Greater Hippias

Then, Hippias, if Bias were to come to life again now, he would be a laughing-stock in comparison with you, just as the sculptors say that Daedalus, if he were to be born now and were to create such works as those from which he got his reputation, would be ridiculous.

That, Socrates, is exactly as you say. I, however, am in the habit of praising the ancients and our predecessors rather than the men of the present day, and more greatly, as a precaution against the envy of the living and through fear of the wrath of those who are dead.

Yours, Hippias, is a most excellent way, at any rate, of speaking about them and of thinking, it seems to me and I can bear you witness that you speak the truth, and that your art really has progressed in the direction of ability to carry on public together with private affairs. For this man Gorgias, the sophist from Leontini, came here from home in the public capacity of envoy, as being best able of all the citizens of Leontini to attend to the interests of the community, and it was the general opinion that he spoke excellently in the public assembly, and in his private capacity, by giving exhibitions and associating with the young, he earned and received a great deal of money from this city; or, if you like, our friend here, Prodicus, often went to other places in a public capacity, and the last time, just lately, when he came here in a public capacity from Ceos, he gained great reputation by his speaking before the Council, and in his private capacity, by giving exhibitions and associating with the young, he received a marvellous sum of money; but none of those ancients ever thought fit to exact the money as payment for his wisdom or to give exhibitions among people of various places; so simple-minded were they, and so unconscious of the fact that money is of the greatest value. But either of these two has earned more money from his wisdom than any artisan from his art. And even before these Protagoras did so.

Why, Socrates, you know nothing of the beauties of this. For if you were to know how much money I have made, you would be amazed. I won’t mention the rest, but once, when I went to Sicily, although Protagoras was staying there and had a great reputation and was the older, I, who was much younger, made in a very short time more than one hundred and fifty minas, and in one very small place, Inycus, more than twenty minas; and when I came home, I took this and gave it to my father, so that he and the other citizens were overwhelmed with amazement. And I pretty well think I have made more money than any other two sophists together.

That’s a fine thing you say, Hippias, and strong testimony to your wisdom and that of the men of today and to their great superiority to the ancients. For the earlier sophists of the school of Anaxagoras must have been very ignorant to judge from what is said, according to your view; for they say that what happened to Anaxagoras was the opposite of what happens to you; for though much money was left him, he neglected it and lost it all so senseless was his wisdom. And they tell similar tales about others among the ancients. So this seems to me fine testimony that you adduce for the wisdom of the men of today as compared with the earlier men, and many people agree with me that the wise man must be wise for himself especially; and the test of this is, who makes the most money. Well, so much for that. But tell me this: at which of the cities that you go to did you make the most money? Or are we to take it that it was at Lacedaemon, where your visits have been most frequent?

No, by Zeus, it was not, Socrates.

What’s that you say? But did you make least there?

Why, I never made anything at all.

That is a prodigious marvel that you tell, Hippias; and say now: is not your wisdom such as to make those who are in contact with it and learn it, better men in respect to virtue?

Yes, much better, Socrates.

But you were able to make the sons of the Inycenes better, and had no power to improve the sons of the Spartans?

That is far from true.

Well, then, the Siceliotes desire to become better, and the Lacedaemonians do not?

No certainly, Socrates, the Lacedaemonians also desire it.

Then it was for lack of money that they avoided intercourse with you?

Not at all, since they have plenty of money.

What, then, could be the reason, that when they desired it and had money, and you had power to confer upon them the greatest benefits, they did not send you away loaded with money? But I see; perhaps the Lacedaemonians might educate their own children better than you? Shall we state it so, and do you agree?

Not in the least.

Then were you not able to persuade the young men at Lacedaemon that they would make more progress towards virtue by associating with you than with their own people, or were you powerless to persuade their fathers that they ought rather to hand them over to you than to care for them themselves, if they are at all concerned for their sons? For surely they did not begrudge it to their children to become as good as possible.

I do not think they begrudged it.

But certainly Lacedaemon is well governed.

Of course it is.

And in well-governed states virtue is most highly honored.

Certainly.

And you know best of all men how to transmit that to another.

Much best, Socrates.

Well, he who knows best how to transmit horsemanship would be most honored in Thessaly of all parts of Greece and would receive most money—and anywhere else where horsemanship is a serious interest, would he not?

Very likely.

Then will not he who is able to transmit the doctrines that are of most value for the acquisition of virtue be most highly honored in Lacedaemon and make most money, if he so wishes, and in any other of the Greek states that is well governed? But do you, my friend, think he will fare better in Sicily and at Inycus? Are we to believe that, Hippias? For if you tell us to do so, we must believe it.

Yes, for it is not the inherited usage of the Lacedaemonians to change their laws or to educate their children differently from what is customary.

What? For the Lacedaemonians is it the hereditary usage not to act rightly, but to commit errors?

I wouldn’t say so, Socrates.

Would they, then, not act rightly in educating the young men better, but not in educating them worse?

Yes, they would; but it is not lawful for them to give them a foreign education; for you may be sure that if anybody had ever received money there in payment for education, I should have received by far the most; they certainly enjoy hearing me and they applaud me; but, as I say, it is not the law.

But, Hippias, do you say that law is an injury to the state, or a benefit?

It is made, I think, with benefit in view, but sometimes, if the law is badly made, it is injurious.

Well, then, is it not true that those who make the law make it as the greatest good to the state, and that without this it is impossible to enjoy good government?

What you say is true.

Then, when those who make the laws miss the good, they have missed the lawful and the law; or what do you say?

Speaking accurately, Socrates, that is true; however, men are not accustomed to think so.

The men who know, Hippias, or those who do not know?

The many.

Are these, the many, those who know the truth?

Certainly not.

But surely those who know, think that in truth for all men that which is more beneficial is more lawful than that which is less beneficial; or do you not agree?

Yes, I agree that they think it is so in truth.

Well, it actually is as those who know think it is, is it not?

Certainly.

But or the Lacedaemonians, as you say, it is more beneficial to be educated in your education, which is foreign, than in the local education.

Yes, and what I say is true.

And do you say this also, Hippias, that beneficial things are more lawful?

Yes, I said so.

Then, according to what you say, it is more lawful for the sons of the Lacedaemonians to be educated by Hippias and less lawful for them to be educated by their fathers, if in reality they will be more benefited by you.

But certainly they will be benefited, Socrates.

Then the Lacedaemonians in not giving you money and entrusting their sons to you, act contrary to law.

I agree to that; for you seem to be making your argument in my favour, and there is no need of my opposing it.

Then my friends, we find that the Lacedaemonians are law-breakers, and that too in the most important affairs—they who are regarded as the most law-abiding of men. But then, for Heaven’s sake, Hippias, what sort of discourses are those for which they applaud you and which they enjoy hearing? Or are they evidently those which you understand most admirably, those about the stars and the phenomena of the heavens?

Not in the least; they won’t even endure those.

But they enjoy hearing about geometry?

Not at all, since one might say that many of them do not even know how to count.

Then they are far from enduring a lecture by you on the processes of thought.

Far from it indeed, by Zeus.

Well, then, those matters which you of all men know best how to discuss, concerning the value of letters and syllables and rhythms and harmonies?

Harmonies indeed, my good fellow, and letters!

But then what are the things about which they like to listen to you and which they applaud? Tell me yourself, for I cannot discover them.

They are very fond of hearing about the genealogies of heroes and men, Socrates, and the foundations of cities in ancient times and, in short, about antiquity in general, so that for their sake I have been obliged to learn all that sort of thing by heart and practise it thoroughly.

By Zeus, Hippias, it is lucky for you that the Lacedaemonians do not enjoy hearing one recite the list of our archons from Solon’s time; if they did, you would have trouble in learning it by heart.

How so, Socrates? After hearing them once, I can remember fifty names.

True, but I did not understand that you possess the science of memory; and so I understand that the Lacedaemonians naturally enjoy you as one who knows many things, and they make use of you as children make use of old women, to tell stories agreeably.

And by Zeus, Socrates, I have just lately gained reputation there by telling about noble or beautiful pursuits, recounting what those of a young man should be. For I have a very beautiful discourse composed about them, well arranged in its words and also in other respects. And the plan of the discourse, and its beginning, is something like this: After the fall of Troy, the story goes that Neoptolemus asked Nestor what the noble and beautiful pursuits were, by following which a young man would become most famous; so after that we have Nestor speaking and suggesting to him very many lawful and most beautiful pursuits. That discourse, then, I delivered there and intend to deliver here the day after tomorrow in Pheidostratus’s schoolroom, with many other things worth hearing; for Eudicus, the son of Apemantus, asked me to do so. Now be sure to be there yourself and to bring others who are able to judge of discourses that they hear.

Well, that shall be done, God willing, Hippias. Now, however, give me a brief answer to a question about your discourse, for you reminded me of the beautiful just at the right moment. For recently, my most excellent friend, as I was finding fault with some things in certain speeches as ugly and praising other things as beautiful, a man threw me into confusion by questioning me very insolently somewhat after this fashion: How, if you please, do you know, Socrates, said he, what sort of things are beautiful and ugly? For, come now, could you tell me what the beautiful is? And I, being of no account, was at a loss and could not answer him properly; and so, as I was going away from the company, I was angry with myself and reproached myself, and threatened that the first time I met one of you wise men, I would hear and learn and practise and then go back to the man who questioned me to renew the wordy strife. So now, as I say, you have come at the right moment; just teach me satisfactorily what the absolute beautiful is, and try in replying to speak as accurately as possible, that I may not be confuted a second time and be made ridiculous again. For you doubtless know clearly, and this would doubtless be but a small example of your wide learning.

Yes, surely, by Zeus, a small one, Socrates, and, I may say, of no value.

Then I shall learn it easily, and nobody will confute me any more.

Nobody, surely; for in that case my profession would be worthless and ordinary.

That is good, by Hera, Hippias, if we are to worst the fellow. But may I without hindering you imitate him, and when you answer, take exception to what you say, in order that you may give me as much practice as possible? For I am more or less experienced in taking exceptions. So, if it is all the same to you, I wish to take exceptions, that I may learn more vigorously.

Oh yes, take exceptions. For, as I said just now, the question is no great matter, but I could teach you to answer much harder ones than this, so that nobody in the world could confute you.

Oh how good that is! But come, since you tell me to do so, now let me try to play that man’s part, so far as possible, and ask you questions. For if you were to deliver for him this discourse that you mention, the one about beautiful pursuits, when he had heard it, after you had stopped speaking, the very first thing he would ask about would be the beautiful; for he has that sort of habit, and he would say, Stranger from Elis, is it not by justice that the just are just? So answer, Hippias, as though he were asking the question.

I shall answer that it is by justice.

Then this—I mean justice—is something?

Certainly.

Then, too, by wisdom the wise are wise and by the good all things are good, are they not?

Of course.

And justice, wisdom, and so forth are something; for the just, wise, and so forth would not be such by them, if they were not something.

To be sure, they are something.

Then are not all beautiful things beautiful by the beautiful?

Yes, by the beautiful.

By the beautiful, which is something?

Yes, for what alternative is there?

Tell me, then, stranger, he will say, what is this, the beautiful?

Well, Socrates, does he who asks this question want to find out anything else than what is beautiful?

I do not think that is what he wants to find out, but what the beautiful is.

And what difference is there between the two?

Do you think there is none?

Yes, for there is no difference.

Well, surely it is plain that you know best; but still, my good friend, consider; for he asked you, not what is beautiful, but what the beautiful is.

I understand, my good friend, and I will answer and tell him what the beautiful is, and I shall never be confuted. For be assured, Socrates, if I must speak the truth, a beautiful maiden is beautiful.

Beautifully answered, Hippias, by the dog, and notably! Then if I give this answer, I shall have answered the question that was asked, and shall have answered it correctly, and shall never be confuted?

Yes, for how could you, Socrates, be confuted, when you say what everybody thinks, and when all who hear it will bear witness that what you say is correct?

Very well; certainly. Come, then, Hippias, let me rehearse to myself what you say. The man will question me in some such fashion as this: Come Socrates, answer me. All these things which you say are beautiful, if the absolute beautiful is anything, would be beautiful? And I shall say that if a beautiful maiden is beautiful, there is something by reason of which these things would be beautiful.

Do you think, then, that he will still attempt to refute you and to show that what you say is not beautiful, or, if he does attempt it, that he will not be ridiculous?

That he will attempt it, my admirable friend, I am sure but whether the attempt will make him ridiculous, the event will show. However, I should like to tell you what he will ask.

Do so.

How charming you are, Socrates! he will say. But is not a beautiful mare beautiful, which even the god praised in his oracle? What shall we say, Hippias? Shall we not say that the mare is beautiful, I mean the beautiful mare? For how could we dare to deny that the beautiful thing is beautiful?

Quite true, Socrates for what the god said is quite correct, too; for very beautiful mares are bred in our country.

Very well, he will say, and how about a beautiful lyre? Is it not beautiful? Shall we agree, Hippias?

Yes.

After this, then, the man will ask, I am sure, judging by his character: You most excellent man, how about a beautiful pot? Is it, then, not beautiful?

Socrates, who is the fellow? What an uncultivated person, who has the face to mention such worthless things in a dignified discussion!

That’s the kind of person he is, Hippias, not elegant, but vulgar, thinking of nothing but the truth. But nevertheless the man must be answered, and I will declare my opinion beforehand: if the pot were made by a good potter, were smooth and round and well fired, as are some of the two-handled pots, those that hold six choes, very beautiful ones— if that were the kind of pot he asked about, we must agree that it is beautiful; for how could we say that being beautiful it is not beautiful?

We could not at all, Socrates.

Then, he will say, a beautiful pot also is beautiful, is it not? Answer.

Well, Socrates, it is like this, I think. This utensil, when well wrought, is beautiful, but absolutely considered it does not deserve to be regarded as beautiful in comparison with a mare and a maiden and all the beautiful things.

Very well I understand, Hippias, that the proper reply to him who asks these questions is this: Sir, you are not aware that the saying of Heracleitus is good, that Ôthe most beautiful of monkeys is ugly compared with the race of man,Õ and the most beautiful of pots is ugly compared with the race of maidens, as Hippias the wise man says. Is it not so, Hippias?

Certainly, Socrates; you replied rightly.

Listen then. For I am sure that after this he will say: Yes, but, Socrates, if we compare maidens with gods, will not the same thing happen to them that happened to pots when compared with maidens? Will not the most beautiful maiden appear ugly? Or does not Heracleitus, whom you cite, mean just this, that the wisest of men, if compared with a god, will appear a monkey, both in wisdom and in beauty and in everything else? Shall we agree, Hippias, that the most beautiful maiden is ugly if compared with the gods?

Yes, for who would deny that, Socrates?

If, then, we agree to that, he will laugh and say: Socrates, do you remember the question you were asked? I do, I shall say, the question was what the absolute beautiful is. Then, he will say, when you were asked for the beautiful, do you give as your reply what is, as you yourself say, no more beautiful than ugly? So it seems, I shall say; or what do you, my friend, advise me to say?

That is what I advise; for, of course, in saying that the human race is not beautiful in comparison with gods, you will be speaking the truth.

But if I had asked you, he will say, in the beginning what is beautiful and ugly, if you had replied as you now do, would you not have replied correctly? But do you still think that the absolute beautiful, by the addition of which all other things are adorned and made to appear beautiful, when its form is added to any of them—do you think that is a maiden or a mare or a lyre?

Well, certainly, Socrates, if that is what he is looking for, nothing is easier than to answer and tell him what the beautiful is, by which all other things are adorned and by the addition of which they are made to appear beautiful. So the fellow is very simple-minded and knows nothing about beautiful possessions. For if you reply to him: This that you ask about, the beautiful, is nothing else but gold, he will be thrown into confusion and will not attempt to confute you. For we all know, I fancy, that wherever this is added, even what before appears ugly will appear beautiful when adorned with gold.

You don’t know the man, Hippias, what a wretch he is, and how certain not to accept anything easily.

What of that, then, Socrates? For he must perforce accept what is correct, or if he does not accept it, be ridiculous.

This reply, my most excellent friend, he not only will certainly not accept, but he will even jeer at me grossly and will say: You lunatic, do you think Pheidias is a bad craftsman? And I shall say, Not in the least.

And you will be right, Socrates.

Yes, to be sure. Consequently when I agree that Pheidias is a good craftsman, Well, then, he will say, do you imagine that Pheidias did not know this beautiful that you speak of? Why do you ask that? I shall say. Because, he will say, he did not make the eyes of his Athena of gold, nor the rest of her face, nor her hands and feet, if, that is, they were sure to appear most beautiful provided only they were made of gold, but he made them of ivory; evidently he made this mistake through ignorance, not knowing that it is gold which makes everything beautiful to which it is added. When he says that, what reply shall we make to him, Hippias?

That is easy; for we shall say that Pheidias did right; for ivory, I think, is beautiful.

Why, then, he will say, did he not make the middle parts of the eyes also of ivory, but of stone, procuring stone as similar as possible to the ivory? Or is beautiful stone also beautiful? Shall we say that it is, Hippias?

Surely we shall say so, that is, where it is appropriate.

But ugly when not appropriate? Shall I agree, or not?

Agree, that is, when it is not appropriate.

What then? Do not gold and ivory, he will say, when they are appropriate, make things beautiful, and when they are not appropriate, ugly? Shall we deny that, or agree that what he says is correct?

We shall agree to this, at any rate, that whatever is appropriate to any particular thing makes that thing beautiful.

Well, then, he will say, when some one has boiled the pot of which we were speaking just now, the beautiful one, full of beautiful soup, is a golden ladle appropriate to it, or one made of fig wood?

Heracles! What a fellow this is that you speak of! Won’t you tell me who he is?

You would not know him if I should tell you his name.

But even now I know that he is an ignoramus.

He is a great nuisance, Hippias but yet, what shall we say? Which of the two ladles shall we say is appropriate to the soup and the pot? Is it not evidently the one of fig wood? For it is likely to make the soup smell better, and besides, my friend, it would not break the pot, thereby spilling the soup, putting out the fire, and making those who are to be entertained go without their splendid soup; whereas the golden ladle would do all those things, so that it seems to me that we must say that the wooden ladle is more appropriate than the golden one, unless you disagree.

No, for it is more appropriate, Socrates; however, I, for my part, would not talk with the fellow when he asks such questions.

Quite right, my friend; for it would not be appropriate for you to be filled up with such words, you who are so beautifully clad, so beautifully shod, and so famous for your wisdom among all the Greeks; but for me it doesn’t matter if I do associate with the fellow; so instruct me and for my sake answer him. For if the wooden one is more appropriate than the golden one, the fellow will say, would it not be more beautiful, since you agreed, Socrates, that the appropriate is more beautiful than that which is not appropriate? Shall we not agree, Hippias, that the wooden one is more beautiful than the golden?

Do you wish me to tell you, Socrates, what definition of the beautiful will enable you to free yourself from long discussion?

Certainly; but not until after you have told me which of the two ladles I just spoke of I shall reply is appropriate and more beautiful.

Well, if you like, reply to him that it is the one made of fig wood.

Now, then, say what you were just now going to say. For by this reply, if I say that the beautiful is gold, it seems to me that gold will be shown to be no more beautiful than fig wood; but what do you now, once more, say that the beautiful is?

I will tell you; for you seem to me to be seeking to reply that the beautiful is something of such sort that it will never appear ugly anywhere to anybody.

Certainly, Hippias; now you understand beautifully.

Listen, then; for, mind you, if anyone has anything to say against this, you may say I know nothing at all.

Then for Heaven’s sake, speak as quickly as you can.

I say, then, that for every man and everywhere it is most beautiful to be rich and healthy, and honored by the Greeks, to reach old age, and, after providing a beautiful funeral for his deceased parents, to be beautifully and splendidly buried by his own offspring.

Bravo, bravo, Hippias! You have spoken in a way that is wonderful and great and worthy of you; and now, by Hera, I thank you, because you are kindly coming to my assistance to the best of your ability. But our shots are not hitting the man; no, he will laugh at us now more than ever, be sure of that.

A wretched laugh, Socrates; for when he has nothing to say to this, but laughs, he will be laughing at himself and will himself be laughed at by those present.

Perhaps that is so perhaps, however, after this reply, he will, I foresee, be likely to do more than laugh at me.

Why do you say that, pray?

Because, if he happens to have a stick, unless I get away in a hurry, he will try to fetch me a good one.

What? Is the fellow some sort of master of yours, and if he does that, will he not be arrested and have to pay for it? Or does your city disregard justice and allow the citizens to beat one another unjustly?

Oh no that is not allowed at all.

Then he will have to pay a penalty for beating you unjustly.

I do not think so, Hippias. No, if I were to make that reply, the beating would be just, I think.

Then I think so, too, Socrates, since that is your own belief.

Shall I, then, not tell you why it is my own belief that the beating would be just, if I made that reply? Or will you also beat me without trial? Or will you listen to what I have to say?

It would be shocking if I would not listen; but what have you to say?

I will tell you, imitating him in the same way as a while ago, that I may not use to you such harsh and uncouth words as he uses to me. For you may be sure, Tell me, Socrates, he will say, do you think it would be unjust if you got a beating for singing such a long dithyramb so unmusically and so far from the question? How so? I shall say. How so? he will say; are you not able to remember that I asked for the absolute beautiful, by which everything to which it is added has the property of being beautiful, both stone and stick and man and god and every act and every acquisition of knowledge? For what I am asking is this, man: what is absolute beauty? and I cannot make you hear what I say any more than if you were a stone sitting beside me, and a millstone at that, having neither ears nor brain. Would you, then, not be angry, Hippias,if I should be frightened and should reply in this way? Well, but Hippias said that this was the beautiful; and yet I asked him, just as you asked me, what is beautiful to all and always. What do you say? Will you not be angry if I say that?

I know very well, Socrates, that this which I said was beautiful is beautiful to all and will seem so.

And will it be so, too he will say for the beautiful is always beautiful, is it not?

Certainly.

Then was it so, too? he will say.

It was so, too.