Did you find them different from the beautiful, he said, or the same as the beautiful? Here I was desperately perplexed, and felt that I had my deserts for the grunt I had made: however, I replied that they were different from the beautiful itself, though each of them had some beauty present with it. So if an ox is present with you, he said, you are an ox, and since I am now present with you, you are Dionysodorus. Heavens, do not say that! I cried. But in what way can one thing, by having a different thing present with it, be itself different? Are you at a loss there? I asked: already I was attempting to imitate the cleverness of these men, I was so eager to get it. Can I help being at a loss, he said, I and likewise everybody else in the world, in face of what cannot be? What is that you say, Dionysodorus? I asked: is not the beautiful beautiful, and the ugly ugly? Yes, if it seems so to me, he replied. Then does it seem so? Certainly, he said. Then the same also is the same, and the different different? For I presume the different cannot be the same; nay, I thought not even a child would doubt that the different is different. But, Dionysodorus, you have deliberately passed over this one point; though, on the whole, I feel that, like craftsmen finishing off each his special piece of work, you two are carrying out your disputation in excellent style. Well, he asked, do you know what is each craftsman’s special piece of work? First of all, whose proper task is it to forge brass? Can you tell? I can: a brazier’s. Well, again, whose to make pots? A potter’s. Once more, whose to slaughter and skin, and after cutting up the joints to stew and roast? A caterer’s, I said. Now, if one does one’s proper work, he said, one will do rightly? Yes, to be sure. And is it, as you say, the caterer’s proper work to cut up and skin? Did you admit this or not? I did so, I replied, but pray forgive me. It is clear then, he proceeded, that if someone slaughters the caterer and cuts him up, and then stews or roasts him, he will be doing his proper work; and if he hammers the brazier himself, and moulds the potter, he will be doing his business likewise. Poseidon! I exclaimed, there you give the finishing touch to your wisdom. I wonder if this skill could ever come to me in such manner as to be my very own. Would you recognize it, Socrates, he asked, if it came to be your own? Yes, if only you are agreeable, I replied, without a doubt. Why, he went on, do you imagine you perceive what is yours? Yes, if I take your meaning aright: for all my hopes arise from you, and end in Euthydemus here.The Greek works follow a usual form of prayer or hymn to the gods.

Then tell me, he asked, do you count those things yours which you control and are free to use as you please? For instance, an ox or a sheep,would you count these as yours, if you were free to sell or bestow them, or sacrifice them to any god you chose? And things which you could not treat thus are not yours? Hereupon, since I knew that some brilliant result was sure to bob up from the mere turn of the questions, and as I also wanted to hear it as quickly as possible, I said: It is precisely as you say; only such things are mine. Well now, he went on: you call those things animals which have life? Yes, I said. And you admit that only those animals are yours which you are at liberty to deal with in those various ways that I mentioned just now? I admit that. Then—after a very ironical pause, as though he were pondering some great matter—he proceeded: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral ZeusZeus was the ancestral or tutelary god of the Dorians? Here I suspected the discussion was approaching the point at which it eventually ended, and so I tried what desperate wriggle I could to escape from the net in which I now felt myself entangled. My answer was: I have not, Dionysodorus. What a miserable fellow you must be, he said, and no Athenian at all, if you have neither ancestral gods, nor shrines, nor anything else that denotes a gentleman! Enough, Dionysodorus; speak fair words, and don’t browbeat your pupil! For I have altars and shrines, domestic and ancestral, and everything else of the sort that other Athenians have. Then have not other Athenians, he asked, their ancestral Zeus? None of the Ionians, I replied, give him this title, neither we nor those who have left this city to settle abroad: they have an ancestral Apollo, because of Ion’s parentage.Cf. Eur. Ion 64-75. Apollo begot Ion upon Creusa, daughter of Erechtheus. Among us the name ancestral is not given to Zeus, but that of houseward and tribal, and we have a tribal Athena. That will do, said Dionysodorus; you have, it seems, Apollo and Zeus and Athena. Certainly, I said. Then these must be your gods? he said. My ancestors, I said, and lords. Well, at least, you have them, he said: or have you not admitted they are yours? I have admitted it, I replied: what else could I do? And are not these gods animals? he asked: you know you have admitted that whatever has life is an animal. Or have these gods no life? They have, I replied. Then are they not animals? Yes, animals, I said. And those animals, he went on, you have admitted to be yours, which you are free to bestow and sell and sacrifice to any god you please. I have admitted it, I replied; there is no escape for me, Euthydemus.

Come then, tell me straight off, he said; since you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, are you free to sell or bestow them or treat them just as you please, like the other animals? Well, Crito, here I must say I was knocked out, as it were, by the argument, and lay speechless; then Ctesippus rushed to the rescue and—Bravo, Hercules! he cried, a fine argument! Whereat Dionysodorus asked: Now, do you mean that Hercules is a bravo, or that bravo is Hercules? Ctesippus replied: Poseidon, what a frightful use of words! I give up the fight: these two are invincible. Hereupon I confess, my dear Crito, that everyone present without exception wildly applauded the argument and the two men, till they all nearly died of laughing and clapping and rejoicing. For their previous successes had been highly acclaimed one by one, but only by the devotees of Euthydemus; whereas now almost the very pillars of the Lyceum took part in the joyful acclamations in honor of the pair. For myself, I was quite disposed to admit that never had I set eyes on such clever people, and I was so utterly enthralled by their skill that I betook myself to praising and congratulating them, and said: Ah, happy pair! What amazing genius, to acquire such a great accomplishment so quickly and in so short a time! Among the many fine points in your arguments, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, there is one that stands out in particular magnificence—that you care not a jot for the multitude, or for any would-be important or famous people, but only for those of your own sort. And I am perfectly sure that there are but a few persons like yourselves who would be satisfied with these arguments: the rest of the world regard them only as arguments with which, I assure you, they would feel it a greater disgrace to refute others than to be refuted themselves. And further, there is at the same time a popular and kindly feature in your talk: when you say there is nothing either beautiful, or good, or white, and so on, and no difference of things at all, in truth you simply stitch up men’s mouths, as you expressly say you do; while as to your apparent power of stitching up your own mouths as well, this is a piece of agreeable manners that takes off any offence from your talk. But the greatest thing of all is, that this faculty of yours is such, and is so skilfully contrived, that anyone in the world may learn it of you in a very short time; this fact I perceived myself by watching Ctesippus and observing how quickly he was able to imitate you on the spot.

Now, in so far as your accomplishment can be quickly imparted, it is excellent; but for public discussions it is not suitable: if I may advise you, beware of talking before a number of people, lest they learn the whole thing in a trice and give you no credit for it. The best thing for you is to talk to each other by yourselves, in private; failing that, if a third person is present, it must be someone who will pay you a good fee. And if you are prudent you will give this same counsel to your pupils also—that they are never to converse with anybody except you and each other. For it is the rare, Euthydemus, that is precious, while water is cheapest, though best, as PindarCf. Pind. O. 1., which begins—Ἄριστον μὲν ὕδωρ. said. But come, I said, see if you can admit both me and Cleinias here to your class. This, Crito, was our conversation, and after exchanging a few more words we went off. Now you must arrange to join us in taking lessons from the pair; for they say they are able to teach anyone who is willing to pay good money, and that no sort of character or age—and it is well that you especially should be told that they promise that their art is no hindrance to money-making—need deter anyone from an easy acquisition of their wisdom.

Indeed, Socrates, I love listening, and would be glad to learn from them; but I am afraid I am one of the sort who are not like Euthydemus, but who, as you described them just now, would prefer being refuted to refuting with such arguments. Now, although I feel it is absurd to admonish you, I wish nevertheless to report to you what was told me just now. Do you know, one of the people who had left your discussion came up to me as I was taking a stroll—a man who thinks himself very wise, one of those who are so clever at turning out speeches for the law-courtsThe allusion is probably to Isocrates.—and said: Crito, do you take no lessons from these wise men? No, in truth, I replied: there was such a crowd that, though I stood quite close, I was unable to catch what was said. Well, let me tell you, he said, it was something worth hearing. What was it? I asked. You would have heard the disputation of men who are the most accomplished of our day in that kind of speaking. To this I replied: Well, what did they show forth to you? Merely the sort of stuff, he said, that you may hear such people babbling about at any time—making an inconsequent ado about matters of no consequence (in some such parlance he expressed himself). Whereupon—Well, all the same, I said, philosophy is a charming thing.

Charming is it, my dear innocent? he exclaimed: nay, a thing of no consequence. Why, had you been in that company just now, you would have been filled with shame, I fancy, for your particular friend: he was so strangely willing to lend himself to persons who care not a straw what they say, but merely fasten on any phrase that turns up. And these, as I said just now, are the heads of their profession today. But the fact is, Crito, he went on, the business itself and the people who follow it are worthless and ridiculous. Now, in my opinion, Socrates, he was not right in decrying the pursuit: he is wrong, and so is anyone else who decries it: though I must say I felt he was right in blaming the readiness to engage in discussion with such people before a large company.

Crito, these people are very odd. But I do not yet know what answer I shall give you. Of which party was he who came up to you and blamed philosophy? Was he one of those who excel in the contests of the courts, an orator; or of those who equip the orators for the fray, a composer of the speeches they deliver in their contests?

Nothing of an orator, I dare swear, nor do I think he has ever appeared in court: only he is reputed to know about the business, so they declare, and to be a clever person, and compose clever speeches.

Now I understand: it was of these people that I was just now going to speak myself. They are the persons, Crito, whom Prodicus described as the border-ground between philosopher and politician, yet they fancy that they are the wisest of all mankind, and that they not merely are but are thought so by a great many people; and accordingly they feel that none but the followers of philosophy stand in the way of their universal renown. Hence they believe that, if they can reduce the latter to a status of no esteem, the prize of victory will by common consent be awarded to them, without dispute or delay, and their claim to wisdom will be won. For they consider themselves to be in very truth the wisest, but find that, when caught in private conversation, they are cut off short by Euthydemus and his set. This conceit of their wisdom is very natural, since they regard themselves as moderately versed in philosophy, and moderately too in politics, on quite reasonable grounds: for they have dipped into both as far as they needed, and, evading all risk and struggle, are content to gather the fruits of wisdom.

Well, now, do you consider, Socrates, that there is anything in what they say? It is not to be denied that these men have some color for their statements.