Complete Works (158 page)

Then it is the ignorant who learn, Clinias, and not the wise, as you suppose.

When he said this, the followers of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus [c] broke into applause and laughter, just like a chorus at a sign from their director. And before the boy could well recover his breath, Dionysodorus took up the argument and said, Well then, Clinias, when the writing master gave you dictation, which of the boys learned the piece, the wise or the ignorant?

The wise, said Clinias.

Then it is the wise who learn, and not the ignorant, and you gave Euthydemus a wrong answer just now.

Whereupon the supporters of the pair laughed and cheered very loudly [d] indeed, in admiration of their cleverness. We, on the other hand, were panic-struck and kept quiet. Euthydemus, observing our distress, and in order to confound us further, would not let the boy go but went on questioning him and, like a skillful dancer, gave a double twist to his questions on the same point, saying, Do those who learn learn the things they know or the things they do not know?

And Dionysodorus again whispered to me in a low voice, This is another, [e] Socrates, just like the first.

Mercy on us, I said, the first question certainly seemed good enough!

All our questions are of this same inescapable sort, Socrates, he said.

And this, no doubt, is the reason why your pupils admire you so much, I said.

Just then Clinias answered Euthydemus that the learners learned what they do not know, whereupon Euthydemus put him through the same course of questions as before.

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What then, he said, don’t you know your letters?

Yes, he said.

Then you know them all?

He agreed.

Whenever anyone dictates anything, doesn’t he dictate letters?

He agreed.

[b] Then doesn’t he dictate something you know, if you really know them all?

He agreed to this too.

Well then, he said, you are not the one who learns what someone dictates, are you, but the one who doesn’t know his letters is the one who learns?

No, he said, I am the one who learns.

Then you learn what you know, he said, if you in fact do know all your letters.

He agreed.

Then your answer was wrong, he said.

Euthydemus had barely said this when Dionysodorus picked up the argument as though it were a ball and aimed it at the boy again, saying, Euthydemus is completely deceiving you, Clinias. Tell me, isn’t learning the acquisition of the knowledge of what one learns?

Clinias agreed.

And what about knowing? he said. Is it anything except having knowledge already?

[c] He agreed.

Then not knowing is not yet having knowledge?

He agreed with him.

And are those who acquire something those who have it already or those who do not?

Those who do not.

And you have admitted, haven’t you, that those who do not know belong to the group of those who do not have something?

He nodded.

Then the learners belong to those who acquire and not to those who have?

He agreed.

Then it is those who do not know who learn, Clinias, and not those who know.

[d] Euthydemus was hastening to throw the young man for the third fall when I, seeing that he was going down and wanting to give him a chance to breathe so that he should not turn coward and disgrace us, encouraged him, saying, Don’t be surprised, Clinias, if these arguments seem strange to you, since perhaps you don’t take in what the visitors are doing with you. They are doing exactly what people do in the Corybantic mysteries when they enthrone a person they intend to initiate. If you have been initiated you know that there is dancing and sport on these occasions; and now these two are doing nothing except dancing around you and making [e] sportive leaps with a view to initiating you presently. So you must now imagine yourself to be hearing the first part of the sophistic mysteries. In the first place, as Prodicus says, you must learn about the correct use of words; and our two visitors are pointing out this very thing, that you did not realize that people use the word “learn” not only in the situation in which a person who has no knowledge of a thing in the beginning acquires
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it later, but also when he who has this knowledge already uses it to inspect the same thing, whether this is something spoken or something done. (As a matter of fact, people call the latter “understand” rather than “learn,” but they do sometimes call it “learn” as well.)Now this, as they are pointing out, had escaped your notice—that the same word is applied to opposite sorts of men, to both the man who knows and the man who does not. There was something similar to this in the second question, when they asked you whether people learn what they know or what they do not [b] know. These things are the frivolous part of study (which is why I also tell you that the men are jesting); and I call these things “frivolity” because even if a man were to learn many or even all such things, he would be none the wiser as to how matters stand but would only be able to make fun of people, tripping them up and overturning them by means of the distinctions in words, just like the people who pull the chair out from under a man who is going to sit down and then laugh gleefully when they see him sprawling on his back. So you must think of their performance [c] as having been mere play. But after this they will doubtless show you serious things, if anyone will, and I shall give them a lead to make sure they hand over what they promised me. They said they would give a demonstration of hortatory skill, but now it seems to me that they must have thought it necessary to make fun of you before beginning. So, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, put an end to this joking; I think we have had [d] enough of it. The next thing to do is to give an exhibition of persuading the young man that he ought to devote himself to wisdom and virtue. But first I shall give you two a demonstration of the way in which I conceive the undertaking and of the sort of thing I want to hear. And if I seem to you to be doing this in an unprofessional and ridiculous way, don’t laugh at me—it is out of a desire to hear your wisdom that I have the audacity to improvise in front of you. Therefore, you and your disciples restrain [e] yourselves and listen without laughing; and you, son of Axiochus, answer me:

Do all men wish to do well? Or is this question one of the ridiculous ones I was afraid of just now? I suppose it is stupid even to raise such a question, since there could hardly be a man who would not wish to do well.

No, there is no such person, said Clinias.

Well then, I said, the next question is, since we wish to do well, how are we to do so? Would it be through having many good things? Or is this question still more simple-minded than the other, since this must obviously be the case too?

He agreed.

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Well then, what kinds of existing things are good for us? Or perhaps this isn’t a difficult question and we don’t need an important personage to supply the answer because everybody would tell us that to be rich is a good—isn’t that so?

Very much so, he said.

[b] And so with being healthy, and handsome, and having a sufficient supply of the other things the body needs?

He agreed.

And, again, it is clear that noble birth, and power, and honor in one’s country are goods.

He agreed.

Then which goods do we have left? I said. What about being self-controlled and just and brave? For heaven’s sake tell me, Clinias, whether you think we will be putting these in the right place if we class them as goods or if we refuse to do so? Perhaps someone might quarrel with us on this point—how does it seem to you?

They are goods, said Clinias.

[c] Very well, said I. And where in the company shall we station wisdom? Among the goods, or what shall we do with it?

Among the goods.

Now be sure we do not leave out any goods worth mentioning.

I don’t think we are leaving out any, said Clinias.

But I remembered one and said, Good heavens, Clinias, we are in danger of leaving out the greatest good of all!

Which one is that? He said.

Good fortune, Clinias, which everybody, even quite worthless people, says is the greatest of the goods.

You are right, he said.

[d] And I reconsidered a second time and said, son of Axiochus, you and I have nearly made ourselves ridiculous in front of our visitors.

How so? he said.

Because in putting good fortune in our previous list we are now saying the same thing all over again.

What do you mean?

Surely it is ridiculous, when a thing has already been brought up, to bring it up again and say the same things twice.

What do you mean by that?

Wisdom is surely good fortune, I said—this is something even a child would know.

He was amazed—he is still so young and simple-minded.

I noticed his surprise and said, You know, don’t you, Clinias, that flute [e] players have the best luck when it comes to success in flute music?

He agreed.

And the writing masters at reading and writing?

Certainly.

What about the perils of the sea—surely you don’t think that, as a general rule, any pilots have better luck than the wise ones?

Certainly not.

And again, if you were on a campaign, with which general would you
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prefer to share both the danger and the luck, a wise one or an ignorant one?

With a wise one.

And if you were sick, would you rather take a chance with a wise doctor or with an ignorant one?

With a wise one.

Then it is your opinion, I said, that it is luckier to do things in the company of wise men than ignorant ones?

He agreed.

So wisdom makes men fortunate in every case, since I don’t suppose she would ever make any sort of mistake but must necessarily do right and be lucky—otherwise she would no longer be wisdom.

We finally agreed (I don’t know quite how) that, in sum, the situation [b] was this: if a man had wisdom, he had no need of any good fortune in addition. When we had settled this point, I went back and asked him how our former statements might be affected. We decided, I said, that if we had many good things, we should be happy and do well.

He agreed.

And would the possession of good things make us happy if they were [c] of no advantage to us, or if they were of some?

If they were of some advantage, he said.

And would they be advantageous to us if we simply had them and did not use them? For instance, if we had a great deal of food but didn’t eat any, or plenty to drink but didn’t drink any, would we derive any advantage from these things?

Certainly not, he said.

Well then, if every workman had all the materials necessary for his particular job but never used them, would he do well by reason of possessing all the things a workman requires? For instance, if a carpenter were provided with all his tools and plenty of wood but never did any carpentry, could he be said to benefit from their possession? [d]

Not at all, he said.

Well then, if a man had money and all the good things we were mentioning just now but made no use of them, would he be happy as a result of having these good things?

Clearly not, Socrates.

So it seems, I said, that the man who means to be happy must not only have such goods but must use them too, or else there is no advantage in having them.

You are right.

[e] Then are these two things, the possession of good things and the use of them, enough to make a man happy, Clinias?

They seem so to me, at any rate.

If, I said, he uses them rightly, or if he does not?

If he uses them rightly.

Well spoken, I said. Now I suppose there is more harm done if someone uses a thing wrongly than if he lets it alone—in the first instance there is
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evil, but in the second neither evil nor good. Or isn’t this what we maintain?

He agreed that it was.

Then what comes next? In working and using wood there is surely nothing else that brings about right use except the knowledge of carpentry, is there?

Certainly not.

And, again, I suppose that in making utensils, it is knowledge that produces the right method.

He agreed.

And also, I said, with regard to using the goods we mentioned first—[b] wealth and health and beauty—was it knowledge that ruled and directed our conduct in relation to the right use of all such things as these, or some other thing?

It was knowledge, he said.

Then knowledge seems to provide men not only with good fortune but also with well-doing, in every case of possession or action.

He agreed.

Then in heaven’s name, I said, is there any advantage in other possessions without good sense and wisdom? Would a man with no sense profit more if he possessed and did much or if he possessed and did little?
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Look at [c] it this way: if he did less, would he not make fewer mistakes; and if he made fewer mistakes, would he not do less badly, and if he did less badly, would he not be less miserable?

Yes, indeed, he said.

And in which case would one do less, if one were poor or if one were rich?

Poor, he said.

And if one were weak or strong?

Weak.

If one were held in honor or in dishonor?

In dishonor.

And if one were brave and self-controlled would one do less, or if one were a coward?

A coward.

Then the same would be true if one were lazy rather than industrious?

He agreed.

And slow rather than quick, and dull of sight and hearing rather than [d] keen?

We agreed with each other on all points of this sort.

So, to sum up, Clinias, I said, it seems likely that with respect to all the things we called good in the beginning, the correct account is not that in themselves they are good by nature, but rather as follows: if ignorance controls them, they are greater evils than their opposites, to the extent that they are more capable of complying with a bad master; but if good sense and wisdom are in control, they are greater goods. In themselves, however, [e] neither sort is of any value.