Meno

Men.

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

Soc.

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.

Men.

Well, in my view, Socrates, virtue is, in the poet’s words,

to rejoice in things honorable and be able for them

[*](Perhaps from Simonides.); and that, I say, is virtue—to desire what is honorable and be able to procure it.

Soc.

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

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

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?

Men.

I think not.

Soc.

There are some who desire the evil?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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

Men.

Both, I believe.

Soc.

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

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

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

Men.

Yes; what else could it be?

Soc.

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

Men.

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

Soc.

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

Men.

I do not think that at all.

Soc.

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?

Men.

It would seem to be so in their case.

Soc.

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?

Men.

They needs must.

Soc.

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

Men.

That too must be.

Soc.

And are not the miserable ill-starred?

Men.

I think so.

Soc.

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

Men.

I do not suppose there is, Socrates.

Soc.

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?

Men.

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

Soc.

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

Men.

Yes, I was.

Soc.

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

Men.

Apparently.

Soc.

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

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

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

Men.

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

Soc.

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?

Men.

I do.

Soc.

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

Men.

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

Soc.

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

Men.

No, I refer only to everything of that sort.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Surely not, Socrates.

Soc.

Rather, vice.

Men.

Yes, of course.

Soc.

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.

Men.

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

Soc.

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?

Men.

Apparently.

Soc.

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.

Men.

I agree that it must be as you say.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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

Men.

How so, Socrates?

Soc.

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?

Men.

I do.

Soc.

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?

Men.

No, I do not.

Soc.

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.

Men.

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

Soc.

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?

Men.

I think what you say is right.

Soc.

Then answer me again from the beginning: what do both you and your associate say that virtue is?

Men.

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.

Soc.

You are a rogue, Meno, and had almost deceived me.

Men.

How is that, Socrates?

Soc.

I perceive your aim in thus comparing me.

Men.

What was it?

Soc.

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.

Men.

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?

Soc.

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.