes; I certainly am no good contriver of speech.

Socrates. And it is reasonable, my friend, that Pan is the double-natured son of Hermes.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Socrates. You know that speech makes all things (πᾶν) known and always makes them circulate and move about, and is twofold, true and false.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Well, the true part is smooth and divine and dwells aloft among the gods, but falsehood dwells below among common men, is rough and like the tragic goat; for tales and falsehoods are most at home there, in the tragic life.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then Pan, who declares and always moves (ἀεὶ πολῶν) all, is rightly called goat-herd (αἰπόλος), being the double-natured son of Hermes, smooth in his upper parts, rough and goat-like in his lower parts. And Pan, if he is the son of Hermes, is either speech or the brother of speech, and that brother resembles brother is not at all surprising. But, as I said, my friend, let us get away from the gods.

Hermogenes. From such gods as those, if you like, Socrates; but why should you not tell of another kind of gods, such as sun, moon, stars, earth, ether, air, fire, water, the seasons, and the year?

Socrates. You are imposing a good many tasks upon me; however, if it will give you pleasure, I am willing.

Hermogenes. It will give me pleasure.

Socrates. What, then, do you wish first? Shall we discuss the sun (Ἥλιος), as you mentioned it first?

Hermogenes. By all means.

Section 409

Socrates. I think it would be clearer if we were to use the Doric form of the name. The Dorians call it Ἅλιος. Now ἅλιος might be derived from collecting (ἁλίζειν) men when he rises, or because he always turns (ἀεὶ εἱλεῖν) about the earth in his course, or because he variegates the products of the earth, for variegate is identical with αἰολλεῖν.

Hermogenes. And what of the moon, Selene?

Socrates. That name appears to put Anaxagoras in an uncomfortable position.

Hermogenes. How so?

Socrates. Why, it seems to have anticipated by many years the recent doctrine of Anaxagoras, that the moon receives its light from the sun.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Socrates. Σέλας (gleam) and φῶς (light) are the same thing.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Now the light is always new and old about the moon, if the Anaxagoreans are right; for they say the sun, in its continuous course about the moon, always sheds new light upon it, and the light of the previous month persists.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. The moon is often called Σελαναία.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Because it has always a new and old gleam (σέλα νέον τε καὶ ἕνον) the very most fitting name for it would be Σελαενονεοάεια, which has been compressed into Σελαναία.

Hermogenes. That is a regular opera bouffe name, Socrates. But what have you to say of the month (μήν) and the stars?

Socrates. The word month (μείς) would be properly pronounced μείης, from μειοῦσθαι, to grow less, and I think the stars (ἄστερα) get their name from ἀστραπή (lightning). But ἀστραπή, because it turns our eyes upwards (τὰ ὦπα ἀναστρέθει), would be called ἀναστρωπή, which is now pronounced more prettily ἀστραπή.

Hermogenes. And what of πῦρ (fire) and ὕδωρ (water)?

Socrates. Πῦρ is too much for me. It must be that either the muse of Euthyphro has deserted me or this is a very difficult word. Now just note the contrivance I introduce in all cases like this which are too much for me.

Hermogenes. What contrivance?

Socrates. I will tell you. Answer me; can you tell the reason of the word πῦρ?

Hermogenes. Not I, by Zeus.

Socrates. See what I suspect about it. I know that many Greeks, especially those who are subject to the barbarians, have adopted many foreign words.

Hermogenes. What of that?

Socrates. If we should try to demonstrate the fitness of those words in accordance with the Greek language, and not in accordance with the language from which they are derived, you know we should get into trouble.

Hermogenes. Naturally.

Section 410

Socrates. Well, this word πῦρ is probably foreign; for it is difficult to connect it with the Greek language, and besides, the Phrygians have the same word, only slightly altered. The same is the case with ὕδωρ (water), κύων (dog), and many other words.

Hermogenes. Yes, that is true.

Socrates. So we must not propose forced explanations of these words, though something might be said about them. I therefore set aside πῦρ and ὕδωρ in this way. But is air called ἀήρ because it raises (αἴρει) things from the earth, or because it is always flowing (ἀεὶ ῥεῖ), or because wind arises from its flow? The poets call the winds ἀήτας, blasts. Perhaps the poet means to say air-flow (ἀητόρρουν), as he might say wind-flow (πνευματόρρουν). The word αἴθηρ (ether) I understand in this way: because it always runs and flows about the air (ἀεὶ θεῖ περὶ τὸν ἀέρα ῥέον), it may properly be called ἀειθεήρα. The word γῆ (earth) shows the meaning better in the form γαῖα; for γαῖα is a correct word for mother, as Homer says, for he uses γεγάασιν to mean γεγενῆσθαι (be born). Well, now what came next?

Hermogenes. The seasons, Socrates, and the two words for year.

Socrates. The word ὧραι (seasons) should be pronounced in the old Attic fashion, ὅραι, if you wish to know the probable meaning; ΗΟΡΑΙ exist to divide winters and summers and winds and the fruits of the earth; and since they divide (ὁρίζουσι), they would rightly be called ὅραι. The two words for year, ἐνιαυτός and ἔτος, are really one. For that which brings to light within itself the plants and animals, each in its turn, and examines them, is called by some ἐνιαυτός, because of its activity within itself (ἐν ἑαυτῷ), and by others ἔτος, because it examines (ἐτάζει), just as we saw before that the name of Zeus was divided and some said Δία and others Ζῆνα. The whole phrase is that which examines within itself (τὸ ἐν ἁυτῷ ἐτάζον), and this one phrase is divided in speech so that the two words ἐνιαυτός and ἔτος are formed from one phrase.

Hermogenes. Truly, Socrates, you are going ahead at a great rate.

Socrates. Yes, I fancy I am already far along on the road of wisdom.

Hermogenes. I am sure you are.

Socrates. You will be surer presently.

Section 411

Hermogenes. Now after the class of words you, have explained, I should like to examine the correctness of the noble words that relate to virtue, such as wisdom, intelligence, justice, and all the others of that sort.

Socrates. You are stirring up a mighty tribe of words, my friend; however, since I have put on the lion helmet, I must not play the coward, but must, it seems, examine wisdom, intelligence, thought, knowledge, and all the other noble words of which you speak.

Hermogenes. Certainly we must not stop until that is done.

Socrates. By dog, I believe I have a fine intuition which has just come to me, that the very ancient men who invented names were quite like most of the present philosophers who always get dizzy as they turn round and round in their search for the nature of things, and then the things seem to them to turn round and round and be in motion. They think the cause of this belief is not an affection within themselves, but that the nature of things really is such that nothing is at rest or stable, but everything is flowing and moving and always full of constant motion and generation. I say this because I thought of it with reference to all these words we are now considering.

Hermogenes. How is that, Socrates?

Socrates. Perhaps you did not observe that the names we just mentioned are given under the assumption that the things named are moving and flowing and being generated.

Hermogenes. No, I did not notice that at all.

Socrates. Surely the first one we mentioned is subject to such assumptions.

Hermogenes. What is the word ?

Socrates. Wisdom (φρόνησις); for it is perception (νόησις) of motion (φορᾶς) and flowing (ῥοῦ); or it might be understood as benefit (ὄνησις) of motion (φορᾶς); in either case it has to do with motion. And γνώμη (thought), if you please, certainly denotes contemplation and consideration of generation (γονῆς νώμησις); for to consider is the same as to contemplate. Or, if you please, νόησις (intelligence) is merely ἕσις (desire) τοῦ νεοῦ (of the new); but that things are new shows that they are always being generated; therefore the soul’s desire for generation is declared by the giver of the name νεόεσις; for in antiquity the name was not νόησις, but two epsilons had to be spoken instead of the eta.

Section 412

Socrates. Σωφροσύνη (self-restraint) is σωτηρία (salvation) of φρόνησις (wisdom), which we have just been discussing. And ἐπιστήμη (knowledge) indicates that the soul which is of any account accompanies (ἕπεται) things in their motion, neither falling behind them nor running in front of them; therefore we ought to insert an epsilon and call it ἐπεϊστήμη. Σύνεσις (intelligence) in its turn is a kind of reckoning together; when one says συνιέναι (understand), the same thing as ἐπίστασθαι is said; for συνιέναι means that the soul goes with things. Certainly σοφία (wisdom) denotes the touching of motion. This word is very obscure and of foreign origin; but we must remember that the poets often say of something which begins to advance ἐσύθη (it rushed). There was a famous Laconian whose name was Σοῦς (Rush), for this is the Laconian word for rapid motion. Now σοφία signifies the touching (ἐπαφή) of this rapid motion, the assumption being that things are in motion. And the word ἀγαθόν (good) is intended to denote the admirable (ἀγαστόν) in all nature. For since all things are in motion, they possess quickness and slowness; now not all that is swift, but only part of it, is admirable; this name ἀγαθόν is therefore given to the admirable (ἀγαστόν) part of the swift (θοοῦ).It is easy to conjecture that the word δικαιασύνη applies to the understanding (σύνεσις) of the just (τοῦ διαίον) but the word δίκαιον (just) is itself difficult. Up to a certain point, you see, many men seem to agree about it, but beyond that they differ. For those who think the universe is in motion believe that the greater part of it is of such a nature as to be a mere receptacle, and that there is some element which passes through all this, by means of which all created things are generated. And this element must be very rapid and very subtle; for it could not pass through all the universe unless it were very subtle, so that nothing could keep it out, and it must be very swift, so that all other things are relatively at rest. Since, then, it superintends and passes through (διαϊόν) all other things, this is rightly called by the name δίκαιον, the sound of the kappa being added merely for the sake of euphony.

Section 413

Socrates. Up to this point, as I said just now, many men agree about justice (δίκαιον); and I, Hermogenes, being very much in earnest about it, have persistently asked questions and have been told in secret teachings that this is justice, or the cause—for that through which creation takes place is a cause—and some one told me that it was for this reason rightly called Zeus (Δία). But when, after hearing this, I nevertheless ask them quietly, What then, my most excellent friend, if this is true, is justice? they think I am asking too many questions and am leaping over the trenches. They say I have been told enough; they try to satisfy me by saying all sorts of different things, and they no longer agree. For one says the sun is justice, for the sun alone superintends all things, passing through and burning (διαϊόντα καὶ καίοντα) them. Then when I am pleased and tell this to some one, thinking it is a fine answer, he laughs at me and asks if I think there is no justice among men when the sun has set. So I beg him to tell me what he thinks it is, and he says Fire. But this is not easy to understand. He says it is not actual fire, but heat in the abstract that is in the fire. Another man says he laughs at all these notions, and that justice is what Anaxagoras says it is, mind; for mind, he says, is ruled only by itself, is mixed with nothing, orders all things, and passes through them. Then, my friend, I am far more perplexed than before I undertook to learn about the nature of justice. But I think the name—and that was the subject of our investigation—was given for the reasons I have mentioned.

Hermogenes. I think, Socrates, you must have heard this from some one and are not inventing it yourself.

Socrates. And how about the rest of my talk?

Hermogenes. I do not at all think you had heard that.

Socrates. Listen then; perhaps I may deceive you into thinking that all I am going to say is my own. What remains to consider after justice? I think we have not yet discussed courage. It is plain enough that injustice (ἀδικία) is really a mere hindrance of that which passes through (τοῦ διαϊόντος, but the word ἀδρεία (courage) implies that courage got its name in battle, and if the universe is flowing, a battle in the universe can be nothing else than an opposite current or flow (ῥοή). Now if we remove the delta from the word ἀνδρεία, the word ἀνρεία signifies exactly that activity.

Section 414

Socrates. Of course it is clear that not the current opposed to every current is courage, but only that opposed to the current which is contrary to justice; for otherwise courage would not be praised. The words ἄρρεν (male) and ἀνήρ (man) refer, like ἀνδρεία, to the upward (ἄνω) current or flow. The word γυνή (woman) seems to me to be much the same as γονή (birth). I think θῆλυ (female) is derived from θηλή (teat); and is not θηλή, Hermogenes, so called because it makes things flourish (τεθηλέναι), like plants wet with showers?

Hermogenes. Very likely, Socrates.

Socrates. And again, the word θάλλειν (flourish) seems to me to figure the rapid and sudden growth of the young. Something of that sort the namegiver has reproduced in the name, which he compounded of θεῖν (run) and ἅλλεσθαι (jump). You do not seem to notice how I rush along outside of the race-course, when I get on smooth ground. But we still have plenty of subjects left which seem to be serious.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. One of which is to see what the word τέχνη (art, science) means.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Does not this denote possession of mind, if you remove the tau and insert omicron between the chi and the nu and the nu and the eta (making ἐχονόη)?

Hermogenes. It does it very poorly, Socrates.

Socrates. My friend, you do not bear in mind that the original words have before now been completely buried by those who wished to dress them up, for they have added and subtracted letters for the sake of euphony and have distorted the words in every way for ornamentation or merely in the lapse of time. Do you not, for instance, think it absurd that the letter rho is inserted in the word κάαπτρον (mirror)? I think that sort of thing is the work of people who care nothing for truth, but only for the shape of their mouths; so they keep adding to the original words until finally no human being can understand what in the world the word means. So the sphinx, for instance, is called sphinx, instead of phix, and there are many other examples.

Hermogenes. Yes, that is true, Socrates.

Socrates. And if we are permitted to insert and remove any letters we please in words, it will be perfectly easy to fit any name to anything.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. Yes, quite true. But I think you, as a wise director, must observe the rule of moderation and probability.

Hermogenes. I should like to do so.

Section 415

Socrates. And I, too, Hermogenes. But do not, my friend, demand too much precision, lest you enfeeble me of my sight. For now that τέχνη (art) is disposed of, I am nearing the loftiest height of my subject, when once we have investigated μηχανή(contrivance). For I think μηχανή signifies ἄνειν ἐπὶ πολύ (much accomplishment); for μῆκος (length) has about the same meaning as τὸ πολύ (much), and the name μηχανή is composed of these two, μῆκος and ἄνειν. But, as I was just saying, we must go on to the loftiest height of our subject; we must search for the meaning of the words ἀρετή (virtue) and κακία (wickedness). Now one of them I cannot yet see; but the other seems to be quite clear, since it agrees with everything we have said before. For inasmuch as all things are in motion, everything that moves badly (κακῶς ἰόν) would be evil (κακία); and when this evil motion in relation to its environment exists in the soul, it receives the general name κακία (evil) in the special sense of wickedness. But the nature of evil motion (κακῶς ἰέναι) is made clear, I think, also in the word δειλία (cowardice), which we have not yet discussed. We passed it by, when we ought to have examined it after ἀνδρεία (courage); and I fancy we passed over a good many other words. Now the meaning of δειλία is a strong bond of the soul; for λίαν (excessively) is, in a way, expressive of strength; so δειλία would be the excessive or greatest bond (δεσμός, δεῖν) of the soul; and so, too, ἀπορία (perplexity) is an evil, as is everything, apparently, which hinders motion and progress (πορεύεσθαι). This, then, seems to be the meaning of evil motion (κακῶς ἰέναι), that advance is halting and impeded; and the soul that is infected by it becomes filled with wickedness (κακία). If these are the reasons for the name of wickedness, virtue (ἀρετή) would be the opposite of this; it would signify first ease of motion, and secondly that the flow of the good soul is always unimpeded, and therefore it has received this name, which designates that which always flows (ἀεὶ ῥέον) without let or hindrance. It is properly called ἀειρειτή, or perhaps also αἱρετή, indicating that this condition is especially to be chosen; but it has been compressed and is pronounced ἀρετή. Perhaps you will say this is another invention of mine; but I say if what I said just now about κακία is right, this about the name of ἀρετή is right too.

Section 416

Hermogenes. But what is the meaning of the word κακόν which you used in many of your derivations?

Socrates. By Zeus, I think it is a strange word and hard to understand; so I apply to it that contrivance of mine.

Hermogenes. What contrivance?

Socrates. The claim of foreign origin, which I advance in this case as in those others.

Hermogenes. Well, probably you are right. But, if you please, let us drop these words and try to discover the reasons for the words καλόν (beautiful, noble) and αἰσχρόν (base).

Socrates. I think the meaning of αἰσχρόν is clear, and this also agrees with what has been said before. For the giver of names appears to me throughout to denounce that which hinders and restrains things from flowing, and in this instance he gave to that which always restrains the flow (ἀεὶ ἴσχει τὸν ῥοῦν) this name ἀεισχοροῦν, which is now compressed and pronounced αἰσχρόν.

Hermogenes. What about καλόν?

Socrates. That is harder to understand, and yet it expresses its meaning: it has been altered merely in accent and in the length of the O.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Socrates. I think this word denotes intellect.

Hermogenes. What do you mean?

Socrates. Why, what do you think is the cause why anything is called by a name? Is it not the power which gave the name?

Hermogenes. Why, certainly.

Socrates. And is not that power the intellect either of gods or of men or both?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Are not that which called things by name and that which calls them by name (τὸ καλοῦν) the same thing, namely intellect?

Hermogenes. Yes, clearly.

Socrates. And are not all works which are done by mind and intelligence worthy of praise, and those that are not done by them worthy of blame?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Does not the medical power perform medical works and the power of carpentry works of carpentry? Do you agree to that?

Hermogenes. I agree.

Socrates. And the beautiful performs beautiful works?

Hermogenes. It must do so.

Socrates. And the beautiful is, we say, intellect?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Then this name, the beautiful, is rightly given to mind, since it accomplishes the works which we call beautiful and in which we delight.

Hermogenes. Evidently.

Socrates. What further words of this sort are left for us?

Section 417

Hermogenes. Those that are related to the good and the beautiful, such as συμφέροντα (advantageous), λυσιτελοῦντα (profitable), ὠφέλιμα (useful), κερδαλέα (gainful), and their opposites.

Socrates. You might by this time be able to find the meaning of συμφέροντα by yourself in the light of the previous explanations, for it appears to be own brother to ἐπιστήμη. It means nothing else but the motion (φορά) of the soul in company with the world, and naturally things which are done by such a power are called συμφέροντα and σύμφορα because they are carried round with (συμπεριφέρεσθαι) the world. But κερδαλέον is from κέρδος (gain). If you restore nu in the word κέρδος in place of the delta, the meaning is plain; it signifies good, but in another way. Because it passes through and is mingled (κεράννυται) with all things, he who named it gave it this name which indicates that function; but he inserted a delta instead of nu and said κέρδος.

Hermogenes. And what is λυσιτελοῦν?

Socrates. I do not think, Hermogenes, the name-giver gives the meaning to λυσιτελοῦν which it has in the language of tradesfolk, when profit sets free (ἀπολύει) the sum invested, but he means that because it is the swiftest thing in the world it does not allow things to remain at rest and does not allow the motion to come to any end (τέλος) of movement or to stop or pause, but always, if any end of the motion is attempted, it sets it free, making it unceasing and immortal. It is in this sense, I think, that the good is dubbed λυσιτελοῦν, for it frees (λύει) the end (τέλος) of the motion. But the word ὠφέλιμον is a foreign one, which Homer often uses in the verbal form ὀφέλλειν. This is a synonym of increase and create.

Hermogenes. What shall be our explanations of the opposites of these?

Socrates. Those of them that are mere negatives, need, I think, no discussion.

Hermogenes. Which are those?

Socrates. Disadvantageous, useless, unprofitable, and ungainful.

Hermogenes. True.

Socrates. But βλαβερόν (harmful) and ζημιῶδες (hurtful) do need it.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And βλαβερόν means that which harms (βλάπτον) the flow (ῥοῦν); but βλάπτον means wishing to fasten (ἅπτειν), and ἅπτειν is the same thing as δεῖν (bind), which the name-giver constantly finds fault with. Now τὸ βουλόμενον ἅπτειν ῥοῦν (that which wishes to fasten the flow) would most correctly be called βουλαπτεροῦν, but is called βλαβερόν merely, as I think, to make it prettier.

Hermogenes. Elaborate names these are, Socrates, that result from your method. Just now, when you pronounced βουλαπτεροῦν, you looked as if you had made up your mouth to whistle the flute-prelude of the hymn to Athena.

Section 418

Socrates. Not I, Hermogenes, am responsible, but those who gave the name.

Hermogenes. True. Well, what is the origin of ζημιῶδες?

Socrates. What can the origin of ζημιῶδες be? See, Hermogenes, how true my words are when I say that by adding and taking away letters people alter the sense of words so that even by very slight changes they sometimes make them mean the opposite of what they meant before; as, for instance, in the case of the word δέον (obligation, right), for that just occurred to me and I was reminded of it by what I was going to say to you, that this fine modern language of ours has turned δέον and also ζημιῶδες round, so that each has the opposite of its original meaning, whereas the ancient language shows clearly the real sense of both words.

Hermogenes. What do you mean?

Socrates. I will tell you. You know that our ancestors made good use of the sounds of iota and delta, and that is especially true of the women, who are most addicted to preserving old forms of speech. But nowadays people change iota to eta or epsilon, and delta to zeta, thinking they have a grander sound.

Hermogenes. How is that?

Socrates. For instance, in the earliest times they called day ἱμέρα, others said ἑμέρα, and now they say ἡμέρα.

Hermogenes. That is true.

Socrates. Only the ancient word discloses the intention of the name-giver, don’t you know? For day comes out of darkness to men; they welcome it and long (ἱμείρουσι) for it, and so they called it ἱμέρα.

Hermogenes. That is clear.

Socrates. But now ἡμέρα is masquerading so that you could not guess its meaning. Why, some people think day is called ἡμέρα because it makes things gentle (ἥμερα).

Hermogenes. I believe they do.

Socrates. And you know the ancients called ζυγόν (yoke) δυογόν.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And ζυγόν conveys no clear meaning, but the name δυογόν is quite properly given to that which binds two together for the purpose of draught; now, however, we say ζυγόν. There are a great many other such instances.

Hermogenes. Yes, that is plain.

Socrates. Similarly the word δέον (obligation) at first, when spoken in this way, denotes the opposite of all words connected with the good; for although it is a form of good, δέον seems to be a bond (δεσμός) and hindrance of motion, own brother, as it were, toβλαβερόν.

Hermogenes. Yes, Socrates, it certainly does seem so.

Section 419

Socrates. But it does not, if you employ the ancient word, which is more likely to be right than the present one. You will find that it agrees with the previous words for good, if instead of the epsilon you restore the iota, as it was in old times for διόν (going through), not δέον, signifies good, which the name-giver praises. And so the giver of names does not contradict himself, but δέον (obligation, right), ὠφέλιμον (useful), λυσιτελοῦν (profitable), κερδαλέον (gainful), ἀγαθόν (good), ξυμφέρον (advantageous), and εὔπορον (prosperous), are plainly identical, signifying under different names the principle of arrangement and motion which has constantly been praised, whereas the principle of constraint and bondage is found fault with. And likewise in the case of ζημιῶδες, if you restore the ancient delta in place of the zeta, you will see that the name, pronounced δημιῶδες, was given to that which binds motion (δοῦντι τὸ ἰόν).

Hermogenes. What of ἡδονή (pleasure) and λύπη (pain) and ἐπιθυμία (desire), and the like, Socrates?

Socrates. I do not think they are at all difficult, Hermogenes, for ἡδονή appears to have this name because it is the action that tends towards advantage (ἡ πρὸς τὴν ὄνησιν τείνουσα); the delta is inserted, so that we say ἡδονή instead of ἡονή. Λύπη appears to have received its name from the dissolution (διάλυσις) of the body which takes place through pain. Ἀνία (sorrow) is that which hinders motion (ἰέναι). Ἀλγηδών (distress) is, I think, a foreign word, derived from ἀλγεινός (distressing). Ὀδύνη (grief) appears to be so called from the putting on of pain (τῆς ἐνδύσεως τῆς λύπης). Ἀχθηδών (vexation) has a name, as anyone can see, made in the likeness of the weight (ἄχθος, burden) which vexation imposes upon motion. Χαρά (joy) seems to have its name from the plenteous diffusion (διάχυσις) of the flow of the soul. Τέρψις (delight) is from τερπνόν (delightful); and τερπνόν is called from the creeping (ἕρψις) of the soul, which is likened to a breath (πνοή), and would properly be called ἕρπνουν, but the name has been changed in course of time to τερπνόν. Εὐφροσύνη(mirth) needs no explanation, for it is clear to anyone that from the motion of the soul in harmony (εὖ) with the universe, it received the name εὐφεροσύνη, as it rightfully is; but we call it ευφροσύνη. Nor is there any difficulty about ἐπιθυμία (desire), for this name was evidently given to the power that goes (ἰοῦσα) into the soul (θυμός). And θυμός has its name from the raging (θύσις) and boiling of the soul.

Section 420

Socrates. The name ἵμερος (longing) was given to the stream (ῥοῦς) which most draws the soul; for because it flows with a rush (ἱέμενος) and with a desire for things and thus draws the soul on through the impulse of its flowing, all this power gives it the name of ἵμερος. And the word πόθος (yearning) signifies that it pertains not to that which is present, but to that which is elsewhere (ἄλλοθί που) or absent, and therefore the same feeling which is called ἵμερος when its object is present, is called πόθος when it is absent. And ἔρως (love) is so called because it flows in (ἐσρεῖ) from without, and this flowing is not inherent in him who has it, but is introduced through the eyes; for this reason it was in ancient times called ἔσρος, from ἐσρεῖν—for we used to employ omicron instead of omega—but now it is called ἔρως through the change of omicron to omega. Well, what more is there that you want to examine?

Hermogenes. What is your view about δόξα (opinion) and the like?

Socrates. Δόξα is derived either from the pursuit (δίωξις) which the soul carries on as it pursues the knowledge of the nature of things, or from the shooting of the bow (τόξον); the latter is more likely; at any rate οἴησις (belief) supports this view, for it appears to mean the motion (οἶσις) of the soul towards the essential nature of every individual thing, just as βουλή (intention) denotes shooting (βολή) and βούλεσθαι (wish), as well as βουλεύεσθαι (plan), denotes aiming at something. All these words seem to follow δόξα and to express the idea of shooting, just as ἀβουλία (ill-advisedness), on the other hand, appears to be a failure to hit, as if a person did not shoot or hit that which he shot at or wished or planned or desired.

Hermogenes. I think you are hurrying things a bit, Socrates.

Socrates. Yes, for I am running the last lap now. But I think I must still explain ἀνάγκη (compulsion) and ἑκούσιον (voluntary) because they naturally come next. Now by the word ἑκούσιον is expressed the yielding (εἶκον) and not opposing, but, as I say, yielding to the motion which is in accordance with the will; but the compulsory (τὸ ἀναγκαῖον) and resistant, being contrary to the will, is associated with error and ignorance; so it is likened to walking through ravines (ἄγκη), because they are hard to traverse, rough, and rugged, and retard motion; the word ἀναγκαῖον may, then, originate in a comparison with progress through a ravine. But let us not cease to use my strength, so long as it lasts and do not you cease from asking questions.

Section 421

Hermogenes. I ask, then, about the greatest and noblest words, truth (ἀλήθεια), falsehood (ψεῦδος), being (τὸ ὄν), and why name, the subject of our whole discourse, has the name ὄνομα.

Socrates. Does the word μαίσθαι (search) mean anything to you?

Hermogenes. Yes, it means seek.

Socrates. The word ὄνομα seems to be a word composed from a sentence signifying this is a being about which our search is. You can recognize that more readily in the adjective ὀνομαστόν, for that says clearly that this is ὄν οὗ μάσμα ἐστίν (being of which the search is). And ἀλήθεια (truth) is like the others; for the divine motion of the universe is, I think, called by this name, ἀλήθεια, because it is a divine wandering θεία ἄλη. But ψεῦδος (falsehood) is the opposite of motion; for once more that which is held back and forced to be quiet is found fault with, and it is compared to slumberers (εὕουσι); but the addition of the psi conceals the meaning of the word. The words τὸ ὄν (being) and οὐσία (existence) agree with ἀληθής with the loss of iota, for they mean going (ἰόν). And οὐκ ὄν (not being) means οὐκ ἰόν (not going), and indeed some people pronounce it so.

Hermogenes. I think you have knocked these words to pieces manfully, Socrates; but if anyone should ask you what propriety or correctness there was in these words that you have employed—ἰόν and ρἕον and δοῦν—

Socrates. What answer should I make? Is that your meaning?

Hermogenes. Yes, exactly.

Socrates. We acquired just now one way of making an answer with a semblance of sense in it.

Hermogenes. What way was that?

Socrates. Saying, if there is a word we do not know about, that it is of foreign origin. Now this may be true of some of them, and also on account of the lapse of time it may be impossible to find out about the earliest words; for since words get twisted in all sorts of ways, it would not be in the least wonderful if the ancient Greek word should be identical with the modern foreign one.

Hermogenes. That is not unlikely.

Socrates. It is indeed quite probable. However, we must play the game and investigate these questions vigorously. But let us bear in mind that if a person asks about the words by means of which names are formed, and again about those by means of which those words were formed, and keeps on doing this indefinitely, he who answers his questions will at last give up; will he not?

Hermogenes. Yes, I think so.

Section 422

Socrates. Now at what point will he be right in giving up and stopping? Will it not be when he reaches the names which are the elements of the other names and words? For these, if they are the elements, can no longer rightly appear to be composed of other names. For instance, we said just now that ἀγαθόν was composed of ἀγαστόν and θοόν; and perhaps we might say that θοόν was composed of other words, and those of still others; but if we ever get hold of a word which is no longer composed of other words, we should be right ill saying that we had at last reached an element, and that we must no longer refer to other words for its derivation.

Hermogenes. I think you are right.

Socrates. Are, then, these words about which you are now asking elements, and must we henceforth investigate their correctness by some other method?

Hermogenes. Probably.

Socrates. Yes, probably, Hermogenes; at any rate, all the previous words were traced back to these. But if this be true, as I think it is, come to my aid again and help me in the investigation, that I may not say anything foolish in declaring what principle must underlie the correctness of the earliest names.

Hermogenes. Go on, and I will help you to the best of my ability.

Socrates. I think you agree with me that there is but one principle of correctness in all names, the earliest as well as the latest, and that none of them is any more a name than the rest.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Now the correctness of all the names we have discussed was based upon the intention of showing the nature of the things named.

Hermogenes. Yes, of course.

Socrates. And this principle of correctness must be present in all names, the earliest as well as the later ones, if they are really to be names.

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. But the later ones, apparently, were able to accomplish this by means of the earlier ones.

Hermogenes. Evidently.

Socrates. Well, then, how can the earliest names, which are not as yet based upon any others, make clear to us the nature of things, so far as that is possible, which they must do if they are to be names at all? Answer me this question: If we had no voice or tongue, and wished to make things clear to one another, should we not try, as dumb people actually do, to make signs with our hands and head and person generally?

Hermogenes. Yes. What other method is there, Socrates?

Section 423

Socrates. If we wished to designate that which is above and is light, we should, I fancy, raise our hand towards heaven in imitation of the nature of the thing in question; but if the things to be designated were below or heavy, we should extend our hands towards the ground; and if we wished to mention a galloping horse or any other animal, we should, of course, make our bodily attitudes as much like theirs as possible.

Hermogenes. I think you are quite right; there is no other way.

Socrates. For the expression of anything, I fancy, would be accomplished by bodily imitation of that which was to be expressed.

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. And when we wish to express anything by voice or tongue or mouth, will not our expression by these means be accomplished in any given instance when an imitation of something is accomplished by them?

Hermogenes. I think that is inevitable.

Socrates. A name, then, it appears, is a vocal imitation of that which is imitated, and he who imitates with his voice names that which he imitates.

Hermogenes. I think that is correct.

Socrates. By Zeus, I do not think it is quite correct, yet, my friend.

Hermogenes. Why not?

Socrates. We should be obliged to agree that people who imitate sheep and cocks and other animals were naming those which they imitate.

Hermogenes. Yes, so we should.

Socrates. And do you think that is correct?

Hermogenes. No, I do not; but, Socrates, what sort of an imitation is a name?

Socrates. In the first place we shall not, in my opinion, be making names, if we imitate things as we do in music, although musical imitation also is vocal; and secondly we shall make no names by imitating that which music imitates. What I mean is this: all objects have sound and shape, and many have color, have they not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Well then, the art of naming is not employed in the imitation of those qualities, and has nothing to do with them. The arts which are concerned with them are music and design, are they not?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Here is another point. Has not each thing an essential nature, just as it has a color and the other qualities we just mentioned? Indeed, in the first place, have not color and sound and all other things which may properly be said to exist, each and all an essential nature?

Hermogenes. I think so.

Socrates. Well, then, if anyone could imitate this essential nature of each thing by means of letters and syllables, he would show what each thing really is, would he not?

Section 424

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. And what will you call him who can do this, as you called the others musician and painter? What will you call this man?

Hermogenes. I think, Socrates, he is what we have been looking for all along, the name-maker.

Socrates. If that is the case, is it our next duty to consider whether in these names about which you were asking—flow, motion, and restraint—the namemaker grasps with his letters and syllables the reality of the things named and imitates their essential nature, or not?

Hermogenes. Certainly.

Socrates. Well now, let us see whether those are the only primary names, or there are others.

Hermogenes. I think there are others.

Socrates. Yes, most likely there are. Now what is the method of division with which the imitator begins his imitation? Since the imitation of the essential nature is made with letters and syllables, would not the most correct way be for us to separate the letters first, just as those who undertake the practice of rhythms separate first the qualities of the letters, then those of the syllables, and then, but not till then, come to the study of rhythms?

Hermogenes. Yes.

Socrates. Must not we, too, separate first the vowels, then in their several classes the consonants or mutes, as they are called by those who specialize in phonetics, and also the letters which are neither vowels nor mutes, as well as the various classes that exist among the vowels themselves? And when we have made all these divisions properly, we must in turn give names to the things which ought to have them, if there are any names to which they can all, like the letters, be referred, from which it is possible to see what their nature is and whether there are any classes among them, as there are among letters. When we have properly examined all these points, we must know how to apply each letter with reference to its fitness, whether one letter is to be applied to one thing or many are to be combined; just as painters, when they wish to produce an imitation, sometimes use only red, sometimes some other color, and sometimes mix many colors, as when they are making a picture of a man or something of that sort, employing each color, I suppose, as they think the particular picture demands it. In just this way we, too, shall apply letters to things, using one letter for one thing, when that seems to be required, or many letters together, forming syllables, as they are called, and in turn combining syllables, and by their combination forming nouns and verbs. And from nouns and verbs again we shall finally construct something great and fair and complete. Just as in our comparison we made the picture by the art of painting, so now we shall make language by the art of naming, or of rhetoric, or whatever it be.

Section 425

Socrates. No, not we; I said that too hastily. For the ancients gave language its existing composite character; and we, if we are to examine all these matters with scientific ability, must take it to pieces as they put it together and see whether the words, both the earliest and the later, are given systematically or not; for if they are strung together at haphazard, it is a poor, unmethodical performance, my dear Hermogenes.

Hermogenes. By Zeus, Socrates, may be it is.

Socrates. Well, do you believe you could take them to pieces in that way? I do not believe I could.

Hermogenes. Then I am sure I could not.

Socrates. Shall we give up then? Or shall we do the best we can and try to see if we are able to understand even a little about them, and, just as we said to the gods a while ago that we knew nothing about the truth but were guessing at human opinion about them, so now, before we proceed, shall we say to ourselves that if anyone, whether we or someone else, is to make any analysis of names, he will have to analyze them in the way we have described, and we shall have to study them, as the saying is, with all our might? Do you agree, or not?

Hermogenes. Yes, I agree most heartily.

Socrates. It will, I imagine, seem ridiculous that things are made manifest through imitation in letters and syllables; nevertheless it cannot be otherwise. For there is no better theory upon which we can base the truth of the earliest names, unless you think we had better follow the example of the tragic poets, who, when they are in a dilemma, have recourse to the introduction of gods on machines. So we may get out of trouble by saying that the gods gave the earliest names, and therefore they are right. Is that the best theory for us? Or perhaps this one, that we got the earliest names from some foreign folk and the foreigners are more ancient than we are? Or that it is impossible to investigate them because of their antiquity, as is also the case with the foreign words?

Section 426

Socrates. All these are merely very clever evasions on the part of those who refuse to offer any rational theory of the correctness of the earliest names. And yet if anyone is, no matter why, ignorant of the correctness of the earliest names, he cannot know about that of the later, since they can be explained only by means of the earliest, about which he is ignorant. No, it is clear that anyone who claims to have scientific knowledge of names must be able first of all to explain the earliest names perfectly, or he can be sure that what he says about the later will be nonsense. Or do you disagree?

Hermogenes. No, Socrates, not in the least.

Socrates. Now I think my notions about the earliest names are quite outrageous and ridiculous. I will impart them to you, if you like; if you can find anything better, please try to impart it to me.

Hermogenes. I will do so. Go on, and do not be afraid.

Socrates. First, then, the letter rho seems to me to be an instrument expressing all motion. We have not as yet said why motion has the name κίνησις; but it evidently should be ἴεσις, for in old times we did not employ eta, but epsilon. And the beginning of κίνησις is from κίειν, a foreign word equivalent to ἰέναι (go). So we should find that the ancient word corresponding to our modern form would be ἴεσις; but now by the employment of the foreign word κίειν, change of epsilon to eta, and the insertion of nu it has become κίνησις, though it ought to be κιείνεσις or εἶσις. And στάσις (rest) signifies the negation of motion, but is called στάσις for euphony. Well, the letter rho, as I was saying, appeared to be a fine instrument expressive of motion to the name-giver who wished to imitate rapidity, and he often applies it to motion. In the first place, in the words ῥεῖν (flow) and ῥοή (current) he imitates their rapidity by this letter, then in τρόμος (trembling) and in τρέχειν (run), and also in such words as κρούειν (strike), θραύειν (break), ἐρείκειν (rend), θρύπτειν (crush),κερματίζειν (crumble), ῥυμβεῖν (whirl), he expresses the action of them all chiefly by means of the letter rho; for he observed, I suppose, that the tongue is least at rest and most agitated in pronouncing this letter, and that is probably the reason why he employed it for these words. Iota again, he employs for everything subtle, which can most readily pass through all things.

Section 427

Socrates. Therefore he imitates the nature of ἰέναι (go) and ἵεσθαι (hasten) by means of iota, just as he has imitated all such notions as ψυχρόν (cold, shivering), ζέον (seething), σείεσθαι (shake), and σεισμός (shock) by means of phi, psi, sigma, and zeta, because those letters are pronounced with much breath. Whenever he imitates that which resembles blowing, the giver of names always appears to use for the most part such letters. And again he appears to have thought that the compression and pressure of the tongue in the pronunciation of delta and tau was naturally fitted to imitate the notion of binding and rest. And perceiving that the tongue has a gliding movement most in the pronunciation of lambda, he made the words λεῖα (level), ὀλισθάναιν (glide) itself, λιπαρόν (sleek), κολλῶδες (glutinous), and the like to conform to it. Where the gliding of the tongue is stopped by the sound of gamma he reproduced the nature of γλισχρόν (glutinous), γλυκύ (sweet), and γλοιῶδες (gluey). And again, perceiving that nu is an internal sound, he made the words ἔνδον (inside) and ἐντός (within), assimilating the meanings to the letters, and alpha again he assigned to greatness, and eta to length, because the letters are large. He needed the sign Ο for the expression of γόγγυλον (round), and made it the chief element of the word. And in this way the lawgiver appears to apply the other letters, making by letters and syllables a name for each and every thing, and from these names he compounds all the rest by imitation. This, Hermogenes, appears to me to be the theory of the correctness of names, unless, indeed, Cratylus has some other view.

Hermogenes. Truly, Socrates, as I said in the beginning, Cratylus often troubles me a good deal; he declares that there is such a thing as correctness of names, but does not say clearly what it is; and so I cannot tell whether he speaks so obscurely about it on any given occasion intentionally or unintentionally. So now, Cratylus, tell me, in the presence of Socrates, do you like what Socrates says about names, or have you a better theory to propose? And if you have, tell us about it; then you will either learn from Socrates or instruct both him and me.

Cratylus. But, Hermogenes, do you think it is an easy matter to learn or teach any subject so quickly, especially so important an one as this, which appears to me to be one of the most important?

Section 428

Hermogenes. No, by Zeus, I do not. But I think Hesiod is right in saying:If you can only add little to little, it is worth while. So now if you can make even a little progress, do not shirk the trouble, but oblige Socrates—you owe it to him—and me.

Socrates. For that matter, Cratylus, I would not positively affirm any of the things I have said. I merely expressed the opinions which I reached with the help of Hermogenes. So far as I am concerned, you need not hesitate, and if your view is better than mine, I will accept it. And I should not be at all surprised if it were better; for I think you have not only investigated such matters yourself but have been taught about them by others. So if you have any better theory to propound, put me down as one of your pupils in the course on the correctness of names.

Cratylus. Yes, Socrates, I have, as you say, paid attention to these matters, and perhaps I might make you my pupil. However, I am afraid the opposite is the case, and I am impelled to say to you what Achilles says in the Prayers to Ajax. He says:Ajax, descendant of Zeus, son of Telamon, chief of thy people,All thou hast uttered is good in my sight and pleases my spirit. And so, Socrates, your oracular utterances seem to me to be much to my mind, whether you are inspired by Euthyphro or some other Muse has dwelt within you all along without our knowing it.

Socrates. My excellent Cratylus, I myself have been marvelling at my own wisdom all along, and I cannot believe in it. So I think we ought to reexamine my utterances. For the worst of all deceptions is self-deception. How can it help being terrible, when the deceiver is always present and never stirs from the spot? So I think we must turn back repeatedly to what we have said and must try, as the poet says, to look both forwards and backwards. Then let us now see what we have said. Correctness of a name, we say, is the quality of showing the nature of the thing named. Shall we call that a satisfactory statement?

Cratylus. I am perfectly satisfied with it, Socrates.

Socrates. Names, then, are given with a view to instruction?

Cratylus. Certainly.

Socrates. Shall we, then; say that this instruction is an art and has its artisans?

Cratylus. Certainly.

Socrates. Who are they?

Section 429

Cratylus. The lawgivers, as you said in the beginning.

Socrates. Shall we declare that this art arises in men like the other arts, or not? What I mean is this: Some painters are better, and others worse, are they not?

Cratylus. Certainly.

Socrates. And the better produce better works—that is, their paintings—and the others worse works? And likewise some builders build better houses and others worse?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Then do some lawgivers produce better, and others worse works?

Cratylus. No; at that point I cease to agree.

Socrates. Then you do not think that some laws are better, and some worse?

Cratylus. No, I do not.

Socrates. And you do not, it appears, think that one name is better, and another worse?

Cratylus. No, I do not.

Socrates. Then all names are correct?

Cratylus. All that are really names.

Socrates. How about the name of our friend Hermogenes, which was mentioned a while ago? Shall we say that it is not his name at all, unless he belongs to the race of Hermes, or that it is his name, but is incorrect?

Cratylus. I think, Socrates, that it is not his name at all; it appears to be his, but is really the name of some one else who possesses the nature that makes the name clear.

Socrates. And when anyone says that our friend is Hermogenes, is he not even speaking falsely? For perhaps it is not even possible to say that he is Hermogenes, if he is not.

Cratylus. What do you mean?

Socrates. Do you mean to say that it is impossible to speak falsehood at all? For there are, my dear Cratylus, many who do so, and who have done so in the past.

Cratylus. Why, Socrates, how could anyone who says that which he says, say that which is not? Is not falsehood saying that which is not?

Socrates. Your reasoning is too clever for me at my age, my friend. However, tell me this: Do you think it is possible to speak falsehood, but not to say it?

Cratylus. Neither to speak nor to say it.

Socrates. Nor utter it or use it as a form of address? For instance, if some one should meet you in hospitable fashion, should grasp your hand and say, Well met, my friend from Athens, son of Smicrion, Hermogenes, would he be saying or speaking or uttering or addressing these words not to you, but to Hermogenes—or to nobody?

Cratylus. I think, Socrates, the man would be producing sounds without sense.

Section 430

Socrates. Even that reply is welcome; for I can ask whether the words he produced would be true, or false, or partly true and partly false. Even that would suffice.

Cratylus. I should say that the man in such a case was merely making a noise, going through purposeless motions, as if he were beating a bronze pot.

Socrates. Let us see, Cratylus, if we cannot come to terms somehow. You would agree, would you not, that the name is one thing and the thing of which it is the name is another?

Cratylus. Yes, I should.

Socrates. And you agree that the name is an imitation of the thing named?

Cratylus. Most assuredly.

Socrates. And you agree that paintings also are imitations, though in a different way, of things?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Well then—for perhaps I do not understand, and you may be right—can both of these imitations, the paintings and the names, be assigned and applied to the things which they imitate, or not?

Cratylus. They can.

Socrates. First, then, consider this question: Can we assign the likeness of the man to the man and that of the woman to the woman, and so forth?

Cratylus. Certainly.

Socrates. And can we conversely attribute that of the man to the woman, and the woman’s to the man?

Cratylus. That is also possible.

Socrates. And are these assignments both correct, or only the former?

Cratylus. The former.

Socrates. The assignment, in short, which attributes to each that which belongs to it and is like it.

Cratylus. That is my view.

Socrates. To put an end to contentious argument between you and me, since we are friends, let me state my position. I call that kind of assignment in the case of both imitations paintings and names—correct, and in the case of names not only correct, but true; and the other kind, which gives and applies the unlike imitation, I call incorrect and, in the case of names, false.

Cratylus. But it may be, Socrates, that this incorrect assignment is possible in the case of paintings, and not in the case of names, which must be always correctly assigned.

Socrates. What do you mean? What difference is there between the two? Can I not step up to a man and say to him, This is your portrait, and show him perhaps his own likeness or, perhaps, that of a woman? And by show I mean bring before the sense of sight.

Cratylus. Certainly.

Section 431

Socrates. Well, then, can I not step up to the same man again and say, This is your name? A name is an imitation, just as a picture is. Very well; can I not say to him, This is your name, and then bring before his sense of hearing perhaps the imitation of himself, saying that it is a man, or perhaps the imitation of the female of the human species, saying that it is a woman? Do you not believe that this is possible and sometimes happens?

Cratylus. I am willing to concede it, Socrates, and grant that you are right.

Socrates. That is a good thing for you to do, my friend, if I am right; for now we need no longer argue about the matter. If, then, some such assignment of names takes place, we will call one kind speaking truth, and the other speaking falsehood. But if this is accepted, and if it is possible to assign names incorrectly and to give to objects not the names that befit them, but sometimes those that are unfitting, it would be possible to treat verbs in the same way. And if verbs and nouns can be assigned in this way, the same must be true of sentences; for sentences are, I conceive, a combination of verbs and nouns. What do you say to that, Cratylus?

Cratylus. I agree; I think you are right.

Socrates. If, then, we compare the earliest words to sketches, it is possible in them, as in pictures, to reproduce all the colors and shapes, or not all; some may be wanting, and some may be added, and they may be too many or too large. Is not that true?

Cratylus. Yes, it is.

Socrates. Then he who reproduces all, produces good sketches and pictures, and he who adds or takes away produces also sketches and pictures, but bad ones?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. And how about him who imitates the nature of things by means of letters and syllables? By the same principle, if he gives all that is appropriate, the image—that is to say, the name—will be good, and if he sometimes omits a little, it will be an image, but not a good one; and therefore some names are well and others badly made. Is that not true?

Cratylus. Perhaps.

Socrates. Perhaps, then, one artisan of names will be good, and another bad?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. The name of such an artisan was lawgiver?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Perhaps, then, by Zeus, as is the case in the other arts, one lawgiver may be good and another bad, if we accept our previous conclusions.

Section 432

Cratylus. That is true. But you see, Socrates, when by the science of grammar we assign these letters—alpha, beta, and the rest—to names, if we take away or add or transpose any letter, it is not true that the name is written, but written incorrectly; it is not written at all, but immediately becomes a different word, if any such thing happens to it.

Socrates. Perhaps we are not considering the matter in the right way.

Cratylus. Why not?

Socrates. It may be that what you say would be true of those things which must necessarily consist of a certain number or cease to exist at all, as ten, for instance, or any number you like, if you add or subtract anything is immediately another number; but this is not the kind of correctness which applies to quality or to images in general; on the contrary, the image must not by any means reproduce all the qualities of that which it imitates, if it is to be an image. See if I am not right. Would there be two things, Cratylus and the image of Cratylus, if some god should not merely imitate your color and form, as painters do, but should also make all the inner parts like yours, should reproduce the same flexibility and warmth, should put into them motion, life, and intellect, such as exist in you, and in short, should place beside you a duplicate of all your qualities? Would there be in such an event Cratylus and an image of Cratylus, or two Cratyluses?

Cratylus. I should say, Socrates, two Cratyluses.

Socrates. Then don’t you see, my friend, that we must look for some other principle of correctness in images and in names, of which we were speaking, and must not insist that they are no longer images if anything be wanting or be added? Do you not perceive how far images are from possessing the same qualities as the originals which they imitate?

Cratylus. Yes, I do.

Socrates. Surely, Cratylus, the effect produced by the names upon the things of which they are the names would be ridiculous, if they were to be entirely like them in every respect. For everything would be duplicated, and no one could tell in any case which was the real thing and which the name.

Cratylus. Quite true.

Socrates. Then do not be faint-hearted, but have the courage to admit that one name may be correctly and another incorrectly given; do not insist that it must have all the letters and be exactly the same as the thing named, but grant that an inappropriate letter may be employed. But if a letter, then grant that also a noun in a clause, and if a noun, then also a clause in a sentence may be employed which is not appropriate to the things in question, and the thing may none the less be named and described, so long as the intrinsic quality of the thing named is retained, as is the case in the names of the letters of the alphabet, if you remember what Hermogenes and I were saying a while ago.

Section 433

Cratylus. Yes, I remember.

Socrates. Very well, then. So long as this intrinsic quality is present, even though the name have not all the proper letters, the thing will still be named; well, when it has all the proper letters; badly, when it has only a few of them. Let us, then, grant this, my friend, or we shall get into trouble, like the belated night wanderers in the road at Aegina, and in very truth we shall be found to have arrived too late; otherwise you must look for some other principle of correctness in names, and must not admit that a name is the representation of a thing in syllables and letters. For if you maintain both positions, you cannot help contradicting yourself.

Cratylus. Well, Socrates, I think what you say is reasonable, and I accept it.

Socrates. Then since we are agreed about this, let us consider the next point. If a name, we say, is to be a good one, it must have the proper letters?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. And the proper letters are those which are like the things named?

Cratylus. Yes, certainly.

Socrates. That is, then, the method by which wellgiven names are given. But if any name is not well given, the greater part of it may perhaps, if it is to be an image at all, be made up of proper and like letters, but it may contain some inappropriate element, and is on that account not good or well made. Is that our view?

Cratylus. I suppose, Socrates, there is no use in keeping up my contention; but I am not satisfied that it can be a name and not be well given.

Socrates. Are you not satisfied that the name is the representation of a thing?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. And do you not think it is true that some names are composed of earlier ones and others are primary?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. But if the primary names are to be representations of any things, can you suggest any better way of making them representations than by making them as much as possible like the things which they are to represent? Or do you prefer the theory advanced by Hermogenes and many others, who claim that names are conventional and represent things to those who established the convention and knew the things beforehand, and that convention is the sole principle of correctness in names, and it makes no difference whether we accept the existing convention or adopt an opposite one according to which small would be called great and great small? Which of these two theories do you prefer?

Section 434

Cratylus. Representing by likeness the thing represented is absolutely and entirely superior to representation by chance signs.

Socrates. You are right. Then if the name is like the thing, the letters of which the primary names are to be formed must be by their very nature like the things, must they not? Let me explain. Could a painting, to revert to our previous comparison, ever be made like any real thing, if there were no pigments out of which the painting is composed, which were by their nature like the objects which the painter’s art imitates? Is not that impossible?

Cratylus. Yes, it is impossible.

Socrates. In the same way, names can never be like anything unless those elements of which the names are composed exist in the first place and possess some kind of likeness to the things which the names imitate; and the elements of which they are composed are the letters, are they not?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Then I must now ask you to consider with me the subject which Hermogenes and I discussed a while ago. Do you think I am right in saying that rho is expressive of speed, motion, and hardness, or not?

Cratylus. You are right.

Socrates. And lambda is like smoothness, softness, and the other qualities we mentioned?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. You know, of course, that we call the same thing σκληρότης (hardness) which the Eretrians call σκληρότηρ?

Cratylus. Certainly.

Socrates. Have rho and sigma both a likeness to the same thing, and does the final rho mean to them just what the sigma means to us, or is there to one of us no meaning?

Cratylus. They mean the same to both.

Socrates. In so far as rho and sigma are alike, or in so far as they are not?

Cratylus. In so far as they are alike.

Socrates. And are they alike in all respects?

Cratylus. Yes; at least for the purpose of expressing motion equally.

Socrates. But how about the lambda in σκληρότης? Does it not express the opposite of hardness?

Cratylus. Well, perhaps it has no right to be there, Socrates; it may be like the cases that came up in your talk with Hermogenes, when you removed or inserted letters where that was necessary. I think you did right; and in this case perhaps we ought to put a rho in place of the lambda.

Socrates. Excellent. However, do we not understand one another when anyone says σκληρόν, using the present pronunciation, and do you not now know what I mean?

Cratylus. Yes, but that is by custom, my friend.

Socrates. In saying custom do you think you are saying anything different from convention? Do you not mean by convention that when I speak I have a definite meaning and you recognize that I have that meaning? Is not that what you mean?

Section 435

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Then if you recognize my meaning when I speak, that is an indication given to you by me.

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. The indication comes from something which is unlike my meaning when I speak, if in your example σκληρότης the lambda is unlike hardness; and if this is true, did you not make a convention with yourself, since both like and unlike letters, by the influence of custom and convention, produce indication? And even if custom is entirely distinct from convention, we should henceforth be obliged to say that custom, not likeness, is the principle of indication, since custom, it appears, indicates both by the like and by the unlike. And since we grant this, Cratylus—for I take it that your silence gives consent—both convention and custom must contribute something towards the indication of our meaning when we speak. For, my friend, if you will just turn your attention to numbers, where do you think you can possibly get names to apply to each individual number on the principle of likeness, unless you allow agreement and convention on your part to control the correctness of names? I myself prefer the theory that names are, so far as is possible, like the things named; but really this attractive force of likeness is, as Hermogenes says, a poor thing, and we are compelled to employ in addition this commonplace expedient, convention, to establish the correctness of names. Probably language would be, within the bounds of possibility, most excellent when all its terms, or as many as possible, were based on likeness, that is to say, were appropriate, and most deficient under opposite conditions. But now answer the next question. What is the function of names, and what good do they accomplish?

Cratylus. I think, Socrates, their function is to instruct, and this is the simple truth, that he who knows the names knows also the things named.

Socrates. I suppose, Cratylus, you mean that when anyone knows the nature of the name—and its nature is that of the thing—he will know the thing also, since it is like the name, and the science of all things which are like each other is one and the same. It is, I fancy, on this ground that you say whoever knows names will know things also.

Cratylus. You are perfectly right.

Socrates. Now let us see what this manner of giving instruction is, to which you refer, and whether there is another method, but inferior to this, or there is no other at all. What do you think?

Section 436

Cratylus. I think there is no other at all; this is both the best and the only method.

Socrates. Do you think this is also the method of discovering realities, and that he who has discovered the names has discovered also the things named; or do you think inquiry and discovery demand another method, and this belongs to instruction?

Cratylus. I most certainly think inquiry and discovery follow this same method and in the same way.

Socrates. Let us consider the matter, Cratylus. Do you not see that he who in his inquiry after things follows names and examines into the meaning of each one runs great risks of being deceived?

Cratylus. How so?

Socrates. Clearly he who first gave names, gave such names as agreed with his conception of the nature of things. That is our view, is it not?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Then if his conception was incorrect, and he gave the names according to his conception, what do you suppose will happen to us who follow him? Can we help being deceived?

Cratylus. But, Socrates, surely that is not the case. He who gave the names must necessarily have known; otherwise, as I have been saying all along, they would not be names at all. And there is a decisive proof that the name-giver did not miss the truth, one which you must accept; for otherwise his names would not be so universally consistent. Have you not yourself noticed in speaking that all names were formed by the same method and with the same end in view?

Socrates. But that, Cratylus, is no counter argument. For if the giver of names erred in the beginning and thenceforth forced all other names into agreement with his own initial error, there is nothing strange about that. It is just so sometimes in geometrical diagrams; the initial error is small and unnoticed, but all the numerous deductions are wrong, though consistent. Every one must therefore give great care and great attention to the beginning of any undertaking, to see whether his foundation is right or not. If that has been considered with proper care, everything else will follow. However, I should be surprised if names are really consistent. Let us review our previous discussion. Names, we said, indicate nature to us, assuming that all things are in motion and flux. Do you not think they do so?

Section 437

Cratylus. Yes, and they indicate it correctly.

Socrates. Let us first take up again the word ἐπιστήμη (knowledge) and see how ambiguous it is, seeming to indicate that it makes our soul stand still (ἵστησιν) at things, rather than that it is carried round with them, so it is better to speak the beginning of it as we now do than to insert the epsilon and say ἐπεϊστήμ; we should insert an iota rather than an epsilon. Then take βέβαιον (firm), which expresses position and rest, not motion. And ἱστορία (inquiry) means much the same, that it stops (ἵστησιν) the flow. And πιστόν (faithful) most certainly means that which stops (ἱστόν) motion. Then again, anyone can see that μνήμη (memory) expresses rest (μονή) in the soul, not motion. On the other hand, ἁμαρτία (error) and ξυμφορά (misfortune), if you consider merely the form of the names, will appear to be the same as σύνεσις (intellect) and ἐπιστήμη and all the other names of good significance. Moreover, ἀμαθία (ignorance) and ἀκολασία (unrestraint) also appear to be like them; for the former, ἀμαθία, seems to be τοῦ ἅμα θεῷ ἰόντος πορεία (the progress of one who goes with God), and ἀκολασία seems to be exactly ἀκολουθία τοῖς πράγμασιν (movement in company with things). And so names which we believe have the very worst meanings appear to be very like those which have the best. And I think we could, if we took pains, find many other words which would lead us to reverse our judgement and believe that the giver of names meant that things were not in progress or in motion, but were at rest.

Cratylus. But, Socrates, you see that most of the names indicate motion.

Socrates. What of that, Cratylus? Are we to count names like votes, and shall correctness rest with the majority? Are those to be the true names which are found to have that one of the two meanings which is expressed by the greater number?

Cratylus. That is not reasonable.

Section 438

Socrates. No, not in the least, my friend. Now let us drop this and return to the point at which we digressed. A little while ago, you may remember, you said he who gave names must have known the things to which he gave them. Do you still hold that opinion, or not?

Cratylus. I do.

Socrates. And you say that he who gave the first names also knew the things which he named?

Cratylus. Yes, he knew them.

Socrates. But from what names had he learned or discovered the things, if the first names had not yet been given, and if we declare that it is impossible to learn or discover things except by learning or ourselves discovering the names?

Cratylus. I think there is something in what you say, Socrates.

Socrates. How can we assert that they gave names or were lawgivers with knowledge, before any name whatsoever had been given, and before they knew any names, if things cannot be learned except through their names?

Cratylus. I think the truest theory of the matter, Socrates, is that the power which gave the first names to things is more than human, and therefore the names must necessarily be correct.

Socrates. Then, in your opinion, he who gave the names, though he was a spirit or a god, would have given names which made him contradict himself? Or do you think there is no sense in what we were saying just now?

Cratylus. But, Socrates, those that make up one of the two classes are not really names.

Socrates. Which of the two, my excellent friend; the class of those which point towards rest or of those that point towards motion? We agreed just now that the matter is not to be determined by mere numbers.

Cratylus. No; that would not be right, Socrates.

Socrates. Then since the names are in conflict, and some of them claim that they are like the truth, and others that they are, how can we decide, and upon what shall we base our decision? Certainly not upon other names differing from these, for there are none. No, it is plain that we must look for something else, not names, which shall show us which of these two kinds are the true names, which of them, that is to say, show the truth of things.

Cratylus. That is my opinion.

Socrates. Then if that is true, Cratylus, it seems that things may be learned without names.

Cratylus. So it appears.

Socrates. What other way is left by which you could expect to know them? What other than the natural and the straightest way, through each other, if they are akin, and through themselves? For that which is other and different from them would signify not them, but something other and different.

Cratylus. I think that is true.

Section 439

Socrates. Stop for Heaven’s sake! Did we not more than once agree that names which are rightly given are like the things named and are images of them?

Cratylus. Yes.

Socrates. Then if it be really true that things can be learned either through names or through themselves which would be the better and surer way of learning? To learn from the image whether it is itself a good imitation and also to learn the truth which it imitates, or to learn from the truth both the truth itself and whether the image is properly made?

Cratylus. I think it is certainly better to learn from the truth.

Socrates. How realities are to be learned or discovered is perhaps too great a question for you or me to determine; but it is worth while to have reached even this conclusion, that they are to be learned and sought for, not from names but much better through themselves than through names.

Cratylus. That is clear, Socrates.

Socrates. Then let us examine one further point to avoid being deceived by the fact that most of these names tend in the same direction. Suppose it should prove that although those who gave the names gave them in the belief that all things are in motion and flux—I myself think they did have that belief— still in reality that is not the case, and the namegivers themselves, having fallen into a kind of vortex, are whirled about, dragging us along with them. Consider, my worthy Cratylus, a question about which I often dream. Shall we assert that there is any absolute beauty, or good, or any other absolute existence, or not?

Cratylus. I think there is, Socrates.

Socrates. Then let us consider the absolute, not whether a particular face, or something of that sort, is beautiful, or whether all these things are in flux. Is not, in our opinion, absolute beauty always such as it is?

Cratylus. That is inevitable.

Socrates. Can we, then, if it is always passing away, correctly say that it is this, then that it is that, or must it inevitably, in the very instant while we are speaking, become something else and pass away and no longer be what it is?

Cratylus. That is inevitable.

Socrates. How, then, can that which is never in the same state be anything? For if it is ever in the same state, then obviously at that time it is not changing; and if it is always in the same state and is always the same, how can it ever change or move without relinquishing its own form?

Cratylus. It cannot do so at all.

Section 440

Socrates. No, nor can it be known by anyone. For at the moment when he who seeks to know it approaches, it becomes something else and different, so that its nature and state can no longer be known; and surely there is no knowledge which knows that which is in no state.

Cratylus. It is as you say.

Socrates. But we cannot even say that there is any knowledge, if all things are changing and nothing remains fixed; for if knowledge itself does not change and cease to be knowledge, then knowledge would remain, and there would be knowledge; but if the very essence of knowledge changes, at the moment of the change to another essence of knowledge there would be no knowledge, and if it is always changing, there will always be no knowledge, and by this reasoning there will be neither anyone to know nor anything to be known. But if there is always that which knows and that which is known—if the beautiful, the good, and all the other verities exist—I do not see how there is any likeness between these conditions of which I am now speaking and flux or motion. Now whether this is the nature of things, or the doctrine of Heracleitus and many others is true, is another question; but surely no man of sense can put himself and his soul under the control of names, and trust in names and their makers to the point of affirming that he knows anything; nor will he condemn himself and all things and say that there is no health in them, but that all things are flowing like leaky pots, or believe that all things are just like people afflicted with catarrh, flowing and running all the time. Perhaps, Cratylus, this theory is true, but perhaps it is not. Therefore you must consider courageously and thoroughly and not accept anything carelessly—for you are still young and in your prime; then, if after investigation you find the truth, impart it to me.

Cratylus. I will do so. However, I assure you, Socrates, that I have already considered the matter, and after toilsome consideration I think the doctrine of Heracleitus is much more likely to be true.

Socrates. Some other time, then, my friend, you will teach me, when you come back; but now go into the country as you have made ready to do; and Hermogenes here will go with you a bit.

Cratylus. Very well, Socrates, and I hope you also will continue to think of these matters.