Euthydemus

Cri.

Very like Ctesippus!

Soc.

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.

Cri.

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?

Soc.

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.

Cri.

How did this happen to you, Socrates?

Soc.

I will tell you. We took the view that the statesman’s and the monarch’s arts were one and the same.

Cri.

Well, what then?

Soc.

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[*](Cf. Aesch. Seven 2 Whoso at helm of the state keeps watch upon affairs, guiding the tiller without resting his eyelids in sleep.) expresses it, is seated alone at the helm of the city, steering the whole, commanding the whole, and making the whole useful.

Cri.

And surely your notion was a good one, Socrates?

Soc.

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?

Cri.

I would.

Soc.

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?

Cri.

I would.

Soc.

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?

Cri.

I would.

Soc.

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.

Cri.

I am not indeed, Socrates.

Soc.

Nor were we, Crito; yet so much you know, that if this is really the one we are seeking, it must be beneficial.

Cri.

Certainly.

Soc.

Then surely it must purvey something good?

Cri.

Necessarily, Socrates.

Soc.

And you know we agreed with each other, Cleinias and I, that nothing can be good but some sort of knowledge.

Cri.

Yes, so you told me.

Soc.

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.

Cri.

True: so at all events you agreed then, by your account of the discussion.

Soc.

Then do you think that kingship makes men wise and good?

Cri.

Why not, Socrates?

Soc.

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?

Cri.

No, I think not, Socrates.

Soc.

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?

Cri.

I quite agree.

Soc.

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[*](Cf. Pind. N. 7. Megara, a colony of Corinth, revolted, and when the Corinthians appealed to the sentiment attaching to Corinthus, the mythical founder of Megara, the Megarians drove them off taunting them with using a vain repetition.); 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.

Cri.

Upon my word, Socrates, you got yourselves there, it seems, into a pretty fix.

Soc.

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[*](Lit. the big wave that comes in every three.) 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

Cri.

Well, did Euthydemus consent to propound anything for you?

Soc.

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.

Soc.

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.

Soc.

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.

Soc.

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.

Soc.

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.[*](i.e. any kinsman or helper I might summon would only add to the number of your victims.) 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?

Soc.

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?[*](Cf. Plat. Gorg. 494a, where the life of a stone is given as a proverbial example of a life without pleasure or pain.) 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,[*](i.e. treating two different things as the same.) 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.

Soc.

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[*](Two fabulous giants (Geryon had three, Briareus fifty, pairs of arms).) 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.

Soc.

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?[*](The quibble is on the double meaning of δυνατὰ ὁρᾶν—(a)possible, and (b)able to see. So in what follows, σιγῶντα λέγειν may mean both the speaking of a silent person, or speaking of silent things.) 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.

Soc.

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.[*](The Greek works follow a usual form of prayer or hymn to the gods.)

Soc.

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[*](Zeus was the ancestral or tutelary god of the Dorians)? 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.[*](Cf. Eur. Ion 64-75. Apollo begot Ion upon Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus.) 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.

Soc.

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.

Soc.

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[*](Cf. Pind. O. 1., which begins—Ἄριστον μὲν ὕδωρ.) 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.

Cri.

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[*](The allusion is probably to Isocrates.)—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.

Cri.

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.

Soc.

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?

Cri.

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.

Soc.

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.

Cri.

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.

Soc.

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.

Cri.

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.

Soc.

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?

Cri.

Certainly I do, of course.

Soc.

Well then, in each of these, do you not see most men making a ridiculous show at their respective tasks?

Cri.

Yes, I know: what you say is perfectly true.

Soc.

Then will you yourself on this account eschew all these pursuits, and not let your son have anything to do with them?

Cri.

No, there would be no good reason for that, Socrates.

Soc.

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.