Meno

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.

Men.

Now does it seem to you to be a good argument, Socrates?

Soc.

It does not.

Men.

Can you explain how not?

Soc.

I can; for I have heard from wise men and women who told of things divine that—

Men.

What was it they said ?

Soc.

Something true, as I thought, and admirable.

Men.

What was it? And who were the speakers?

Soc.

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,[*](πένθος (affliction) in mystic language means something like "fall" or "sin." These lines are probably from one of Pindar’s Dirges (Bergk, fr. 133).) 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.

Pind. Fr. 133 BergkSeeing 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.

Men.

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?

Soc.

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.

Men.

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.

Soc.

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.

Men.

Certainly. You, I say, come here.

Soc.

He is a Greek, I suppose, and speaks Greek?

Men.

Oh yes, to be sure—born in the house.

Soc.

Now observe closely whether he strikes you as recollecting or as learning from me.

Men.

I will.

Soc.

Tell me, boy, do you know that a square figure is like this?[*](Socrates draws in the sand.)

Boy.

I do.

Soc.

Now, a square figure has these lines, four in number, all equal?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And these, drawn through the middle,[*](i.e., the middle of each side of the square.) are equal too, are they not?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And a figure of this sort may be larger or smaller?

Boy.

To be sure.

Soc.

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 ?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

But as it is two feet also on that side, it must be twice two feet?

Boy.

It is.

Soc.

Then the space is twice two feet?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Well, how many are twice two feet? Count and tell me.

Boy.

Four, Socrates.

Soc.

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?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then how many feet will it be?

Boy.

Eight.

Soc.

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?

Boy.

Clearly, Socrates, double.

Soc.

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?

Men.

I do.

Soc.

Well, does he know?

Men.

Certainly not.

Soc.

He just supposes it, from the double size required?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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.

Boy.

I do.

Soc.

Well, this line is doubled, if we add here another of the same length?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And you say we shall get our eight-foot space from four lines of this length?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

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?

Boy.

Certainly.

Soc.

And here, contained in it, have we not four squares, each of which is equal to this space of four feet?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Then how large is the whole? Four times that space, is it not?

Boy.

It must be.

Soc.

And is four times equal to double?

Boy.

No, to be sure.

Soc.

But how much is it?

Boy.

Fourfold.

Soc.

Thus, from the double-sized line, boy, we get a space, not of double, but of fourfold size.

Boy.

That is true.

Soc.

And if it is four times four it is sixteen, is it not?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

What line will give us a space of eight feet? This one gives us a fourfold space, does it not?

Boy.

It does.

Soc.

And a space of four feet is made from this line of half the length?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Very well; and is not a space of eight feet double the size of this one, and half the size of this other?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Will it not be made from a line longer than the one of these, and shorter than the other?

Boy.

I think so.

Soc.

Excellent: always answer just what you think. Now tell me, did we not draw this line two feet, and that four?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

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?

Boy.

It should.

Soc.

Try and tell me how much you would say it is.

Boy.

Three feet.

Soc.

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.

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Now if it be three this way and three that way, the whole space will be thrice three feet, will it not?

Boy.

So it seems.

Soc.

And thrice three feet are how many?

Boy.

Nine.

Soc.

And how many feet was that double one to be?

Boy.

Eight.

Soc.

So we fail to get our eight-foot figure from this three-foot line.

Boy.

Yes, indeed.

Soc.

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.

Boy.

Well, on my word, Socrates, I for one do not know.

Soc.

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.

Men.

That is true.

Soc.

And is he not better off in respect of the matter which he did not know?

Men.

I think that too is so.

Soc.

Now, by causing him to doubt and giving him the torpedo’s shock, have we done him any harm?

Men.

I think not.

Soc.

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.

Men.

It seems so.

Soc.

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?

Men.

I think not, Socrates.

Soc.

Then the torpedo’s shock was of advantage to him?

Men.

I think so.

Soc.

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,[*](ABCD.) have we not? You understand?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And here we add another square[*](DCFE.) equal to it?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And here a third,[*](CHGF.) equal to either of them?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

Now shall we fill up this vacant space[*](BIHC.) in the corner?

Boy.

By all means.

Soc.

So here we must have four equal spaces? BOY. Yes.

Soc.

Well now, how many times larger is this whole space than this other?

Boy.

Four times.

Soc.

But it was to have been only twice, you remember?

Boy.

To be sure.

Soc.

And does this line,[*](BD.) drawn from corner to corner, cut in two each of these spaces?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And have we here four equal lines[*](BD, DF, FH, HB.) containing this space[*](BDFH.)?

Boy.

We have.

Soc.

Now consider how large this space[*](BDFH.) is.

Boy.

I do not understand.

Soc.

Has not each of the inside lines cut off half of each of these four spaces?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

And how many spaces of that size are there in this part?

Boy.

Four.

Soc.

And how many in this[*](ABCD.)?

Boy.

Two.

Soc.

And four is how many times two?

Boy.

Twice.

Soc.

And how many feet is this space[*](BDFH.)?

Boy.

Eight feet.

Soc.

From what line do we get this figure?

Boy.

From this.

Soc.

From the line drawn corner-wise across the (our-foot figure?

Boy.

Yes.

Soc.

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.

Boy.

Yes, certainly it is, Socrates.

Soc.

What do you think, Meno? Was there any opinion that he did not give as an answer of his own thought?

Men.

No, they were all his own.

Soc.

But you see, he did not know, as we were saying a while since.

Men.

That is true.

Soc.

Yet he had in him these opinions, had he not?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Apparently.

Soc.

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.

Men.

So it seems.

Soc.

Without anyone having taught him, and only through questions put to him, he will understand, recovering the knowledge out of himself?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

And is not this recovery of knowledge, in himself and by himself, recollection?

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

And must he not have either once acquired or always had the knowledge he now has?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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.

Men.

Well, I know that no one has ever taught him.

Soc.

And has he these opinions, or has he not?

Men.

He must have them, Socrates, evidently.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Apparently.

Soc.

And this must have been the time when he was not a human being?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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.

Men.

Evidently.

Soc.

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?

Men.

What you say commends itself to me, Socrates, I know not how.

Soc.

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.

Men.

There also I consider that you speak aright, Socrates.

Soc.

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?

Men.

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.

Soc.

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,[*](Socrates characteristically pretends to be at the mercy of the wayward young man.) 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.

Soc.

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 [*](The problem seems to be that of inscribing in a circle a triangle (BDG) equal in area to a given rectangle (ABCD).) is such that when you apply it to the given line[*](i.e., the diameter (BF).) of the circle you find it falls short[*](i.e., falls short of the rectangle on the diameter (ABFE).) 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?

Men.

I agree to that.

Soc.

Then if virtue is a kind of knowledge, clearly it must be taught?

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

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.

Men.

To be sure.

Soc.

The next question, it would seem, that we have to consider is whether virtue is knowledge, or of another kind than knowledge.

Men.

I should say that is the next thing we have to consider.

Soc.

Well now, surely we call virtue a good thing, do we not, and our hypothesis stands, that it is good?

Men.

Certainly we do.

Soc.

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.

Men.

Quite so.

Soc.

Now it is by virtue that we are good?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

And if good, profitable; for all good things are profitable, are they not?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

So virtue is profitable?

Men.

That must follow from what has been admitted.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

But these same things, we admit, actually harm us at times; or do you dispute that statement?

Men.

No, I agree.

Soc.

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?

Men.

To be sure.

Soc.

Then let us consider next the goods of the soul: by these you understand temperance, justice, courage, intelligence, memory, magnanimity, and so forth?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Yes.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Most certainly.

Soc.

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?

Men.

So it seems.

Soc.

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.

Men.

I agree.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

And the wise soul guides rightly, and the foolish erroneously?

Men.

That is so.

Soc.

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?

Men.

Certainly.

Soc.

Hence we conclude that virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom?

Men.

It seems to me that your statement, Socrates, is excellent.

Soc.

Then if this is so, good men cannot be good by nature.

Men.

I think not.

Soc.

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.

Men.

Yes, most likely, Socrates.

Soc.

So since it is not by nature that the good become good, is it by education?

Men.

We must now conclude, I think, that it is; and plainly, Socrates, on our hypothesis that virtue is knowledge, it must be taught.

Soc.

Yes, I daresay; but what if we were not right in agreeing to that?

Men.

Well, it seemed to be a correct statement a moment ago.

Soc.

Yes, but not only a moment ago must it seem correct, but now also and hereafter, if it is to be at all sound.

Men.

Why, what reason have you to make a difficulty about it, and feel a doubt as to virtue being knowledge?

Soc.

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?

Men.

I think so.

Soc.

Then also conversely, if a thing had neither teachers nor learners, we should be right in surmising that it could not be taught?

Men.

That is so: but do you think there are no teachers of virtue?