While he was saying this, Cleinias made his reply, so that I was unable even to advise the boy to be wary: he replied that it was the wise who were the learners. Then Euthydemus asked: And are there persons whom you call teachers, or not?He agreed that there were. And the teachers of the learners are teachers in the same way as your lute-master and your writing-master, I suppose, were teachers of you and the other boys, while you were pupils?He assented. Now, of course, when you were learning, you did not yet know the things you were learning?No, he said. So were you wise, when you did not know those things? No, to be sure, he said. Then if not wise, foolish? Certainly. So when you learnt what you did not know, you learnt while being foolish. To this the lad nodded assent. Hence it is the foolish who learn, Cleinias, and not the wise, as you suppose. When he had thus spoken, all those followers of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus raised a cheer and a laugh, like a chorus at the signal of their director; and before the boy could fairly and fully recover his breath Dionysodorus took up the cudgels and said: Well now, Cleinias, whenever your writing-master dictated from memory, which of the boys learnt the piece recited, the wise or the foolish? The wise, said Cleinias. So it is the wise who learn, and not the foolish: hence the answer you gave just now to Euthydemus was a bad one. Thereupon arose a great deal of laughter and loud applause from the pair’s adorers, in admiration of their cleverness; while we on our side were dismayed and held our peace. Then Euthydemus, observing our dismay, and seeking to astonish us still further, would not let the boy go, but went on questioning him and, like a skilful dancer, gave a twofold twist to his questions on the same point: Now, do the learners learn what they know, he asked, or what they do not? Then Dionysodorus whispered to me again softly: Here comes a second one, Socrates, just like the first. Heavens! I replied: surely the first question served you well enough. All our questions, Socrates, he said, are like that; they leave no escape. And consequently, as it seems to me, I remarked, you have this high repute among your disciples.

Meanwhile Cleinias answered Euthydemus, that learners learnt what they did not know; so he had to meet the same course of questions as before: Well then, asked the other, do you not know your letters?Yes, he said. All of them? He admitted it. Now when anyone dictates some piece or other, does he not dictate letters? He admitted it. And he dictates things of which you know something, since you know all of them? He admitted this too. Well now, said the other, surely you do not learn whatever such a person dictates; it is rather he who does not know his letters that learns? No, he replied; I learn. Then you learn what you know, since you know all your letters. He agreed. So your answer was not correct, he said. The last word was hardly out of Euthydemus’ mouth when Dionysodorus caught, as it were, the ball of the argument and, aiming at the boy again, said: Euthydemus is deceiving you, Cleinias. Tell me, is not learning the reception of knowledge of that which one learns? Cleinias agreed. And is not knowing, he went on, just having knowledge at the time? He assented. So that not knowing is not yet having knowledge? He agreed with him. Then are those who receive anything those who have it already, or those who have it not? Those who have it not. And you have admitted that those who do not know belong also to this class of those who have it not? He nodded assent. And the learners belong to the class of the receiving and not to that of the having? He agreed. Hence it is those who do not know that learn, Cleinias, and not those who know. Euthydemus was proceeding to press the youth for the third fall, when I, perceiving the lad was going under, and wishing to give him some breathing-space lest he should shame us by losing heart, encouraged him with these words: Cleinias, do not be surprised that these arguments seem strange to you; for perhaps you do not discern what our two visitors are doing to you. They are acting just like the celebrants of the Corybantic rites, when they perform the enthronement of the person whom they are about to initiate. There, as you know, if you have been through it, they have dancing and merrymaking: so here these two are merely dancing about you and performing their sportive gambols with a view to your subsequent initiation. You must now, accordingly, suppose you are listening to the first part of the professorial mysteries.