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.

First of all, as Prodicus says, you have to learn about the correct use of words—the very point that our two visitors are making plain to you, namely, that you were unaware that learning is the name which people apply on the one hand to the case of a man who, having originally no knowledge about some matter, in course of time receives such knowledge; and on the other hand the same word is applied when, having the knowledge already, he uses that knowledge for the investigation of the same matter whether occurring in action or in speech. It is true that they tend rather to call it understanding than learning, but occasionally they call it learning too; and this point, as our friends are demonstrating, has escaped your notice—how the same word is used for people who are in the opposite conditions of knowing and not knowing. A similar point underlay the second question, where they asked you whether people learn what they know, or what they do not. Such things are the sport of the sciences—and that is why I tell you these men are making game of you; I call it sport because, although one were to learn many or even all of such tricks, one would be not a whit the wiser as to the true state of the matters in hand, but only able to make game of people, thanks to the difference in the sense of the words, by tripping them up and overturning them; just as those who slyly pull stools away from persons who are about to sit down make merry and laugh when they see one sprawling on one’s back. So far, then, you are to regard these gentlemen’s treatment of you as mere play: but after this they will doubtless display to you their own serious object, while I shall keep them on the track and see that they fulfil the promise they gave me. They said they would exhibit their skill in exhortation; but instead, I conceive, they thought fit to make sport with you first. So now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, let us have done with your sport: I daresay you have had as much as you want. What you have next to do is to give us a display of exhorting this youth as to how he should devote himself to wisdom and virtue. But first I shall explain to you how I regard this matter and how I desire to hear it dealt with. If I strike you as treating it in a crude and ridiculous manner, do not laugh me to scorn; for in my eagerness to listen to your wisdom I shall venture to improvise in your presence. So both you and your disciples must restrain yourselves and listen without laughing; and you, son of Axiochus, answer me this: Do all we human beings wish to prosper? Or is this question one of the absurdities I was afraid of just now? For I suppose it is stupid merely to ask such things, since every man must wish to prosper.

Well, then, suppose you were on a campaign, with which kind of general would you prefer to share both the peril and the luck—a wise one, or an ignorant? With a wise one. Well then, supposing you were sick, with which kind of doctor would you like to venture yourself a wise one, or an ignorant? With a wise one. And your reason, I said, is this, that you would fare with better fortune in the hands of a wise one than of an ignorant one? He assented. So that wisdom everywhere causes men to be fortunate: since I presume she could never err, but must needs be right in act and result; otherwise she could be no longer wisdom. We came to an agreement somehow or other in the end that the truth in general was this: when wisdom is present, he with whom it is present has no need of good fortune as well; and as we had agreed on this I began to inquire of him over again what we should think, in this case, of our previous agreements. For we agreed, said I, that if many goods were present to us we should be happy and prosper. Yes, he said. Then would we be happy because of our present goods, if they gave us no benefit, or if they gave us some? If they gave us benefit, he said. And would a thing benefit us if we merely had it and did not use it? For instance, if we had a lot of provisions, but did not eat them, or liquor, and did not drink it, could we be said to be benefited? Of course not, he answered. Well then, if every craftsman found the requisites for his particular work all ready prepared for him, and then made no use of them, would he prosper because of these acquisitions, as having acquired all the things necessary for a craftsman to have at hand? For example, if a carpenter were furnished with all his tools and a good supply of wood, but did no carpentry, is it possible he could be benefited by what he had got? By no means, he said. Well now, suppose a man had got wealth and all the goods that we mentioned just now, but made no use of them; would he be happy because of his possessing these goods? Surely not, Socrates. So it seems one must not merely have acquired such goods if one is to be happy, but use them too; else there is no benefit gained from their possession. True. Then have we here enough means, Cleinias, for making a man happy—in the possession of these goods and using them? I think so. Shall we say, I asked, if he uses them rightly, or just as much if he does not? If rightly.