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oxford world’s classics
THEAETETUS
Plato (c.427–347 bce), Athenian philosopher–dramatist, has had a
profound and lasting influence upon Western intellectual tradition.
Born into a wealthy and prominent family, he grew up during the
conflict between Athens and the Peloponnesian states which engulfed
the Greek world from 431 to 404 bce. Following its turbulent
aftermath, he was deeply affected by the trial, condemnation, and
execution of his revered teacher Socrates (469–399) on charges of
irreligion and corrupting the young. Spurning political activity, Plato
devoted his life to the pursuit of philosophy and the writing of
philosophical inquiries cast in dialogue form. These include Gorgias,
Protagoras, Meno, Phaedo, Symposium, Republic, Phaedrus, and many
others. Most of the dialogues have Socrates as their main character,
and they are a testament to the inspiration and unique example
Socrates provided. As well as writing until his old age, Plato founded
hisAcademyinAthens,anancestorofthemodernuniversity,devoted
to philosophical and mathematical inquiry. The Academy’s most
celebrated member was the young Aristotle (384–322), who studied
there for the last twenty years of Plato’s life.
Plato is the earliest Western philosopher from whose output
complete works have been preserved. At least twenty-five of his
dialogues are extant, ranging from fewer than twenty to more than
three hundred pages in length. For their combination of dramatic
realism, poetic beauty, inventive argument, and intellectual vitality
they are unique in Western literature.
John McDowell is Professor of Philosophy at the University of
Pittsburgh. He is a Fellow of the British Academy and a Fellow of the
AmericanAcademyofArtsandSciences.HisbooksincludeMindand
World (Cambridge, Mass., 1994) and Meaning, Knowledge, and
Reality (Cambridge, Mass., 1998).
Lesley Brown is Fellow in Philosophy Emeritus of Somerville
College, University of Oxford. She contributed the Introduction and
Explanatory Notes for the Oxford World’s Classics Nicomachean
Ethics of Aristotle (2009).

oxford world’s classics
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changing needs of readers.

OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS
PLATO
Theaetetus
Translated by
JOHN MCDOWELL
With an Introduction and Notes by
LESLEY BROWN
1

3
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Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
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Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
Translation © Oxford University Press 1973, 2014
Editorial material © Lesley Brown 2014
This edition first published as an Oxford World’s Classics paperback 2014
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v
CONTENTS
Introduction vii
Note on the Text and Translation xxvii
Select Bibliography xxviii
Outline of the Theaetetus xxxii
THEAETETUS 1
Explanatory Notes 111
Textual Notes 152
Glossary of Key Terms 153
Index 157

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vii
INTRODUCTION
Plato (427–347 bce) is the first Western philosopher of whom
we have a large body of written work surviving, and is acknowl-
edged to be one of the greatest. Most of his dialogues, as well as
the Apology, or Defence Speech, feature his teacher Socrates, who
was put to death in 399 bce after a trial in Athens in which he was
found guilty on charges of impiety: corrupting the young and not
recognizing the city’s gods.After that shocking event many writers
crafted works about Socrates, but only those by Plato and
Xenophon survive, with rather different portrayals of Socrates
and his intellectual adventures. Even within Plato’s own œuvre we
find different approaches to philosophy, and with them varying
portraits of Socrates. Though the man himself, Socrates, wrote
nothing, he exerted a tremendous influence, especially on Plato,
but it is a matter of dispute which of the philosophical views and
methods of argument we find in Plato were held by the historical
Socrates.
In many short works believed to be written early in his career,
and known as Socratic or elenctic dialogues (‘elenctic’ means
questioning or refuting), Plato presents a Socrates who denies he
has knowledge himself but probes the views of his opponents
while they try to answer his abstract questions such as ‘What is
courage?’ (Laches) or ‘What is temperance?’ (Charmides). Many of
these presumed early works end in aporia, an impasse in which all
the answers offered are disproved and the only progress is that the
opponent learns that he is not after all the expert on the matter
discussed that he thought he was.
A rather different Socrates takes centre stage in a group of
longer works, including the Phaedo and Republic. In these we find
Socrates still conducting an inquiry with others, but playing a far
more positive role. We find him arguing fluently for firm views,
no longer just on ethical matters as before, but on the immortality
of the soul (Phaedo) and the nature of reality and the philosopher’s

introduction
viii
knowledge of it (Phaedo and Republic). In these we find Socrates
putting forward what has become known as the Theory of Forms.
He distinguishes what is perceptible—everyday things—from the
so-called Forms—the just itself, the beautiful itself, the equal itself;
as opposed to things that are equal to other things, such as sticks
or stones. These Forms are said to be imperceptible, unchanging,
and knowable by intellect alone. To know a Form F is to know
what F itself (the just itself or the equal itself) really is. Plato
makes Socrates proclaim in the Phaedo some famous dualisms,
distinguishing body from soul; sensible from intelligible; chan-
ging from unchanging: dualisms that have made a mark on Western
philosophy under the label Platonism, and that critics believe
must have been far removed from any views the historical Socrates
held (even if they stemmed from aspects of Socrates’ teaching).
The Enigmas of the Theaetetus
The Theaetetus is acknowledged as a classic treatment of its sub-
ject: what is knowledge? Many themes central to subsequent phil-
osophy of knowledge play a starring role in the dialogue: the
relation of perception to knowledge, relativism (in the guise of
Protagoras’ famous claim that man is the measure of all things), and
the idea that knowledge is true belief plus some further condition:
a precursor of the tripartite definition of knowledge as justified
true belief. The work is wide-ranging and packed with arguments
of astonishing depth and subtlety. But it presents the reader with
many enigmas. We can be sure that it stems from Plato’s mature
period (in part from stylometric tests: tests that scrutinize often
unconscious features of written style); it was probably written
shortly after the Republic, to which it contains many allusions. But,
instead of the Republic’s confident Socrates arguing for weighty
theories of knowledge and reality, we find instead a self-confessed
wisdom-lacking Socrates pursuing the question ‘What is knowl-
edge?’ in a manner reminiscent of the elenctic dialogues. Taking
the young Theaetetus as inquiry partner, he elicits from him sev-
eral answers, rejects them all after lengthy discussion, and ends

introduction
ix
with the declaration that they haven’t discovered what knowledge
is: only what it isn’t. In all the dialogues that reach an impasse
readers are left wondering if Socrates is keeping something up his
sleeve: in other words, if Plato intends the reader to discern some
positive truths about the matter under discussion by noting some
hints among the apparently negative argumentation. The tempta-
tion to do so here is all the more pressing given that the work
belongs to Plato’s mature philosophy and follows the Republic,
where Socrates had confidently argued for an account of knowl-
edge that highlighted the non-sensible but intelligible Forms as
the objects of knowledge.Yet in the Theaetetus the Forms are barely
if ever mentioned, and much of the dialogue’s focus is on knowl-
edge of the sensible, empirical world. The Socrates of Theaetetus
does not seem to be someone with weighty metaphysical views,
and certainly not the Republic’s view, which associates knowledge
strongly with the Platonic Forms.
Another enigma concerns the final unsuccessful definition of
knowledge. After refuting the first two suggestions, (1) that knowl-
edge is perception and (2) that knowledge is true judgement (that
is, true belief), they turn to a third suggestion, (3) that knowledge
is true judgement with an account (logos). Now, in an earlier work,
the Meno, Plato had made Socrates argue for a similar definition,
according to which knowledge is true judgement tied down by a work-
ing out of the explanation. In both Theaetetus and Meno, the speakers
agree that knowledge cannot be equated simply with true belief,
since your belief (say, about the way to Larissa or about what hap-
pened at a robbery) can be true by chance or good luck, in which
case you don’t have knowledge. But here in Theaetetus, instead of
endorsing a definition of knowledge along the lines of Meno 98,
Socrates considers three ways in which adding an account, or logos,
could turn true belief into knowledge, and rejects them all, without
revisiting the definition proposed in the Meno.
A further puzzle about our dialogue is likely to strike those who
have studied the topic of knowledge in modern philosophy.
Recent discussions often start by dividing up different kinds of
knowing, perhaps into knowing that something is true (propositional

introduction
x
knowledge), knowing how to do something, and knowing things, per-
sons, or places. Plato, on the other hand, allows his speakers to move
freely between all these kinds of knowing: they talk of knowing
things such as a wagon or Theaetetus, and of knowing that some-
thing is the case (that so-and-so was the robber or that seven and
five make twelve), while cobblery (knowing how to make shoes) is
one of the first examples of knowledge given. Sometimes Socrates
speaks of knowing a thing (a wagon or knowledge) when this
equates to knowing what the thing is. Such an interest in knowledge
ofessences,ofwhatsomethingreallyis,isevidentinallPlato’sworks,
but other types of knowing are also prominent in the Theaetetus
discussion.
This Introduction will review some responses to these enigmas
in ancient and modern writers, once the main plot of the work has
been set out.
the frame (142a–143c): introducing the dialogue
itself
In the dialogue ‘frame’, or introduction, two friends of the now
deceased Socrates meet and exchange the news that Theaetetus
has been gravely injured in battle. They recall a discussion in
which the teenageTheaetetus had greatly impressed Socrates with
his talents, and Eucleides reveals that he has made a written record
of the conversation, thanks to Socrates’ help, and has got the
document with him. So a servant duly starts to read it out, and we
immediately meet the three main characters: the elderly Socrates,
a visiting professor of mathematics named Theodorus, and one of
his pupils, Theaetetus, to whom Socrates soon puts the question:
What is knowledge?
part 1 (146d–187a): knowledge is perception;
protagoras and relativism; heracleitean flux
After an initial false move, giving a list of kinds of knowledge
instead of a unitary definition, the young Theaetetus proffers his
first definition: knowledge is perception. We might expect a rapid
refutation producing some counter-examples: plenty of knowledge

introduction
xi
has nothing to dowith perception. But no: Socrates plays alongwith
the definition, and introduces two famous theories, the Relativism
of Protagoras, in which he claimed that man is the measure of all
things, and a theory that everything is in motion or flux, on the
pretext that Theaetetus’ claim says the same as each of these. In a
long stretch of astonishing versatility, the three theories are first
linked together, then disentangled.The Man–Measure thesis and the
Flux theory are singly refuted before Socrates finally dispatches
the equation of knowledge with perception.
Protagoras’ Man–Measure theory claims that how something
appears to a person, so it is for that person; thus, the same wind
may be cold for me and hot for you, with both of us being free
from error. Since knowledge is free from error, what appears—
that is, perception—is knowledge. To flesh this out Socrates elab-
orates a theory of perception featuring various so-called
‘movements’: twin parents (such as a person’s eye, and a stick or
stone to be seen) engendering twin offspring—whiteness in the
stone and seeing white in the eye. The point of this is to make
perception incorrigible: what I perceive when I feel the wind or
see a stone is a quality private to me thanks to my unique encoun-
ter with (say) the stone, so you can’t tell me I’m wrong when it
appears white to me or when the wind appears cold to me. They
are that way to me if that’s how they appear.
From those fairly plausible beginnings Socrates spins out an
incredible theory according to which an object can never look or
taste the same to two people, or to me at different moments.
Indeed, on some readings the perception theory does away alto-
gether with persisting objects and perceivers. As such it has been
likened to Berkeley’s idealism, reducing perceived objects to mere
collections of ideas, and to Hume’s dissolution of the self into
bundles of perceptions.
Protagoras’ Relativism began as the claim that whatever appears
to a person is so for that person, but Socrates extends it beyond
perceptual appearances and develops it into full-blown relativism:
all beliefs are true for the person who believes them. (However,
we should be suspicious of the notion that something can be

introduction
xii
true for somebody.) The two arguments Socrates mounts against
this full-blown relativism have become classics. The first, later
known as the table-turning argument, tries to show that
Protagoras himself must admit that his view is false, since others
believe it to be false and his theory says that whatever someone
believes is true for that person. (Problems with this argument are
discussed in the Explanatory Notes on 170–1.) Socrates next
argues that if there are experts (and Protagoras claims to be one)
then not everyone’s beliefs on all matters are true, so Protagoras
can’t both maintain his Man–Measure theory and claim to be an
expert.
Before delivering these fatal blows to relativism, Socrates
mounts a defence of the long-dead Protagoras, offering him a
more plausible, if restricted, version of relativism: whatever a
city-state holds to be just or admirable or required by religion is so
for that state as long as it holds it to be so. Here we have an early
appearance of a version of moral relativism, according to which
the truth of a moral judgement such as ‘bigamy is wrong’ depends
on the proclamations or conventions of a given state or society.
Instead of arguing against it, Socrates remarks that it can’t apply
to what is beneficial or advantageous: even if every state’s decrees
are equally just, some are more advantageous (to the state and its
citizens) than others, and the expert statesman is the one who rec-
ognizes which these are, and encourages a state to adopt them.1
Now comes a famous digression on the difference between rhet-
oric and true philosophy. In it Socrates makes clear that he has
no truck with views that deny justice an objective status, but, for
the refutation of Protagoras, it is enough to demonstrate that in
judgements of advantage, or of the future generally, we all believe
and trust in experts, who get things right. So not everyone’s
beliefs on all matters are true.
After dispatching relativism, Socrates turns to refute the Flux
theory, or at least an extreme version which, he claims, would
1 E. Hussey, ‘Rescuing Protagoras’, in S. Lovibond and S. G. Williams (eds.), Essays
for David Wiggins (Oxford, 1996), defends an interpretation of Protagoras’ theory on
which it is an early version of pragmatism.

introduction
xiii
make it impossible to describe things correctly. Then he returns
to Theaetetus’ original claim that knowledge is perception. To
refute it he argues that perception is mere experiencing: some-
thing babies and animals can do via their sense-organs. But there
are common notions such as being, sameness, and difference,
which the mind applies to things without help from the senses,
and it is in judgements concerning these—comparisons and
calculations—that knowledge lies, not at all in mere perceiving.
part 2 (187b–201c): knowledge is true judgement, and
the paradoxes of false judgement
Knowledge lies not in perception but in the area of judging: that
was the upshot of Part 1. But, unlike judgements or beliefs, knowl-
edge can’t be false, so perhaps knowledge is simply true judge-
ment (that is, true belief)? This proposal will be quickly defeated
by the example of a lucky true judgement which can’t qualify as
knowledge: a jury member’s correct judgement about what hap-
pened at a robbery. But before that Socrates introduces a set of
puzzles designed to cause difficulties for the very possibility of
false judgement. The inquirers are not actually in any doubt that
false judgements are possible—after all Protagoras’ denial of this
has been soundly defeated. No, these are clever paradoxes probing
how a person can know enough to have a belief about something
yet still be wrong about it and mistake it for something else. To try
to solve the intriguing puzzles, Socrates invokes two striking
images for the mind to try to account for false belief. In one, he
likens the mind to a wax tablet that bears memory imprints of
things we have previously seen, heard, and so on. False belief then
becomes a mismatching of a present perception with a memory
imprint. But that image cannot cater for all misidentifications, so
another one is introduced: the mind as an aviary in which bits of
knowledge we have acquired (like birds we have captured) are
placed in the aviary to fly around ready for us to get hold of one
of them when we want to actualize a piece of knowledge we
have. However, the puzzles remain unsolved, provoking readers
themselves to look for the sources of the problem.

introduction
xiv
part 3 (201c–210d): knowledge is true judgement
with an account; socrates’ dream
What is it that, added to true belief, yields knowledge? This has
been labelled ‘the problem of the Theaetetus’2—a hot topic in
much recent epistemology—and it is the subject of the last part of
the dialogue. Part 3 features three unsuccessful attempts to solve it
by finding a kind of logos, or account, which, added to a true judge-
ment of a thing, yields knowledge of that thing. But first Socrates
states then criticizes a thesis known as Socrates’ Dream.This theory
divides complexes (that is, compounds) from the primary elements
that make them up, and argues that while complexes are knowable
and ‘have an account’—that is, a sort of definition—in terms of
their constituent elements, the elements themselves are unknowable
and have no account: they cannot be further analysed.According to
this oddtheory, knowledge (of a complex) isgrounded in its unknow-
able elements—a point vehemently disputed by Socrates in a series
of challenging arguments. While a comparisonwith early twentieth-
century LogicalAtomism is attractive,3 the correct interpretation of
the Dream theory is a matter of controversy.
Finally they turn to the question: What kind of logos must be
added to a true judgement to make knowledge? Not (i) the kind of
logos, or account, that is merely a spoken statement. Perhaps some
kind of definition: either (ii) the enumeration of a thing’s elements
or (iii) the mark that distinguishes the thing in question. (Note that
both these suggestions suppose that the topic here is knowledge of
a thing, or of what the thing is.) Suggestion (ii) is rejected with
another counter-example: someone could have a true judgement of
the first syllable of a word, and enumerate its elements correctly,
but if they get the same syllable wrong in another word, their
grasp falls short of knowledge. Here Plato makes an important
point about how knowledge in such a case requires expertise and
2 See R. M. Chisholm, Theory of Knowledge (Englewood Cliffs, 1966).
3 L. Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (Oxford, 1953), §46, quotes from the
Dream theory, then adds, ‘Both Russell’s “individuals” and my “objects” (Tractatus
Logico-Philosophicus) were such primary elements.’ In 1939 Ryle, too, drew a comparison
between the Dream theory and Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, in G. Ryle, ‘Plato’s Parmenides’
(1939), repr. in R. E. Allen (ed.), Studies in Plato’s Metaphysics (London, 1965).

introduction
xv
reliability. The last proposal, (iii), is undermined through an
argument by dilemma: must the would-be knower (a) merely have
a judgement of the distinguishing mark?—but that’s not enough
for knowledge, since, Socrates argues, you can’t have a judgement
about X in the first place without a judgement of what distin-
guishes X from other things. So something more is required. Or
(b) must the would-be knower of X know X’s distinguishing
mark?—but then the definition is circular. Plato may have held
that such a dilemma is fatal to any attempt to define knowledge as
true judgement plus some further condition. At any rate, the
search for what knowledge is ends at this point, and all that
remains is for Socrates to remark that young Theaetetus is in a
better state now he no longer thinks he knows things he doesn’t in
fact know. With that Socrates departs, saying he must face the
charge of impiety his accuser has brought against him.
The Theaetetus as a Literary Masterpiece
As well as containing philosophical argument of the highest level,
the Theaetetus displays Plato at the peak of his literary powers. It
has an unusual dialogue ‘frame’, in which one friend of Socrates
(Eucleides) explains to another how he got Socrates to help him to
record the conversation.The frame serves as a tribute to the dying
Theaetetus while highlighting an innovation: Plato has chosen to
represent Eucleides’ record as a written account which uses direct,
not reported, speech. In the dialogue proper, the three partici-
pants are deftly characterized in the opening scene, set in a gym-
nasium where two elderly men, Socrates and the mathematician
Theodorus, are watching the young exercising; Socrates asks his
companion what bright young men are among his associates. Cue
the introduction of Theaetetus: young, modest, talented, but
scarcely good-looking with the snub nose and bulging eyes he
shares with Socrates, he will prove skilful and inventive in discus-
sion. By contrast, the boy’s teacherTheodorus frequently protests
that he’s no good at abstract discussion, and has to be cajoled into
defending his now deceased friend Protagoras. Even the dead

introduction
xvi
Protagoras is given a lively characterization, by the device of
having Socrates taking his part, imagining how Protagoras would
defend himself against the criticisms.
Socrates’ comparison of his art to that of a midwife is one of
Plato’s most enduring images. It ranks with another, rather different,
comparison, made in the Symposium by Alcibiades when he likens
Socrates to a statue of Silenus whose ugly exterior conceals inner
riches in the form of ‘divine arguments and effigies of goodness’.
In stark contrast, Socrates here protests he is intellectually barren
and his skill lies solely in his midwifery tending to the intellects of
the young men around him—‘watching over minds in child-
birth’—helping some give birth, discerning a false pregnancy in
some, delivering and discarding from others offspring that prove
to be ‘an imitation, not something true’. This last will be the fate
of Theaetetus’ intellectual offspring. Plato reminds the reader
throughout the work of the allegedly barren midwife Socrates,
despite the latter having come up with remarkable arguments and
theories; the point is presumably to encourage readers to assess for
themselves any intellectual offspring born in the course of the dia-
logue. Other striking images that Plato crafts are the Wax Tablet and
Aviary models of the human mind offered by Socrates as he wrestles
with the problem of how we can have false beliefs.
Halfway through, the informal to and fro of argument gives way
briefly to a lofty and renowned ‘digression’ in which Socrates
waxes lyrical in praise of the philosopher’s leisured life of inquiry,
by contrast with the petty concerns of lawyers and politicians.
Plato, with his aristocratic birth, would have been expected to
make his name in the political arena. The charming anecdote
of the philosopher Thales, whose lofty thoughts led to his tum-
bling into a well, is balanced by heartfelt advocacy of serious and
profound thought about justice itself, disregarding questions of
who wronged whom in a particular case. Later Platonists made
a watchword of the injunction ‘to become as nearly as possible like
a god’.
Above all, the sparkling conversational tone of the exchanges
between Socrates and his dialogue partners enhances the reader’s

introduction
xvii
pleasure, even during the most taxing stretches of argument.
To quote Sir Philip Sidney: whoever reads Plato carefully ‘shall
find that in the body of the work, though the inside and strength
were philosophy, the skin as it were and beauty depended most of
poetry’ (The Defence of Poetry, 1595).
Interpretations of the Theaetetus, Ancient and Modern
Scholarly disputes rage, and have raged since antiquity, on how to
read any of Plato’s works.Are they dramas in which no speaker can
be held to represent the author’s views? Or can we assume that any
theses put forward by the chief speaker, usually Socrates, are ones
Plato himself held at the time of writing? We can be certain that
the dialogues were not meant to be read as records of actual con-
versations Socrates held, even if some ancient readers such as
Proclus seem to have viewed them as such. Should we, as some
scholars suggest, take each dialogue as a self-contained work and
refrain from trying to interpret it with the help of other dialogues?
But to do so would be to disregard palpable echoes of other works
that Plato seems to have included for the well-versed reader (many
of them mentioned in the Explanatory Notes). When we turn to
the Theaetetus in particular, the most pressing question is how to
construe the ostensibly negative outcome of the whole work.
As explained above, the Theaetetus poses special problems to its
readers. It is clearly a work of Plato’s maturity and, to quote Sedley,
was ‘written with the Republic never far from view’.4 But it takes
the form of an inconclusive work featuring a know-nothing
Socrates, while at the same time displaying sustained brilliance of
argument, and containing allusions to the Republic, where Socrates
had confidently put forward some weighty theories about knowl-
edge and reality. As Sedley has noted, many ancient strategies of
interpretation have found counterparts in modern criticism. The
following remarks are intended for those who are curious about
overall readings of the dialogue and its relation to Plato’s other
4 D. Sedley, ‘Three Platonist Interpretations of the Theaetetus’, in C. Gill and
M. M. McCabe (eds.), Form and Argument in Late Plato (Oxford, 1996), 86.

introduction
xviii
dialogues. Those who prefer to take the theses and arguments on
their own merits should proceed directly to the feast of philosophy
that awaits them in the text itself.
sceptical readings
One of the ancient strategies is that of the school of thought known as
Academic Scepticism. Flourishing in the centuries after Plato wrote,
its adherents took the view that we should read his dialogues as
evidence, not of certain dogmatic views, but that (like them) Plato
was a sceptic who rejected certainty. For such an interpretation of
Plato the Theaetetus would have been good evidence, especially
with Socrates’ insistence that he is devoid of wisdom, and with the
dialogue ending in failure to discover what knowledge is. Julia
Annas endorses this approach: ‘The obviously reasonable way to
read Theaetetus is to see Socrates as arguing in itwholly ad hominem,
though there is a history of attempts to find a hidden doctrinal
agenda by those who dislike the ad hominem reading.’5 By ad homi-
nem arguments Annas must include arguments against the absent
Protagoras and the Heracleiteans as well as against the suggestions
of Theaetetus. However, in defeating the Man–Measure thesis
Socrates seems to display certainty that it is wrong, and at other
points he argues firmly for certain theses (for instance, 184–6).
Treating Plato the author as a sceptic is not entirely convincing,
even though the search for a definition fails in our dialogue. A
great advantage to this approach, though, is that the readers are
encouraged to think things out for themselves: something Plato
surely intended.
‘hidden doctrine’ readings
‘In inquiries he asks questions and does not make assertions, so
that he posits neither a falsehood nor a truth; but to those well-
versed in his methods he covertly indicates his own doctrine.’
This remark, found in a fragmentary papyrus commentary on the
5 J. Annas, ‘Plato the Sceptic’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, suppl.
vol. (1992), 52.

introduction
xix
Theaetetus,6 describes the interpretative approach not only of that
Anonymous Commentator, but of many writers ancient and
modern. In recent times the most famous such interpreter is
F. M. Cornford, in his Plato’s Theory of Knowledge.7 Commenting
on the failure of all three definitions, he concludes,
The Platonist will draw the necessary inference.True knowledge has for
its objects things of a different order—not sensible things but intelligible
Forms and truths about them. . . . Hencewe can know them (the Forms)
and eternal truths about them.The Theaetetus leads to this old conclusion
by demonstrating the failure of all attempts to extract knowledge from
sensible objects.8
A subtle and innovative version of a ‘hidden doctrine’ reading
is found in David Sedley’s recent study The Midwife of Platonism.9
Plato means us to read the work on two levels, he argues, keeping
Plato the author apart from the character Socrates. Recognizably
the same Socrates as portrayed in the early dialogues, disavowing
wisdom but adept at probing the views of others, he pursues the
inquiry into knowledge using familiar Socratic tropes (labelled ‘the
midwife’s toolkit’) but is innocent of the metaphysical theories
Plato had given Socrates in the Phaedo and the Republic. The weight-
ier views, however, according to Sedley, form the subtext of the work,
and Plato the author expects the reader both to be put in mind of
them and to understand that the historical Socrates ‘paved the
way’ for mature Platonism. He was the midwife who helped his
pupil Plato give birth to them. One advantage of this reading is
that it allows us not to choose between alternative interpretations
at points where there is much to be said for each, for example in
the important section where perception is finally distinguished
from knowledge by the observation that perception cannot grasp
being. What does this mean? When first introduced, ‘being’ seems
6 ‘Anonymous Commentary on Plato’s Theaetetus’, ed. G. Bastianni and D. Sedley, in
Corpus dei papiri filosofici, iii (Florence, 1995); cf. Sedley, ‘Three Platonist Interpretations
of the Theaetetus’, 4.
7 F. M. Cornford, Plato’s Theory of Knowledge (London and New York, 1935).
8 Ibid. 162.
9 D. Sedley, The Midwife of Platonism (Oxford, 2004).

introduction
xx
simply to be the notion that, say, a colour is something or other
(perhaps: is over there, or is bright). But, a few paragraphs later,
grasp of being is connected with the mind’s performing compari-
sons and calculations, and is said to be needed for grasping the
truth (or perhaps the reality) of something, without which knowl-
edge is impossible. Here we seem to need a meatier notion of
being, more like essence or what something really is, with echoes
of the expression of a similar idea in the Phaedo and the Republic.
Sedley’s two-level reading allows both the weaker and the stronger
(Platonizing) interpretations to coexist, at different levels, in the
text.
the THEAETETUS as evidence that plato had changed
his views (for the better): a revisionist reading
Many twentieth-century thinkers, prominent among them Gilbert
Ryle, held that Plato’s views developed and that he came to reject
some unsatisfactory aspects of the Theory of Forms. Ryle held
that Plato’s Parmenides (to which Plato alludes at Theaetetus 183e)
marks a turning point in Plato’s thought.10 It offered some telling
criticisms of the Forms and in its second part showed a keen inter-
est in the logical behaviour of abstract notions such as unity, being,
likeness (compare Theaetetus 185–6). The moral Ryle drew from
the focus on knowledge about the empiricalworld in the Theaetetus
was the opposite from that drawn by Cornford: Plato is now inter-
ested in knowledge of a great variety of kinds—empirical as well
as a priori—precisely because he is no longer wedded to a view
that confined knowledge to the a priori knowable Forms and truths
about them. It is undeniable that the Theaetetus shows a catholic
approach to knowledge and its objects, and that it displays an
interest in certain logical or abstract concepts such as being and
sameness—to be greatly developed in later dialogues such as the
Sophist. But, against the theory of Plato’s change of mind, there
10 Ryle, ‘Plato’s Parmenides’. Like Ryle, G. E. L. Owen, ‘The Place of the Timaeus in
Plato’s Dialogues’ (1953; repr. in Allen (ed.), Studies in Plato’s Metaphysics), also found
Plato recording a ‘fresh start’ in the Parmenides and Theaetetus, but Owen’s arguments
for the earlier dating of the Timaeus have not been widely accepted.

introduction
xxi
are signs in later dialogues such as the Timaeus that Plato still
adhered to aspects of the theory Ryle hoped he had rejected, such
as the Forms as paradigms for the created world. Indeed, we find
in the Timaeus, as in the Republic, the claim that knowledge is dif-
ferent from true belief, having as its objects non-sensible but
intelligible objects: the Forms (Timaeus 51e). We can certainly
agree with Ryle that our dialogue presents itself as a fresh, new,
and uncommitted investigation of knowledge, but the explanation
Ryle gives, of a wholesale change of view on Plato’s part, is not
supported by the evidence.
interpretations of part 1, on knowledge
and perception
The long first part of the dialogue, with its detour through
Protagoras’ Relativism and Heracleitean Flux, has been under-
stood in very different ways. An exotic theory of perception is
introduced to underpin the claim that knowledge is perception
(now married to the Protagorean Man–Measure theory that what
appears to someone is the way it appears). But is the account of
perception one that Plato himself endorses, as Bishop Berkeley and,
later, Cornford believed? In favour of this, we note how lovingly it
is developed and its striking similarities to the theory of perception
expounded in the later Timaeus. Myles Burnyeat, in an important
study,11 labelled this ReadingA, whereby Plato accepts this view of
perception but naturally rejects its claim to be knowledge. On an
alternative view, Reading B, favoured by Burnyeat himself, the
perception theory was invented just to play along with and under-
pin relativism and flux, so that the refutation of these two brings
the perception theory tumbling down too.
The choice is a difficult one. While it is quite clear that Socrates
rejects full-blown relativism (see p. xi above) and an extreme
version of the Flux theory, it is far less clear that he fully discards
the theory of perception. The Explanatory Notes indicate points
at which the theory is developed in extravagant and implausible
11 M. F. Burnyeat, The Theaetetus of Plato (Indianapolis, 1990).

introduction
xxii
ways (for instance, making it impossible that something looks or
tastes the same to me at different times), so some aspects of it must
be rejected, but perhaps Plato intends the reader to see some truth
in its core. Another intriguing question about the perception
theory is whether, as many critics believe, it prefigures Berkeley’s
thesis that objects are merely collections of (mind-dependent)
ideas.12
knowledge as true belief (or true judgement)
together with an account: why is this rejected?
‘So it would seem, Theaetetus, that knowledge is neither percep-
tion, nor true judgement, nor an account added to true judgement’
(210b). What are we to make of this conclusion to the dialogue?
We have already encountered one response, in a version of the
hidden doctrine reading. Cornford’s verdict was quoted on p. xix
above: Plato expects the reader to realize that ‘True knowledge
has for its objects . . . not sensible things but intelligible Forms and
truths about them.’ Sedley agrees that the required moral is that
knowledge has radically different objects from those of doxa (belief
or judgement). He thinks that Plato saw this as the only way out
of the dilemma argument that defeats the third suggestion about
the kind of account that yields knowledge when added to true
judgement, and he notes that the same theory—that the objects of
knowledge are quite different from those of true belief—is found
in the later dialogue Timaeus 51–2. A possible objection to that
solution is this: early on (146e) Socrates rejects Theaetetus’
answer in terms of geometry, cobblery, and other crafts with the
words ‘You weren’t asked which things knowledge is of, nor how
many kinds of knowledge there are.’ If we take the first part of this
seriously, we find the clear indication that we must look for what
knowledge is, rather than what knowledge is of (or what is known).
Sedley replies, however, that Plato’s main point is in the second
part, rejecting an answer in terms of a list of examples of knowl-
edge. But even if Plato did (in writing the Theaetetus) think that all
12 Those in favour of this reading include Burnyeat, ibid., and Sedley, The Midwife of
Platonism. Hussey, ‘Rescuing Protagoras’, argues against.

introduction
xxiii
knowledge involves Forms, that still leaves open the question what
kind of cognitive grasp knowledge consists in, since presumably a
person could have a cognitive grasp of Forms that fell short of
knowledge. Indeed, Socrates in the Republic declares he has only
doxai, beliefs or judgements, about the Form of the Good.
Some find an alternative moral relying on an earlier dialogue of
Plato’s, but this time on the Meno.13 There Socrates claims to
know that knowledge is different from true doxa (belief, judge-
ment) and he proposes that knowledge differs ‘by being tied down’
(Meno 98a). ‘True beliefs, when tied down by a working out of the
explanation, become knowledge, and become permanent.’ So
someone who by luck has a belief that is true, or someone who has
just memorized what they’ve been told without understanding,
will not be able to explain why the belief is true, and so may easily
change their mind and be persuaded of the opposite. But if that
person has worked out the explanation, then what was previously
a mere true belief becomes knowledge.Thus, readers familiar with
the Meno will recall this famous definition of knowledge, and
realize that, in his trawl of three kinds of account (201–10), Plato
has passed over a more promising answer to the question of
what, added to true belief, yields knowledge: a working out of the
explanation.14
Now we seem to find something like this idea in Theaetetus
207d–208b, though without any explicit appeal to the need
for possessing an explanation. It comes when Socrates uses the
example of someone who can spell correctly the first syllable of a
word (and so can give an ‘account’ in the sense of an enumeration
of the letters), but gets the same syllable wrong in another word.
This novice speller does not understand the principles of spelling,
and so we don’t credit him with knowledge even on the occasion
he does give the right spelling of the syllable.
13 This was apparently the approach of the Anonymous Commentator: see Sedley,
‘The Theaetetus: Three Interpretations’, in Gill and McCabe (eds.), Form and Argument
in Late Plato.
14 T. Chappell, Reading Plato’s Theaetetus (Indianapolis, 2005), 200–1, is among
those who draw this conclusion. His book offers a reading by which the entire dialogue
is a criticism by Plato of empiricist thinking.

introduction
xxiv
How well would that solution fit our dialogue as a whole? One
difficulty lies in the very disparate kinds of knowledge under dis-
cussion in the Theaetetus. In the Meno Socrates is discussing
knowledge of items such as the solution to a geometrical problem,
and for such a case the idea that to know the answer one must
grasp an explanation (that is, a proof) seems correct. (However, it
fits less well with another example found in the Meno: the differ-
ence between the one who knows, and the one who merely has a
true belief about, the way to Larissa.) But by the end of the
Theaetetus, Socrates has turned his attention to knowing things
such as Theaetetus, the sun, and a wagon. If we take the last of
these, a wagon, we could think that an inquiry into what a wagon
is would indeed require one to have a kind of explanation: given
the function a wagon must fulfil, it must be of such and such a
construction. But it is harder to see how we need something
explanatory to ground our knowledge of Theaetetus. That’s one
difficulty in the suggestion that Plato expects us to remember and
supply at the end of the work the definition of knowledge found in
the Meno. Another difficulty is that we can raise against the Meno’s
answer—knowledge is true belief plus an explanation—the very
same dilemma argument found at the end of the Theaetetus, as fol-
lows. As well as having a true belief that p, must the would-be
knower (i) have a true belief of the explanation for p or (ii) know
the explanation? Perhaps the dilemma works against any defin-
ition of knowledge as true belief plus something further. The safest
conclusion may be that Plato does indeed hold that one who knows
must be able to give an account, in the sense of an explanation, of
what they know, but has found difficulties in including that
requirement as part of the definition of what it is to know.15
Here is a sample of other responses to the negative upshot of
the dialogue. Gail Fine discerns hints of a solution at 207–8, and
15 Cf. T. Williamson, Knowledge and its Limits (Oxford, 2000), who argues that
knowledge cannot be analysed as true belief plus justification, or indeed in any other way,
but he concedes that truth, belief, and justification are among the consequences of
knowledge. Williamson labels his thesis ‘knowledge first’, a slogan that perhaps also
sums up the outcome of Part 3 of the Theaetetus.

introduction
xxv
proposes that Plato adumbrates what she calls an interrelation
model of knowledge, a model she finds further developed in the
later dialogues the Sophist and the Philebus.16 On this view, knowl-
edge of X still requires that the person be able to give an account
of X, but this account will relate X suitably to other objects (Y, Z,
etc.) in the same field as X. (As an example, consider how one can
know and give an account of a letter, say a vowel, by showing how
vowels relate to consonants in making up whole syllables.) Fine
believes that Plato always held that knowledge must be based on
knowledge, so that a would-be knower of X must know the
account of X. Here we do indeed find circularity: accounts will
‘circle back on themselves’. This is, she argues, an acceptable fea-
ture of the interrelation model of knowledge and explanation.
M. L. Gill proposes the following upshot of the work:
Knowledge is a complex capacity to be defined on the model of clay [that
is, the definition Socrates gives at 147c of clay as earth mixedwithwater].
Knowledge is analyzed into its conceptual parts—perception, true judg-
ment and an account . . . perception picks out the object itself by itself
and judgment matches it correctly to an impression of its essence.17
Gill also argues that Plato intends us to see that there are levels of
knowledge, with only the highest level requiring that a person can
make explicit an account of the object’s essence. Whether or not
the details of Gill’s inventive reading are accepted, it certainly
seems plausible to say that different kinds of knowledge, and
maybe even different levels of knowledge, are recognized in the
course of the discussion.
In his excellent commentary John McDowell suggests that by the
end of the dialogue Plato has lost interest in the definitional task,
given the rich harvest of other philosophical problems that the
latter part of the discussion has thrown up.18 These include the
possibility of mistaken identifications, the relation of wholes to
parts, and the issue of what is involved in knowing non-complex
16 G. Fine, ‘Knowledge and Logos in the Theaetetus’, Philosophical Review, 88 (1979),
366–97, repr. in G. Fine, Plato on Knowledge and Forms (Oxford, 2003).
17 M. L. Gill, Philosophos: Plato’s Missing Dialogue (Oxford, 2012), 137.
18 J. McDowell, Plato: Theaetetus (Oxford, 1973), 238.

introduction
xxvi
things. On the last question McDowell, like Fine, discerns hints
of the thesis that knowledge requires an ability to provide an
explanation, specifically, in the spelling example at 207–8, an
understanding of the principles according to which a syllable’s
letters combine to constitute it.
There is a wealth of excellent literature available for those who
wish to pursue these interpretations further. For a first-time
reader, the best strategy is to approach the text directly, never
taking anything said by any of the speakers on trust but asking
yourself at every stage whether a given move in the argument is
convincing, and what alternative reply might have been given to a
question. Many of the arguments are difficult, especially in the
last third of the work, but Plato usually makes Socrates try hard to
get the main issues across, as 190–2 shows well. We can be sure
that Plato intended his readers to approach his writing in a critical
spirit, looking more for interesting dialectical moves and arguments
than for dogmas or doctrines.
The dialogue retains the fascination it has had for readers
through the ages, from Aristotle to twentieth-century philosophers
such as Wittgenstein, Heidegger, and Gilbert Ryle.19 It remains a
classic in epistemology, enchanting readers with its wit and light
touch while offering the most profound of arguments.
19 F. J. Gonzalez, Plato and Heidegger (University Park, Pa., 2009), ch. 4, discusses
Heidegger’s varying responses to the Theaetetus.

xxvii
NOTE ON THE TEXT AND TRANSLATION
John McDowell’s translationwas originally published in 1973,
together with extensive notes offering a penetrating discussion of
the philosophical aspects of the dialogue. The acclaimed transla-
tion has been retained almost unchanged; at 182c a small change
has been made, and alternative translations for some passages are
suggested in the Explanatory Notes. The Glossary discusses some
key terms.
Since McDowell’s translation, a revised version of the Oxford
Classical Text of Plato has been published: Platonis Opera, volume I,
editedbyE.A.Duke,W.F.Hicken,W.S.M.Nicoll,D.B.Robinson,
and J. C. G. Strachan (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995). It differs
only in minor ways from the text McDowell translated, and in
many places McDowell had anticipated changes the later edition
incorporated. In a few places the text translated differs from that
in the 1995 Oxford Classical text; such passages, marked with an
obelus (†), are discussed in the Textual Notes (p. 152). Asterisks
refer to the Explanatory Notes (pp. 111–51).
The numbers and letters that appear in the margins throughout the
translation are known as Stephanus numbers; they are the standard
way of making precise reference to passages in Plato’s works. They
refer to the pages and sections of pages of the edition of Plato pub-
lished in Geneva in 1578 by Stephanus (Henri Estienne).

xxviii
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
There is a wealth of excellent recent writing on Plato’s Theaetetus, in
addition to valuable earlier work such as F. M. Cornford’s study
Plato’s Theory of Knowledge: The Theaetetus and the Sophist
Translated with a Running Commentary (London: Kegan Paul; New
York: Harcourt, Brace, 1935). Among more recent works the follow-
ing are highly recommended: D. Sedley, The Midwife of Platonism:
Text and Subtext in Plato’s Theaetetus (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
2004); M. F. Burnyeat’s various articles, and his Introduction to
Burnyeat, The Theaetetus of Plato, trans. M. J. Levett, rev. M. F.
Burnyeat (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1990). For a general overview and
discussion of Plato’s epistemology, see C. C. W. Taylor, ‘Plato’s
Epistemology’, in G. Fine (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Plato
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
Complete Works of Plato
Cooper, J. M., and D. S. Hutchinson (eds.), Plato: Complete Works
(Indianapolis: Hackett, 1997).
Translations of the Theaetetus
Burnyeat, M. F., TheTheaetetus of Plato, trans. M. J. Levett, rev. M. F.
Burnyeat,with lengthy Introduction by M. F. Burnyeat (Indianapolis:
Hackett, 1990).
Cornford, F. M., Plato’s Theory of Knowledge: The Theaetetus and the
Sophist Translated with a Running Commentary (London: Kegan
Paul; New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1935).
McDowell, J., Plato: Theaetetus, trans. and extensive notes (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1973).
Waterfield,R.A.H.,Plato:Theaetetus,trans.andessay(Harmondsworth:
Penguin, 1987).
Greek Text
Burnet, J. (ed.), Platonis Opera, i (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1900).
Duke, E. A., et al. (eds.), Platonis Opera, i (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 1995).

select bibliography
xxix
Edition with Notes but No Translation
Campbell, L., The Theaetetus of Plato (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1861, and later edns).
Books Devoted to the Theaetetus
Bostock, D., Plato’s Theaetetus (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988).
Chappell,T., Reading Plato’sTheaetetus (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2005).
Sedley, D., The Midwife of Platonism: Text and Subtext in Plato’s
Theaetetus (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2004).
Books and Articles on Plato’s Epistemology
Crombie, I. M., An Examination of Plato’s Doctrines, ii: Plato on
Knowledge and Reality (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul; New
York: Humanities Press, 1967).
Fine, G., Plato on Knowledge and Forms: Selected Essays (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2003).
Gerson, L. P., Knowing Persons: A Study in Plato (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2003).
Gill, M. L., Philosophos: Plato’s Missing Dialogue (Oxford: Oxford
Runciman, W. G., Plato’s Later Epistemology (Cambridge: Cambridge
Taylor, C. C. W., ‘Plato’s Epistemology’, in G. Fine (ed.), The Oxford
Handbook of Plato (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
White, N. P., Plato on Knowledge and Reality (Indianapolis: Hackett,
1976).
Discussions of Particular Topics in the Theaetetus
Benson, H., ‘Why Is There a Discussion of False Belief in the
Theaetetus?’, Journal of the History of Philosophy, 30 (1992),
171–99.
Brown, L., ‘Understanding the Theaetetus’, Oxford Studies in Ancient
Philosophy, 11 (1993), 199–224.
Burnyeat, M. F., ‘Conflicting Appearances’, Proceedings of the British
Academy, 65 (1979), 69–111.
——‘The Philosophical Sense of Theaetetus’ Mathematics’, Isis, 69
(1978), 29–51.
——‘Socratic Midwifery, Platonic Inspiration’, Bulletin of the Institute
of Classical Studies, 24 (1977), 7–16.

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xxx
Castagnoli, L., Ancient Self-Refutation: The Logic and History of the
Self-Refutation Argument from Democritus to Augustine (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2010).
Cooper, J. M., ‘Plato on Sense Perception and Knowledge: Theaetetus
184 to 186’, Phronesis, 15 (1970), 123–46.
Fine, G., ‘Knowledge and Logos in the Theaetetus’, Philosophical
Review, 88 (1979), 366–97, repr. in G. Fine, Plato on Knowledge and
Forms (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2003).
Frede, D., ‘The Soul’s Silent Dialogue:A Non-Aporetic Reading of the
Theaetetus’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 215
(1989), 20–49.
Frede, M., ‘Observations on Perception in Plato’s Later Dialogues’, in
M. Frede, Essays in Ancient Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987).
Harte,V., Plato on Parts and Wholes (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2002).
Hussey, E., ‘Rescuing Protagoras’, in S. Lovibond and S. G. Williams
(eds.), Essays for David Wiggins: Identity, Truth and Value (Oxford:
Blackwell, 1996).
Kahn, C., ‘Some Philosophical Uses of “To Be” in Plato’, Phronesis, 26
(1981), 105–34.
Kanayama,Y.,‘Perceiving,Considering,andAttainingBeing(Theaetetus
184–186)’, Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy, 5 (1987), 29–81.
Lee, M.-K., ‘The Theaetetus’, in G. Fine (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of
Plato (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).
Long, A. A., ‘Plato’s Apologies and Socrates in the Theaetetus’, in J.
Gentzler (ed.), Method in Ancient Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon
Press, 1998).
Modrak, D. K., ‘Perception and Judgement in the Theaetetus’,
Phronesis, 26 (1981), 35–54.
Morrow, G. R., ‘Plato and the Mathematicians: An Interpretation of
Socrates’ Dream in the Theaetetus’, Philosophical Review, 79 (1970),
309–33.
Ryle, G., ‘Letters and Syllables in Plato’, Philosophical Review, 69
(1960), 431–51.
——‘Logical Atomism in Plato’s Theaetetus’, Phronesis, 35 (1990),
21–46.
Sedley, D., ‘The Ideal of Godlikeness’, in G. Fine (ed.), Plato, ii: Ethics,
Politics, Religion, and the Soul (New York: Oxford University Press,
1999).

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xxxi
——‘A Platonist Reading of Theaetetus 145–7’, Aristotelian Society,
suppl. vol. 67 (1993), 125–49.
——‘Three Platonist Interpretations of the Theaetetus’, in C. Gill and
M. M. McCabe (eds.), Form and Argument in Late Plato (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1996).
Williams, C. J. F., ‘Referential Opacity and False Belief in the
Theaetetus’, Philosophical Quarterly, 22 (1972), 289–302.
Aspects of Plato’s Writings
Blondell, R., The Play of Character in Plato’s Dialogues (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2002).
Nails, D., The People of Plato: A Prosopography of Plato and Other
Socratics (Hackett: Indianapolis 2002).
Gonzalez, F. J., Plato and Heidegger: A Question of Dialogue (University
Park: Pennsylvania State Press, 2009).
Rutherford, R. B., The Art of Plato: Ten Essays in Platonic Interpretation
(London: Duckworth, 1995).
Further Reading in Oxford World’s Classics
Plato, Defence of Socrates, Euthyphro, Crito, trans. David Gallop.
——Gorgias, trans. Robin Waterfield.
——Meno and Other Dialogues, trans. Robin Waterfield.
——Phaedo, trans. David Gallop.
——Phaedrus, trans. Robin Waterfield.
——Protagoras, trans. C. C. W. Taylor.
——Republic, trans. Robin Waterfield.
——Selected Myths, ed. Catalin Partenie.
——Symposium, trans. Robin Waterfield.
——Timaeus and Critias, trans. Robin Waterfield, ed.Andrew Gregory.

xxxii
OUTLINE OF THE THEAETETUS
142a–143c prefatory dialogue
143d–151d opening conversation
143d–145c Introduction of the characters
145c–147c The question ‘What is Knowledge?’ and
Theaetetus’ first answer
147c–151d Theaetetus’ mathematical prowess; Socrates as a
midwife
151d–187a part 1 . knowledge is perception
151d–160e Three theories outlined and linked: knowledge
is perception, Protagoras’ man is the measure,
and Heracleitean flux
160e–165e Some objections
165e–168c Defence of Protagoras
168c–172b Criticism of Protagoras: self-refutation argument
172b–177c Digression on philosophy and rhetoric
177c–179d Further criticism of Protagoras: expertise
179d–184b Criticism of the Flux theory
184b–187a The thesis that knowledge is perception refuted
187b–201c part 2 . knowledge is true judgement
187b–191a Three paradoxes concerning false judgement
191a–196c The mind as a wax tablet: outline and criticism
196c–200d The mind as an aviary; outline and criticism;
the problem of false judgement left unsolved
200d–201c Knowledge as true judgement refuted
201c–210d part 3 . knowledge is true judgement
with an account (LOGOS)
201c–206c Socrates’ Dream outlined and criticized
206c–210a Three attempts to identify a suitable kind of
account:

xxxiii
outline of the THEAETETUS
206c–e (i) Account as statement; refuted
206e–208b (ii) Account as enumeration of elements;
refuted
208c–210a (iii) Account as distinguishing mark; refuted
210a–d conclusion
Knowledge is neither perception, nor true judge-
ment, nor an account added to true judgement

3
eucleides terpsion*
eucleides: Hello,Terpsion. Just in from the country, or some
time ago?
terpsion: A fair while ago. Actually, it was you I was looking
for in the market-place, and I was surprised that I couldn’t
find you.
eucleides: Well, you see, I wasn’t in town.
terpsion: Where were you, then?
eucleides: I’d set out to go down to the harbour, but on my
way I ran into Theaetetus, who was being taken to Athens
from the army at Corinth.
terpsion: Alive or dead?
eucleides: Alive, but only just. It’s partly that he’s suffering
from some wounds, but he’s getting more trouble from the
disease that’s broken out in the army.
terpsion: Dysentery?
eucleides: Yes.
terpsion: That means he’s in danger. What a man for this to
happen to!
eucleides: Yes, Terpsion, a fine person. Actually, I’ve just
been listening to some people waxing positively lyrical about
what he did in the battle.*
terpsion: Yes, that’s not at all out of the way; it would have
been far more surprising if he hadn’t been like that. But how
was it that he didn’t stay here in Megara?
eucleides: He was in a hurry to get home; in fact I begged
him and advised him to stay, but he wouldn’t. So I went
with him some of the way; and then, as I was coming back, I
recollected with admiration how prophetically Socrates had
spoken about him—as of course he did on other subjects
too. It was shortly before his death, I think, that Socrates
came across him, when Theaetetus was a boy. He met him
and had a discussion with him, and he was extremely
142a
b
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4
theaetetus
142c
impressed by Theaetetus’ natural gifts. When I went to
Athens, he repeated to me what they’d said in their discus-
sion, which was well worth hearing; and he said that
Theaetetus was absolutely bound to become famous, if he
lived to be grown up.*
terpsion: Well, that seems to have been true. But how did
the discussion go? Could you repeat it?
eucleides: Good heavens, no—anyway, not just out of my
head. But I made notes on that occasion, as soon as I got
home, and later, when I had time, I used to recollect it and
write it down. And whenever I went to Athens, I used to ask
Socrates again about what I didn’t remember, and make
corrections when I came back here. So I’ve got just about all
of what they said written down.*
terpsion: That’s true; I’ve heard you mention it before.
Actually, I’ve always been meaning to ask you to show it to
me, but I’ve put it off up to this moment. But what’s to stop
us going over it now? I certainly need a rest after my journey
from the country.
eucleides: Well, I went all the way to Erineum with
Theaetetus, so I wouldn’t mind a rest myself. Let’s go along,
and my servant will read to us while we’re resting.
terpsion: All right.
eucleides: Here’s the book, Terpsion. Look how I wrote
down what they said: I portrayed Socrates, not repeating it
to me in the way he did, but carrying on the discussion with
the people he said he’d had it with—he said they were
Theodorus, the geometrician, and Theaetetus. It was so as
not to have the written account made tedious by the bits of
narration between the speeches—something about himself,
like ‘And I said’ or ‘And I remarked’, whenever Socrates was
speaking, or, again, something about the person who was
giving the answers: ‘He concurred’, or ‘He didn’t agree’—
that was why I cut out that kind of thing, and portrayed
Socrates as himself carrying on the discussion with them.*
d
143a
b
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5
introductory conversation 143c
terpsion: Nothing wrong with that, Eucleides.
eucleides: Come on, boy, take the book and read it.
socrates theodorus theaetetus
socrates: If I cared more about the people in Cyrene,*
Theodorus, I’d be asking you about its affairs and its
people—whether any of the young men there are taking an
interest in geometry or any other way of cultivating wisdom.
But as things are, I’m less fond of them than I am of the
Athenians, and so I’m keener to know which of our young
men are thought likely to turn out well. So I keep a look-out
for that myself, as far as I can, and I ask other people about
it too—anyone with whom I see that the young men like to
associate. Now you have quite large numbers who come to
you, and justly so, because you deserve it for several reasons,
and in particular for your geometry. So if you’ve come across
anyone worth talking about, I’d be glad to hear it.
theodorus: Yes, Socrates, there is a boy I’ve come across
among your compatriots: it’ll be well worth my saying, and
your hearing, what he’s like. If he’d been handsome, I’d have
been afraid to speak with emphasis, in case anyone thought
I was in love with him. But as things are—you mustn’t mind
my saying this—he isn’t handsome, but resembles you in the
snubness of his nose and the prominence of his eyes; though
he has those features to a less pronounced extent than you.*
So I can speak fearlessly. You can be sure that of all the
people I’ve come across so far—and I’ve met a good many—
I’ve never yet seen anyone with such extraordinary natural
gifts. That someone should be quick to learn, to a degree
that would be difficult for anyone else, more than usually
good-tempered as well, and, on top of that, courageous
beyond equal, is something that I wouldn’t have thought
could happen, and I haven’t seen it happening in other
cases.* On the contrary, it’s usual for those who are sharp
and quick-witted, and have good memories, like this boy, to
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6
theaetetus
144a
combine that with being easily overbalanced into losing
their tempers; they skitter about like unballasted boats, and
their nature is excitable rather than courageous. And, on the
other hand, those who are more weighty are sluggish, some-
how, at confronting their lessons, and burdened with for-
getfulness. But this boy approaches his lessons and inquiries
so smoothly, sure-footedly, and successfully, and with such
good humour—like a stream of oil flowing along without a
sound—that one is astonished at his managing them so well
at his age.
socrates: That’s good news. And whose son is he?
theodorus: I’ve heard the name, but I don’t remember it.
But he’s the middle one of those boys who are coming
towards us now. Just now he and those friends of his were
rubbing themselves with oil* in the track outside, but now I
think they’ve finished doing that and they’re coming here.
Look and see if you know him.
socrates: Yes, I do: he’s the son of Euphronius of Sounium, a
man very much of the sort you describe this boy as being. He
was well thought of in general, and what’s more, he also left
quite substantial property. But I don’t know the boy’s name.
theodorus: His name is Theaetetus, Socrates; but his sub-
stance has, I think, been squandered by some trustees. All
the same, generosity with his money is another of the things
he’s remarkable for, Socrates.
socrates: You make him sound an excellent person. Do ask
him to come and sit here with me.
theodorus: All right.
Theaetetus! Come over here to Socrates.
socrates: Yes, do, Theaetetus, so that I, too, can look and
see what sort of face I’ve got; because Theodorus says I’ve
got one like yours. Still, if each of us had a lyre, and he’d
said they were tuned alike, would we have believed him
straight away, or would we have investigated whether he
was speaking as an expert in music?
theaetetus: We’d have investigated.
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c
d
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7
theodorus’ expertise 144e
socrates: And if we’d found he was that sort of person, we’d
have been convinced, but if we’d found he was unmusical,
we’d have disbelieved him?
theaetetus: That’s true.
socrates: And as things are, if we’re at all interested in this
likeness of our faces, I imagine we’d better look into whether
he’s speaking as an expert in drawing or not.
theaetetus: Yes, I think so.
socrates: Well, then, is Theodorus an expert in portrait-
drawing?
theaetetus: Not so far as I know.
socrates: What about geometry? Isn’t he an expert in that
either?
theaetetus: No, of course he is, Socrates.
socrates: And also in astronomy, calculation, music, and
everything connected with education?
theaetetus: Well, I certainly think he is.
socrates: So if he says we’re alike in some part of our bodies,
whether praising us for it in some way or criticizing us, it
isn’t really worth paying attention to him.
theaetetus: I suppose not.
socrates: But what if he praised the mind of either of us
for virtue and wisdom? Wouldn’t it be worthwhile for one of
us, when he heard that, to do his best to inspect the one
who’d been praised, and for the other to do his best to
show himself off?
theaetetus: Definitely, Socrates.
socrates: Well then, Theaetetus, now is the time for you to
show yourself off, and for me to look on; because you can be
sure that, though Theodorus has praised a great many
people to me, foreigners as well as Athenians, he has never
yet praised anyone as he did you just now.
theaetetus: That would be good, Socrates; but are you sure
he wasn’t joking?
socrates: No, that isn’t the way Theodorus behaves. Come on,
don’t try to wriggle out of what you’ve agreed on the pretext
145a
b
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8
theaetetus
145c
that he was joking—you don’t want to have him actually forced
totestifyonoath,andcertainlynobodyisgoingtobringacharge
against him. No, don’t lose heart; stick to your agreement.
theaetetus: Well, I’ll have to, if that’s what you think fit.
socrates: Tell me, then: you learn some geometry from
Theodorus?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: And some astronomy, harmonics, and calculation?
theaetetus: Well, I do my best to, at any rate.
socrates: Yes, so do I—from him and from anyone else
whom I take to have some grasp of those subjects. All the
same, although I do reasonably well with them in general,
there’s a small point that I have difficulty with, which you
and our friends here must help me to look into. Tell me:
learning is becoming wiser about what one’s learning, isn’t it?
theaetetus: Of course.
socrates: And it’s by virtue of wisdom, I imagine, that wise
people are wise.
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: Now, is that at all different from knowledge?
theaetetus: Is what?
socrates: Wisdom. Isn’t it the case that people are wise in
precisely those respects in which they’re knowledgeable?
theaetetus: Of course.
socrates: So knowledge and wisdom are the same?*
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: Well now, the point that I have difficulty with, and
can’t find an adequate grasp of in myself, is just this: what,
exactly, knowledge really is.* So can we put it into words?
What do you all say? Which of us is going to be first to
speak? If he goes wrong, and if anyone goes wrong when it’s
his turn, he’ll sit down and be donkey, as the children say in
their ball game; but if anyone survives without going wrong,
he’ll be our king, and set us to answer any question he likes.
Why don’t any of you say anything? Theodorus, I hope
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9
what is knowledge? 146a
my love of argument isn’t making me behave rudely? I’m
only doing my best to make us start a discussion, and get to
be on friendly and sociable terms with one another.
theodorus: No, Socrates, that sort of thing isn’t rude in the
least. But you must ask one of the boys to give you your
answers, because I’m not used to this kind of discussion,
and I’m not the right age to get used to it either.* It would
be quite suitable for these boys, and they’d make much more
progress; because the fact is that youth is capable of progress
inanything.Youmustgoonasyoubegan:don’tletTheaetetus
off, but put questions to him.
socrates: Well, Theaetetus, you hear what Theodorus says.
I imagine you won’t want to disobey him; and it wouldn’t be
right for a wise man’s instructions about this kind of thing
to be disobeyed by someone younger than he is. Come on,
be generous and tell me: what do you think knowledge is?
theaetetus: I’ll have to, Socrates, since you and Theodorus
tell me to. In any case, if I go wrong at all, you’ll put me right.
socrates: Certainly, if we can.
theaetetus: Very well then: it seems to me that the things one
might learn from Theodorus—geometry, and the subjects you
listed just now—are kinds of knowledge; and also that the arts
of the shoemaker and the other craftsmen, all together and
each individual one of them, are knowledge and nothing else.
socrates: How generous and open-handed of you! You were
asked for one thing, but you’re offering several, and a variety
instead of something simple.*
theaetetus: How do you mean, Socrates?
socrates: Perhaps there’s nothing in it, but I’ll tell you what
I think. When you mention the art of the shoemaker, you mean
nothing but knowledge of the making of shoes, don’t you?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: And what about when you mention the art of the
carpenter? You mean nothing but knowledge of the making
of wooden objects, don’t you?
b
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d
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10
theaetetus
146e
theaetetus: Yes, again.
socrates: In both cases, then, you put into your definition
that which each of them is knowledge of?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: Butthatwasn’twhatyouwereaskedfor,Theaetetus.
You weren’t asked which things knowledge is of, nor how
many kinds of knowledge there are.* We put the question,
not because we wanted to count them, but because we
wanted to know what, exactly, knowledge itself is. Or isn’t
there anything in what I’m saying?
theaetetus: Yes, you’re quite right.
socrates: Here’s another case for you to think about.
Suppose someone asked us about some commonplace, every-
daything,forinstance,clay,what,exactly,itis.Ifweanswered
‘Potter’s clay, and oven-maker’s clay, and brick-maker’s clay’,
wouldn’t we be absurd?
theaetetus: I suppose so.
socrates: In the first place, we’d be absurd, surely, in suppos-
ing that the questioner understands anything from our
answer, when we say ‘clay’—whether we add ‘doll-maker’s’
or the name of any other craftsmen whatever. Or do you sup-
pose anyone has any understanding of the name of something,
if he doesn’t know what that thing is?
theaetetus: Certainly not.
socrates: So someone who doesn’t know knowledge doesn’t
understand knowledge of shoes?*
theaetetus: No.
socrates: So if anyone is ignorant of knowledge, then he
doesn’t understand the art of the shoemaker, or any other art.
theaetetus: That’s right.
socrates: So if one has been asked what knowledge is, it’s
absurd to answer by giving the name of some art. In that case
one is answering by mentioning knowledge of something or
other, and that isn’t what one was asked for.
theaetetus: So it seems.
socrates: In the second place, one is going an interminably
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11
theaetetus’ mathematical prowess 147c
long way round, when it’s possible to give a short and
commonplace answer. For instance, in the case of the ques-
tion about clay, the commonplace and simple thing, surely,
would be to say that clay is earth mixed with water, and not
to bother about whose it is.*
theaetetus: It looks easy now, Socrates, when you put it like
that. There’s a point that came up in a discussion I was having
recently with your namesake, Socrates here;* it rather seems
that what you’re asking for is something of the same sort.
socrates: What sort of point was it, Theaetetus?
theaetetus: Theodorus here was drawing diagrams to show
us something about powers—namely that a square of three
square feet and one of five square feet aren’t commensurable,
in respect of length of side, with a square of one square foot;
and so on, selecting each case individually, up to seventeen
square feet.At that point he somehow got tied up. Well, since
the powers seemed to be unlimited in number, it occurred to
us to do something on these lines: to try to collect the powers
under one term by which we could refer to them all.*
socrates: And did you find something like that?
theaetetus: I think so; but you must look into it too.
socrates: Tell me about it.
theaetetus: We divided all the numbers into two sorts. If a
number can be obtained by multiplying some number by
itself, we compared it to what’s square in shape, and called
it square and equal-sided.
socrates: Good.
theaetetus: But if a number comes in between—these
include three and five, and in fact any number which can’t
be obtained by multiplying a number by itself, but is
obtained by multiplying a larger number by a smaller or a
smaller by a larger, so that the sides containing it are always
longer and shorter—we compared it to an oblong shape, and
called it an oblong number.*
socrates: Splendid. But what next?
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12
theaetetus
148a
theaetetus: We defined all the lines that square off equal-
sided numbers on plane surfaces as lengths, and all the lines
that square off oblong numbers as powers, since they aren’t
commensurablewiththefirstsortinlength,butonlyinrespect
of the plane figures which they have the power to form. And
there’s another point like this one in the case of solids.*
socrates: That’s absolutely excellent, boys. I don’t think
Theodorus is going to be up on a charge of perjury.
theaetetus: Still, Socrates, I wouldn’t be able to answer
your question about knowledge in the way we managed with
lengths and powers. But it seems to me to be something of
that sort that you’re looking for. So Theodorus does, after
all, turn out to have said something false.
socrates: But look here, suppose he’d praised you for running,
and said he’d never come across a young man who was so
good at it; and then you’d run a race and been beaten by the
fastest starter, a man in his prime. Do you think his praise
would have been any less true?
theaetetus: No.
socrates: And what about knowledge? Do you think it’s a
small matter to seek it out, as I was saying just now—not
one of those tasks which are arduous in every way?
theaetetus: Good heavens, no: I think it’s really one of the
most arduous of tasks.
socrates: Well then, don’t lose heart about yourself, and
accept that there was something in what Theodorus said.
Always do your best in every way; and as for knowledge, do
your best to get hold of an account of what, exactly, it really is.
theaetetus: If doing my best can make it happen, Socrates,
it will come clear.
socrates: Come on, then—because you’ve just sketched out
the way beautifully—try to imitate your answer about the
powers. Just as you collected them, many as they are, in one
class, try, in the same way, to find one account by which to
speak of the many kinds of knowledge.*
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13
socrates’ midwifery 148e
theaetetus: But I assure you, Socrates, I’ve often set myself
to think about it, when I’ve heard reports of your questions.
But I can’t convince myself that I have anything adequate to
say on my own account; and I haven’t been able to hear
anyone else saying the sort of thing you’re asking for. On the
other hand, I can’t stop worrying about it either.
socrates: Yes, you’re suffering the pains of labour,
Theaetetus; it’s because you’re not barren but pregnant.
theaetetus: I don’t know, Socrates; I’m only telling you
what I’ve experienced.
socrates: Do you mean to tell me you haven’t heard that I’m
the son of a fine strapping midwife called Phaenarete?*
theaetetus: Yes, I’d heard that.
socrates: And have you also heard that I practise the same art?
theaetetus: No, I certainly haven’t.
socrates: Well, you can be sure I do. But you mustn’t give
me away to everybody else. You see, I’ve kept it secret that
I have this art. It’s one thing people don’t say about me,
because they don’t know it. What they do say is that I’m
very odd, and that I make people feel difficulties.* Have you
heard that too?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: Shall I tell you the reason?
theaetetus: Yes, please.
socrates: Well, call to mind how things are in general with
midwives, andyou’ll find it easier to understandwhat I mean.
No doubt you know that none of them attends other women
while she’s still conceiving and bearing children herself. It’s
those who are past being able to give birth who do it.
theaetetus: Certainly.
socrates: They say it’s Artemis who’s responsible for that,
because, being childless herself, she’s the patron of child-
birth. She didn’t grant the gift of midwifery to barren
women, because human nature is too weak to acquire skill in
matters of which it has no experience. But she did assign it
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149a
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14
theaetetus
149c
to those who are unable to bear children because of their
age, in honour of their likeness to herself.*
theaetetus: That’s plausible.
socrates: And isn’t it both plausible and inevitable that mid-
wives should be better than everyone else at recognizing
women who are pregnant and women who aren’t?
theaetetus: Certainly.
socrates: Moreover, by giving drugs and singing incanta-
tions, midwives can bring on the pains of labour, and make
them milder if they want to? And they can make women who
are having a difficult labour give birth? And if they see fit to
cause a miscarriage when the embryo is young,† they do so?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: And have you also observed this characteristic of
theirs: they’re the cleverest of match-makers, in that there
are no gaps in their wisdom as regards knowing which sort
of woman should consort with which sort of man in order to
produce the best possible children?
theaetetus: No, I didn’t know that at all.
socrates: Well, you can be sure that they pride themselves
more on that than on cutting the umbilical cord. After all,
consider the art which has to do with the care and harvesting
of the fruits of the earth, and the one which has to do with
knowing which sort of plant and seed should be put into which
sort of earth. Do you think they’re the same or different?
theaetetus: The same.
socrates: And with a woman, do you think there’s one art
for this latter sort of thing and another for the harvest?
theaetetus: No, that isn’t plausible.
socrates: No. But because of the wrong and unskilled way of
bringing a man and a woman together which has the name of
procuring, midwives, concerned as they are about their dignity,
avoid even match-making, since they’re afraid that because of
the latter activity they may fall foul of the former charge.
Whereas in fact it’s surely real midwives, and they alone,
who are the appropriate people to make matches correctly.*
d
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15
socrates’ midwifery 150a
theaetetus: Evidently.
socrates: Well now, that’s the extent of the part midwives
play; but it’s smaller than mine. Because it isn’t the habit of
women to give birth sometimes to imitations and sometimes
to genuine children, with the difference not easy to detect. If
it were, the greatest and most admirable task of midwives
would be to distinguish what’s true and what isn’t: don’t
you think so?
theaetetus: Yes.
socrates: Well, my art of midwifery has, in general, the
same characteristics as theirs, but it’s different in that I
attend men, not women, and in that I watch over minds in
childbirth, not bodies. And the greatest thing in my art is this:
to be able to test, by every means, whether it’s an imitation
and a falsehood that the young man’s intellect is giving birth
to,orsomethinggenuineandtrue.BecauseIhave,incommon
with midwives, the following characteristic: I’m unproduc-
tive of wisdom, and there’s truth in the criticism which many
people have made of me before now, to the effect that I
question others but don’t make any pronouncements about
anything myself, because I have no wisdom in me. The
reason for it is this: God compels me to be a midwife, but
has prevented me from giving birth. So I’m not at all wise
myself, and there hasn’t been any discovery of that kind born
to me as the offspring of my mind. But not so with those who
associate with me. At first some of them seem quite incap-
able of learning; but, as our association advances, all those to
whom God grants it make progress to an extraordinary
extent—so it seems not only to them but to everyone else as
well. And it’s clear that they do so, not because they have
ever learnt anything from me, but because they have them-
selves discovered many admirable things in themselves, and
given birth to them.*
Still, for the delivery it’s God, and I myself, who are
responsible. That’s clear from the following point. There
have been many people before now who didn’t know all this,
b
c
d
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Other documents randomly have
different content

O
The Road to Fortune
NE fine morning two young men were strolling together
through the fields, when they perceived, at a great distance, a
very high hill, on the top of which stood a beautiful castle, which
sparkled so brightly in the sunshine that the youths were quite
delighted, and could not help gazing at it.
"Let us go to it," said one of the lads.
"It is easy to say, 'Let us go,' but how can we walk so far?"
retorted the other, who was a lazy fellow.
"You may do it easily," replied a clear voice behind them.
On looking around to see whence these words came, they
perceived a beautiful fairy standing on a large ball, which rolled
along with her upon it in the direction of the castle.
"It is no very difficult task for her, at all events. Look, she can get
forward without moving a limb," said the lazy one, throwing himself
down on the grass.
The other, however, was not so easily satisfied; for, without
stopping to reflect, he started off after the fairy as fast as he could
run, and catching hold of the skirts of her robe cried, "Who art
thou?"
"I am Fortune," answered the fairy, "and yonder is my castle—
follow me there! If thou reachest it before midnight, I will receive
thee as a friend; but remember, shouldst thou arrive one moment
later, my door will be closed against thee."
With these words the fairy drew her robe from the hand of the
young man, and went off so quickly upon her ball that she was soon

out of sight.
The youth immediately ran back to his companion and told him all
that had happened, adding: "I intend taking the fairy's advice. Will
you accompany me?"
"Are you mad?" inquired the other; "for my part, if I had a good
horse I should not mind the journey, but as for walking all that way,
I certainly shall not attempt it."
"Farewell then," answered his comrade, who started off at a brisk
pace in the direction of the castle.
The lazy one, however, reasoned thus to himself: "Exert yourself
as much as you please, my worthy friend. Good fortune often comes
while we are dozing; perhaps it may be my case to-day." And
without more ado he stretched himself on the grass and fell fast
asleep; not, however, before he had cast a longing glance at the
beautiful castle on the hill. After sleeping some time he felt as
though there were a warm wind blowing on his ear, and when he
had stretched his slothful limbs and rubbed his sleepy eyes, he
perceived a beautiful milk-white horse, ready saddled, standing
beside him, shaking his mane and neighing lustily in the clear
morning air.
"Ah, did I not say as much?" cried the youth. "Oh, if people would
but trust to Fate! Come here, you fine creature! We must be good
friends." So saying, he threw himself into the saddle, and the steed
galloped off with him as swift as the wind. Thus mounted, our lazy
friend very soon overtook his industrious companion, and hailing him
as he passed cried: "Show respect to my horse's heels!" The other,
however, continued on at a steady pace, without paying much heed
to his satire.
About midday, on arriving at the summit of a beautiful hill, the
horse suddenly stopped. "Quite right," cried his rider; "I find you are
a very sagacious creature—'soft and fairly' is a good proverb; the
castle is now not very far off, but my appetite is a great deal nearer."

So dismounting, he sought out a shady slope, and having laid down
in the moss with his feet against the stump of a tree, he began to
take some refreshment—for happily he had a good supply of bread
and sausage in his pocket, and a pleasant drink in his flask. As soon
as the youth had satisfied his appetite, he began to feel rather
drowsy, and, as is usual with indolent people, he gave full vent to
the inclination, stretched himself on the moss, and fell into a sound
sleep. Never had man a more pleasant sleep, nor accompanied with
more delightful dreams. He imagined that he was already in the
castle, reposing on silken cushions; and that all that he desired came
to him immediately upon his beckoning with his little finger. After
thus enjoying himself for some time, it seemed as though a firework
went off with a great explosion; this was followed by strains of soft
music, which went to the tune of a song he had often heard, every
verse of which terminated with these words:
"Healthful limbs and spirits gay,
Bear the traveler on his way."
This continued some time, when he awoke with the song still
ringing in his ears; then rubbing his eyes, he perceived that the
setting sun was fast sinking behind the castle, and heard the voice
of his companion singing from the valley before him the very words
he had heard in his dream.
"What a time I have slept!" cried the lazy fellow. "It is high time
that I was getting on my way. Come here, my steed! where are
you?" But no steed was to be found; the only creature that he could
see, after looking all around, was an old gray donkey, grazing on the
top of a hill at some distance. He shouted and whistled with all his
might, but the horse was gone quite out of hearing, and the old
donkey did not seem to pay the least attention. So, after exerting his
lungs to no purpose, the lazy fellow was obliged to go and try to
make friends with the gray old beast, which allowed itself to be
quietly mounted, and then trudged slowly on with him.

But our youth found this kind of traveling very different from the
previous stage, for then he not only proceeded at a much quicker
pace, but had a more comfortable seat, which was by no means an
unimportant consideration with him. In the course of a short time it
began to grow dark, and heavy clouds overspread the sky; already
he could perceive that the castle was being lighted up, and now he
began to be very frightened and anxious to get forward. The donkey,
however, did not seem in any way to partake of his feelings, but
continued on at even a slower pace than before. At length it became
quite dark, and the donkey, after going slower and slower, came to a
dead stand in the midst of a thick wood. All his entreaties were of no
use, nor were threats and kicks of more avail—the donkey would not
move. At last the rider became so exasperated that he struck it with
his fist; but this did not much improve our lazy friend's condition, for
the obstinate brute instantly flung up its hind legs, and by that
process released itself of its burden, which fell heavily on the
ground. It required much less violence than our youth experienced
in his fall to prove to him that he was not lying on a satin couch, for
his legs and arms were dreadfully bruised. He remained some time
in this miserable plight, but the bright and inviting appearance of the
lights in the castle at length attracted his attention. "Ah!" thought
he, "what beautiful beds must there be in that fine building!"
This thought alone aroused for a moment his sluggish energies,
and he managed to get on his feet. "Perhaps," thought he, "the gray
old donkey may by this time have got into a better temper." So he
searched about for him in every direction; but after knocking his
head against the trees here, tearing his face with the thorns there,
and stumbling over roots and stones for a full quarter of an hour
without finding it, he gave up the search as hopeless. It was high
time, however, that he made some effort to get out of this dismal
wood, which every now and then resounded with dreary howls,
sounding very much as though they proceeded from the throats of
hungry wolves. At last, when quite bewildered with fear, he suddenly
stumbled against something soft and slimy; he knew by the touch
that it was not the donkey, but fancying it to be in the form of a

saddle, he was about to bestride it at once; yet he found it so cold
and damp to the touch that he quite shuddered at the thought. He
was still hesitating when the castle clock struck, and he counted
eleven. Recollecting that it was drawing near to the eventful time
and that he had no other hope, he threw himself on what appeared
to be the saddle. He found his seat tolerably easy, as it was very
soft, and at his back was something to lean against; another great
advantage was that the creature on which he was mounted seemed
to be very surefooted; there was, however, one great objection to it,
and that was the creeping pace at which it moved, for it went along
much slower than even the obstinate donkey.
Proceeding thus for some time, he got so near to the castle that
he could count the windows, and in this occupation he was engaged
when suddenly the moon shone out from between the clouds, and,
oh, horror! what did he behold. The creature on which he sat was
neither a horse nor a donkey, but an enormous snail, quite as large
as a calf, and its house which it carried upon its back had served him
to lean against! Now he could well understand why he had come at
such a creeping pace. He turned as cold as death, and his hair stood
on end with fright! But there was now no time for fear, for the castle
clock had already made the woods resound with the first stroke of
the midnight hour, just as his steed crawled out from the wood.
Then how great was the young man's astonishment when he beheld
the castle of Fortune in all its grandeur! Hitherto he had sat quietly
on the snail, without hastening it, or in any way interfering with its
pace; at the sight of the castle, however, he dashed both his heels
into its sides, and attempted to urge it on. To this treatment the
snail was quite unaccustomed, and instantly it drew its head into its
shell and left the youth sprawling on the ground. The castle clock
rang out the second stroke. Had the lazy fellow but mustered up
resolution and trusted to his feet even then, he might have reached
the castle in time. But no, there he stood crying bitterly and
screaming out: "A beast! a beast! of whatever kind it may be, to
carry me to yon castle."

The inmates of the building had already begun to extinguish the
lights, and the moon being hidden by the clouds, he was again in
total darkness. As the clock struck the third time he heard something
moving near him, and, as well as he could make out in the dark, it
seemed like a saddled horse: "Ah, that is my long-lost steed," cried
he, "that Heaven has kindly sent to me at the needful moment!" As
quickly as his lazy limbs would enable him, he leaped on the back of
the creature. There was now only a little elevation to be
surmounted, and he could easily see his companion standing at the
open door of the castle waving his cap and beckoning him on. The
clock chimed out the fourth stroke when the creature whereon he
sat began to move slowly; then went the fifth and sixth strokes, and
it began to advance a little at a very awkward pace; at the seventh,
the creature began to move, first sideways and then went backward!
To his great horror and surprise the rider found that he could not
throw himself off, though he struggled with all his might. By a
passing ray of the moon, he discovered that the new steed on which
he was riding was a horrid monster with ten legs, and from either
side there extended a large claw with which it held him fast by the
arms. The youth screamed loudly for help, but all to no purpose; the
animal still kept receding farther and farther from the castle, while
the eventful moment approached nearer and nearer, until the twelfth
stroke proclaimed the midnight hour. A flitting ray of the moon
displayed the castle once more to his view in all its splendor. But in
the same moment the youth heard the door shut, and the rattling
noise of chains and bolts. The entrance to the castle of Fortune was
closed against him forever! The moon now shone again in full luster
and discovered the horrid monster, that still kept carrying him away,
to be nothing more nor less than an enormous crab. Where he went
to on this uncommon steed I cannot tell; for the fact is, nobody ever
troubled themselves further about the lazy fellow.

O
The Golden Crab
NCE upon a time there was a fisherman who had a wife and
three children. Every morning he used to go out fishing, and
whatever fish he caught he sold to the King. One day, among the
other fishes, he caught a golden crab. When he came home he put
all the fishes together into a great dish, but he kept the crab
separate because it shone so beautifully, and placed it upon a high
shelf in the cupboard. Now, while the old woman, his wife, was
cleaning the fish, and had tucked up her gown so that her feet were
visible, she suddenly heard a voice, which said:
"Let down, let down thy petticoat
That lets thy feet be seen."
She turned around in surprise, and then she saw the little creature,
the golden crab.
"What! You can speak, can you, you ridiculous crab?" she said, for
she was not quite pleased at the crab's remark. Then she took him
up and placed him on a dish.
When her husband came home and they sat down to dinner, they
presently heard the crab's little voice saying: "Give me some, too."
They were all very much surprised, but they gave him something to
eat. When the old man came to take away the plate which had
contained the crab's dinner, he found it full of gold, and as the same
thing happened every day he soon became very fond of the crab.
One day the crab said to the fisherman's wife: "Go to the King
and tell him I wish to marry his younger daughter."
The old woman went accordingly and laid the matter before the
King, who laughed a little at the notion of his daughter marrying a
crab, but did not decline the proposal altogether, because he was a

prudent monarch and knew that the crab was likely to be a prince in
disguise. He said, therefore, to the fisherman's wife: "Go, old
woman, and tell the crab I will give him my daughter if by to-
morrow morning he can build a wall in front of my castle much
higher than my tower, upon which all the flowers of the world must
grow and bloom."
The fisherman's wife went home and gave this message.
Then the crab gave her a golden rod and said: "Go and strike
with this rod three times upon the ground on the place which the
King showed you, and to-morrow morning the wall will be there."
The old woman did so and went away again.
The next morning, when the King awoke, what do you think he
saw? The wall stood there before his eyes, exactly as he had
bespoken it!
Then the old woman went back to the King and said to him: "Your
majesty's orders have been fulfilled."
"That is all very well," said the King, "but I cannot give away my
daughter until there stands in front of my palace a garden in which
there are three fountains, of which the first must play gold, the
second diamonds, and the third brilliants."
So the old woman had to strike again three times upon the
ground with the rod, and the next morning the garden was there.
The King now gave his consent, and the wedding was fixed for the
very next day.
Then the crab said to the old fisherman:
"Now take this rod; go and knock with it on a certain mountain;
then a black man will come out and ask you what you wish for.
Answer him thus: 'Your master, the King, has sent me to tell you that
you must send him his golden garment that is like the sun.' Make
him give you, besides, the queenly robes of gold and precious stones

which are like the flowery meadows, and bring them both to me,
and bring me also the golden cushion."
The old man went and did his errand. When he had brought the
precious robes the crab put on the golden garment and then crept
upon the golden cushion, and in this way the fisherman carried him
to the castle, where the crab presented the other garment to his
bride. Now the ceremony took place, and when the married pair
were alone together the crab made himself known to his young wife,
and told her how he was the son of the greatest king in the world,
and how he was enchanted, so that he became a crab by day and
was a man only at night and he could also change himself into an
eagle as often as he wished. No sooner had he said this than he
shook himself and immediately became a handsome youth; but the
next morning he was forced to creep back again into his crabshell.
And the same thing happened every day. But the Princess's affection
for the crab and the polite attention with which she behaved to him
surprised the royal family very much. They suspected some secret,
but though they spied and spied, they could not discover it. Thus a
year passed away and the Princess had a son, whom she called
Benjamin. But her mother still thought the whole matter very
strange. At last she said to the King that he ought to ask his
daughter whether she would not like to have another husband
instead of the crab. But when the daughter was questioned she only
answered:
"I am married to the crab, and him only will I have."
Then the King said to her: "I will appoint a tournament in your
honor and I will invite all the princes in the world to it, and if any
one of them pleases you you shall marry him."
In the evening the Princess told this to the crab, who said to her:
"Take this rod; go to the garden gate and knock with it; then a black
man will come out and say to you, 'Why have you called me and
what do you require of me?' Answer him thus: 'Your master the King

"IN THIS WAY THE
FISHERMAN CARRIED HIM TO
THE CASTLE"
has sent me hither to tell you to
send him his golden armor and his
steed and the silver apple.' And bring
them to me."
The Princess did so and brought
him what he desired.
The following evening the Prince
dressed himself for the tournament.
Before he went he said to his wife:
"Now mind you do not say when you
see me that I am the crab. For if you
do this evil will come of it. Place
yourself at the window with your
sisters; I will ride by and throw you
the silver apple. Take it in your hand,
but if they ask who I am, say that
you do not know." So saying, he
kissed her, repeated his warning
once more, and went away.
The Princess went with her sisters to the window and looked on
at the tournament. Presently her husband rode by and threw the
apple up to her. She caught it in her hand and went with it to her
room, and by and by her husband came back to her. But her father
was much surprised that she did not seem to care about any of the
princes; he therefore appointed a second tournament.
The crab then gave his wife the same directions as before, only
this time the apple which she received from the black man was of
gold. But before the Prince went to the tournament he said to his
wife: "Now I know you will betray me to-day."
But she swore to him that she would not tell who he was. He then
repeated his warning and went away.

In the evening, while the Princess, with her mother and sisters,
was standing at the window, the Prince suddenly galloped past on
his steed and threw her the golden apple.
Then her mother flew into a passion, gave her a box on the ear,
and cried out: "Does not even that prince please you, you fool?"
The Princess in her fright exclaimed: "That is the crab himself!"
Her mother was still more angry because she had not been told
sooner, ran into her daughter's room where the crab shell was still
lying, took it up and threw it into the fire. Then the poor Princess
cried bitterly, but it was of no use; her husband did not come back.
Now we must leave the Princess and turn to the other persons in
the story. One day an old man went to a stream to dip in a crust of
bread which he was going to eat, when a dog came out of the water,
snatched the bread from his hand, and ran away. The old man ran
after him, but the dog reached a door, pushed it open, and ran in,
the old man following him. He did not overtake the dog, but found
himself above a staircase, which he descended. Then he saw before
him a stately palace, and entering, he found in a large hall a table
set for twelve persons. He hid himself in the hall behind a great
picture, that he might see what would happen. At noon he heard a
great noise, so that he trembled with fear. When he took courage to
look out from behind the picture he saw twelve eagles flying in. At
this sight his fear became still greater. The eagles flew to the basin
of a fountain that was there and bathed themselves, when suddenly
they were changed into twelve handsome youths. Now they seated
themselves at the table, and one of them took up a goblet filled with
wine and said, "A health to my father!" And another said, "A health
to my mother!" and so the healths went round. Then one of them
said:
"A health to my dearest lady,
Long may she live and well!

But a curse on the cruel mother
Who burned my golden shell!"
And so saying, he wept bitterly. Then the youths rose from the table,
went back to the great stone fountain, turned themselves into eagles
again and flew away.
Then the old man went away too, returned to the light of day and
went home. Soon after he heard that the Princess was ill, and that
the only thing that did her good was having stories told to her. He
therefore went to the royal castle, obtained an audience of the
Princess, and told her about the strange things he had seen in the
underground palace. No sooner had he finished than the Princess
asked him whether he could find the way to that palace.
"Yes, certainly," he answered.
And now she desired him to guide her thither at once. The old
man did so, and when they came to the palace he hid her behind
the great picture and advised her to keep quite still, and he placed
himself behind the picture also. Presently the eagles came flying in
and changed themselves into young men, and in a moment the
Princess recognized her husband among them all and tried to come
out of her hiding place; but the old man held her back. The youths
seated themselves at the table; and now the Prince said again, while
he took up the cup of wine:
"A health to my dearest lady,
Long may she live and well!
But a curse on the cruel mother
Who burned my golden shell!"
Then the Princess could restrain herself no longer, but ran forward
and threw her arms around her husband. And immediately he knew
her again and said:
"Do you remember how I told you that day that you would betray
me? Now you see that I spoke the truth. But all that evil time is

past. Now listen to me: I must still remain enchanted for three
months. Will you stay here with me till that time is over?"
So the Princess stayed with him and said to the old man: "Go
back to the castle and tell my parents that I am staying here."
Her parents were very much vexed when the old man came back
and told them this, but as soon as the three months of the Prince's
enchantment were over he ceased to be an eagle and became once
more a man, and they returned home together. And then they lived
happily, and we who hear the story are happier still.

O
The Table, the Ass, and the Stick
NCE upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a Tailor and his
three sons; but they only had one Goat, which, as it had to
give milk enough for all, had to feed well every day. The sons had to
lead it to pasture in turns, and one morning, when it was the turn of
the eldest, he took it into the churchyard, where grew the richest
grass, and let it eat its fill. In the evening, when it was time to
return, he said:
"Goat, have you eaten well?"
And the Goat answered:
"'Tis said that enough is as good as a feast,
And I've had enough for a wise little beast."
"Then we will go home," said the youth; and he led the Goat
home by its halter, and tied it up in the stable for the night.
"Well," said the Tailor, "has the Goat eaten well?"
"It has eaten as much as it can," answered the boy.
But the father wanted to make sure; so he went into the stable
and stroked the Goat, saying:
The wicked Goat replied:
"How can I have eaten well?
I wandered where the dead lie,
But nothing found to feed upon."

"What do you say?" cried the Tailor, and running in to his son he
cried, "Oh, you wicked boy! you told me the Goat had eaten well,
and I find him shivering in the stable almost famished!" and, seizing
his yard measure, he chased the boy out of the house in great
wrath.
The next day it was the second son's turn, and he chose a place
under the hedge in the garden where there grew some fine rich
grass, which the Goat was not long in eating up completely. When
the evening came, and it was time to go home, this lad, too, asked
the Goat if it had had enough, and it answered as before:
"Then we will go home," said the boy, and he took it to the stable
and tied it up. When he went into the house, the Tailor met him, and
asked him:
"Has the Goat eaten well?"
"It has eaten as much as it can," answered his son.
But the Tailor would make sure for all that, and nothing would
satisfy him but that he should go to the stable and ask the Goat for
himself.
I roamed all day along the hedge,
And nothing found to feed upon,"
answered the Goat.
"You bad rascal, to starve such a splendid animal!" cried the
Tailor, running back to the house and catching up his yard measure.
Then with cuffs and blows he chased his second son out of the
house.

The next day it was the third boy's turn, and he found a spot
where there was some lovely young grass; and when it was time to
go home, he asked the Goat the same question, and obtained the
same answer:
So the lad led the Goat home, and he put it in the stable; and
soon the Tailor came and asked if the Goat had had enough.
"Yes," replied the boy.
But the old man would go and make sure for all that.
I sought all day among the leaves,
And nothing found to feed upon,"
was the wicked Goat's answer.
"The scamp!" cried the Tailor in a fury; "he is as bad as the
others, and out he shall go!" and he drove the poor boy out with the
yard measure, dealing him fearful blows.
Now the Tailor was left alone to look after the Goat, and next day
he went to it and said:
"Come, pretty creature, I will take you myself to pasture," and he
took it to the lettuce bed, and there it fed all day. When night came
he asked it, as the boys had done, if it had eaten well, and it said:
So they went home, and he put it in the stable; but as he was
going, he said once more:

The wicked animal, not thinking for the moment to whom he was
replying, answered with the usual complaint:
I only frisked about the bed,
And nothing found to feed upon."
When the old man heard this he was horrified, for he saw at once
how things had stood all the time, and that he had driven his boys
away for no reason whatever.
"Oh, you brute!" he said. "You, too, shall be driven out; and I will
take care that you never dare to appear among honest tailors
again."
So he rushed into the house for his razor, and shaved the Goat's
head as smooth as your face; and because the yard measure was
too good to use upon him, he fetched his whip and gave the Goat
such a sound thrashing that it was only too glad to scamper out of
the stable and make off as fast as its legs could carry it.
When the Tailor returned into his house he was overcome with
sorrow for the three sons whom he had driven from home, and who
were wandering no one knew where.
However, the eldest boy had apprenticed himself to a carpenter,
and he worked with him well and merrily till his time was out. Then
his master gave him a table, which, though it looked only like an
ordinary common wooden one, yet if its owner stood before it and
said, "Table, Table, spread yourself," it at once became covered with
all sorts of good things, meat and wine and everything necessary for
a splendid meal.
"Now I shall never want again," the young man said to himself,
and he went on journeying merrily, never troubling himself whether
his lodging was good or bad, or whether there was anything to eat
or not.

Sometimes he did not go to an inn at all, but just stopped where
he was, under a hedge or in a wood, and there he would put down
his table and cry, "Table, Table, spread yourself," and then in the
twinkle of an eye he had before him as much as he liked to eat and
drink.
One day he made up his mind to turn his steps homeward, as his
father's anger, he knew, was sure to have died down by then, and
they could live very comfortably together with his lucky table. It
happened that one evening he came to an inn that was full of
people, who invited him to eat in their company.
"No, not a mouthful, unless you consent to be my guests,"
answered the boy.
The people of course laughed, and thought he was joking; but
their mirth soon changed to wonder when he set down his table in
their midst, and saw that at his command, "Table, Table, spread
yourself," it at once covered itself with all sorts of delicious things,
quite as good as the host could have given them, and smelling very
tempting to the hungry guests.
"Pray be seated, friends," said the Carpenter cheerily; and the
people, seeing he really meant it, sat down at once and began to ply
their knives and forks very merrily.
The thing that surprised them the most was, that whenever they
emptied one dish, another full one always appeared immediately in
its place; and the innkeeper, who was looking on, said to himself,
"My friend, you could do very well with such a table as that in your
own kitchen"; but he kept his own counsel. The guests sat up very
late that night, but at last they went to bed. The Carpenter lay
down, too, with his magic table beside him.
Now the landlord couldn't get to sleep that night at all for thinking
and wishing, till suddenly he remembered that in the lumber room
there was a table that he didn't use, and which was as like the one
he coveted as two pins. Breathlessly and very cautiously he made

his way to the garret and fetched it, and put it beside the lad's bed
in place of the lucky table, which he carried away and hid in a safe
place. The next day the Carpenter paid for his lodging and went on
his way, not noticing any difference in the table, which he hoisted on
his back. At midday he reached his home, and his father was
overjoyed to see him.
"Well, my dear boy," said the old man, "what have you been
doing all these months?"
"I have been apprenticed to a carpenter," answered the lad.
"And a very good trade, too; and what have you brought home
with you?"
"The most wonderful thing I ever set eyes on," said his son,
setting down the table.
"Uhm! I don't think much of that; it looks a very common piece of
furniture," said the father, looking at it all around.
"But," cried the boy, "it is a magic table, and when I say, 'Table,
Table, spread yourself,' it is at once covered with good things, which
will make your mouth water. Invite all our friends in, and you will see
what a feast there will be."
When the guests had all arrived, he fetched his table, and placing
it in the middle of the room, he commanded it to spread itself. But
the table remained just like any other table, which takes no notice
when you speak to it; and the poor lad saw at once that somebody
had robbed him. Of course the guests thought he was an impostor
and laughed at him, and went home without any feast, to the poor
Carpenter's shame. So the Tailor had to take up his needle again and
stitch away as fast as ever, and the boy had to leave home again
and work for another carpenter.
Meantime, the second son had taken service with a miller, and
when he had learned everything, his master said:

"Because you have worked for me faithfully I will give you this
ass, which, though it can neither draw nor carry, is a clever beast,
nevertheless."
"What can it do, then?" said the boy.
"Why, if you only pat it and cry 'Bricklebit,' gold will drop out of its
mouth like potatoes into a sack," replied the Miller.
"That is grand," said the boy; so, thanking his master, he started
on his journey. Now he was rich, for he only had to say "Bricklebit"
and a torrent of gold pieces came out of the ass's mouth, and were
there for the picking up. Wherever he went he ordered the best of
everything, and the more he had to pay for it the better he was
pleased.
Soon he got tired of wandering about the world and thought he
would like to go home and see his father, whose anger had, no
doubt, died down by this time; or, if not, it certainly would when he
saw what a rich ass he had brought home with him.
Now it chanced that he came to the very same inn where his
brother had lost his table, and when the landlord came out and
offered to take the animal to the stable he said: "No, I will take him
myself, for I want to see where he goes."
The landlord was surprised, but thought that one who would look
after his own beast must be a poor man. But the boy, putting his
hand in his pocket, drew out two gold pieces, and ordered the best
the house contained. The landlord was very much astonished
indeed, and ran and fetched him the best of everything. When he
had eaten his fill the boy asked what more he owed, and the
landlord, being a greedy man, said that two more gold pieces would
pay the bill. The youth put his hand in his pocket and found it empty.
"Wait a moment, my friend, and I will fetch some gold," he said
carelessly, and picking up the tablecloth, he went out.

The landlord didn't at all understand what was going on, but
being inquisitive he crept out after the youth, and as the stable door
was bolted carefully, the landlord had to glue his eye to a hole in the
wall. Then he saw the boy spread out the cloth and say "Bricklebit,"
and immediately gold began to drop out of the ass's mouth in
showers, as if it were hailing.
"Thunder and lightning!" gasped the landlord, running back to the
house, "did one ever see the like of this! Why, that is the finest and
fattest purse I ever set eyes on, and I must see what I can do to
obtain it."
Later in the evening the lad paid his bill and went to bed; but
when he was well asleep, the wicked landlord crept into the stable
and took away the ass, and tied up an ordinary one in its stead.
The next day the youth went on his way with the ass, which he
never noticed had been changed, and arrived at midday at his
father's house. His father was delighted to see him again, and asked
what trade he had learned. The boy told him that he was a miller.
"And what have you brought home with you?" said the old man.
"Only an ass," replied the boy.
"Ah, my lad, you had better have brought a goat. We have asses
enough about already."
"Perhaps so," retorted the boy; "but wait till you see what this ass
can do. I have only to say 'Bricklebit' and gold drops out of his
mouth in heaps. Just send for all your friends, and we will make
them rich in a trice."
"Indeed," said the Tailor, "that is not a bad idea. If what you say
is true, I shall never need to do any more tailoring," and he hurried
out and gathered all his friends in.
They arrived in high excitement, as you may be sure, and the
youth bade them stand in a circle while he spread out a cloth under

the ass's head.
"Now," he said proudly, "listen to me," and he called, "Bricklebit!"
But nothing happened, and it seemed that the ass could not coin
gold after all; for it is not an easy thing to do, as you will agree.
The poor youth was very rueful, for he saw that some one had
robbed him, and he was obliged to apologize to the guests, who only
sneered and jeered at him and departed as poor as they came.
So the Tailor had to take up his needle once more and stitch away
as fast as ever, and the boy had to go and work for another miller.
Meantime, the third son had apprenticed himself to a turner. But
it takes a long time to learn to be a turner, and he was still with his
master when his brothers sent a message to tell him how they had
fared, and all about the wicked landlord who had robbed them of
their precious belongings.
Time went on, and soon he had learned everything, and he took
leave of his master, who gave him a sack, saying:
"In the sack lies a stick."
"I will take the sack gladly," said the youth, "for it will be handy.
But of what use is the stick, except to make the sack heavier?"
"This is the use of the stick: if you want to punish anyone at any
time, you have only to say, 'Come forth, Stick!' and the stick will slip
out of the sack and lay about your enemy's shoulders in such a lively
fashion that he will be as quiet as a tortoise for days afterwards, and
it will not cease beating till you say, 'Stop, Stick, and into the sack!'"
The youth thanked him and went on his way, and when any
rogue interfered with him, he only had to cry, "Come forth, Stick!"
and out it came and gave them a sound thrashing, until he told it to
stop, and then it slipped back so quickly that nobody saw where it
went.

One night he arrived at the very inn where his brothers had been
deceived, and putting his sack on the table, he began to boast of all
the curious things he had seen.
"Yes," he said, "I have even known of a table which covers itself
with food and wine in a twinkling. But that is not all, for I have seen
an ass which coins gold, and scores of other wonderful things
besides. But, when all is said and done, none have compared with
what I carry in my sack."
The landlord opened his round eyes, saying:
"I wonder what it is?" and he thought to himself: "The sack must
be full of precious stones. I must get hold of it, for all good luck runs
in threes, and there is no reason why I should not succeed this time
as I have done before."
As soon as it was time to go to bed the youth lay down on a
bench and pillowed his head on his sack, and when the landlord
thought he was fast asleep he came creeping softly to his side and
pulled ever so gently at the sack to see if he could exchange it for
another which he had all ready in his hand.
However, the boy was only waiting for this, and suddenly he
called out, "Come forth, Stick!" Immediately it sprang out and beat
the landlord right merrily.
The landlord howled for mercy, but the Stick only hit the faster, till
at last the rogue fell down exhausted.
"Now," said the Turner, ordering the stick to return to its bag, "if
you do not deliver up to me the magic table and the lucky ass, the
Stick shall begin again."
"No, no!" gasped the wretched man. "I will give them up if you
will only spare me!"
"I will pardon you if you keep your word," said the youth; "but
beware if you try to deceive me!"

Early next morning the Turner went on his way with the ass and
the table to his father's house. When he arrived his father was
overjoyed to see him, and asked him what trade he had learned.
"Dear father," he said, "I have become a turner."
"That is a difficult trade. And what have you brought home with
you?"
"A sack and a stick, and a very valuable stick, too," said the son.
"What!" cried the old man. "A stick! Why, you can cut a stick off
any tree!"
"Not a stick like this, for I have only to say, 'Come forth, Stick!'
and it immediately slips out and lays about the shoulders of anyone
who would injure me, so that he has to cry for mercy. By the aid of
my stick I have got back the magic table and lucky ass which the
thief of a landlord stole from my brothers. Now send for them, and
call in all your friends, and I will give them a feast and fill their
pockets with money as well."
The old Tailor could scarcely believe him, but he did as he was
told. Then the youth spread a cloth on the floor and brought in the
ass, telling his brother to speak to it.
The Miller called out, "Bricklebit!" and immediately the gold pieces
began dropping out on to the floor in showers, till they all had as
much as they could carry.
Then the table was brought in and the Carpenter said, "Table, be
spread!" and at once it was covered with all sorts of dainties. Then
they had such a feast as the Tailor had never seen, and they all
remained till late at night making merry.
The next day the happy Tailor gathered together all his needles
and thread and measures and goose and put them away, and he
lived happily with his sons forever after.

Now we must see what became of the Goat, whose fault it was
that the brothers had been driven away. It was so ashamed of its
shaven head that it crept into a fox's hole to hide itself. When the
Fox came home he saw two great eyes glittering out of the
blackness, and he was so terrified that he ran away. Soon he met a
bear, who, noticing how frightened he looked, said:
"What has happened, Brother Fox, to make you look like that?"
"Oh!" he said, "in my lair is a fearful monster that rolled flaming
eyes at me."
"We will soon turn him out," said the brave Bear. But when he
looked in, he also was terrified at the glittering eyes and took to
flight. He soon met a bee, and seeing that it was no good to sting
him through his thick coat she said, in friendly fashion:
"You look very solemn, Mr. Bear. What has come over you?"
"Oh!" said the Bear, "in Brother Fox's lair is a fearful monster
which rolls flaming eyes at us, and we daren't drive him out."
"Well, Mr. Bear," said the Bee, "I am sorry for you, and I believe I
can help, though I am such a little creature that nobody thinks I can
do any good in the world."
So she flew off to the Fox's lair, and dropping on to his bald head,
stung him so terribly that the poor Goat rushed out madly, and he
has never been heard of since.

T
The Little Brother and Sister
HERE was once a little Brother who took his Sister by the hand
and said: "Since our own dear mother's death we have not had
one happy hour; our stepmother beats us every day, and, if we
come near her, kicks us away with her foot. Our food is the hard
crusts of bread which are left, and even the dog under the table
fares better than we, for he often gets a nice morsel. Come, let us
wander forth into the wide world." So the whole day long they
traveled over meadows, fields, and stony roads, and when it rained
the Sister said, "It is Heaven crying in sympathy." By evening they
came into a large forest, and were so wearied with grief, hunger, and
their long walk that they laid themselves down in a hollow tree and
went to sleep. When they awoke the next morning the sun had
already risen high in the heavens, and its beams made the tree so
hot that the little boy said to his Sister, "I am so thirsty; if I knew
where there was a brook I would go and drink. Ah, I think I hear
one running"; and so saying he got up, and taking his Sister's hand
they went in search of the brook.
The wicked stepmother, however, was a witch, and had witnessed
the departure of the two children; so sneaking after them secretly,
as is the habit of witches, she had enchanted all the springs in the
forest.
Presently they found a brook which ran trippingly over the
pebbles, and the Brother would have drunk out of it, but the Sister
heard how it said as it ran along, "Who drinks of me will become a
tiger!" So the Sister exclaimed: "I pray you, Brother, drink not, or
you will become a tiger and tear me to pieces!" So the Brother did
not drink, although his thirst was so great, and he said, "I will wait
till the next brook." As they came to the second the Sister heard it
say, "Who drinks of me becomes a wolf!" The Sister ran up crying:

"Brother, do not, pray do not, drink, or you will become a wolf and
eat me up!" Then the Brother did not drink, saying: "I will wait until
we come to the next spring, but then I must drink, you may say
what you will; my thirst is much too great." Just as they reached the
third brook the Sister heard the voice saying: "Who drinks of me will
become a fawn—who drinks of me will become a fawn!" So the
Sister said: "Oh, my Brother! do not drink, or you will be changed to
a fawn and run away from me!" But he had already kneeled down
and drank of the water, and, as the first drops passed his lips, his
shape became that of a fawn.
At first the Sister cried over her little changed Brother, and he
wept too, and knelt by her very sorrowful; but at last the maiden
said, "Be still, dear little Fawn, and I will never forsake you"; and,
undoing her golden garter, she put it around his neck, and weaving
rushes made a white girdle to lead him with. This she tied to him,
and, taking the other end in her hand she led him away, and they
traveled deeper and deeper into the forest. After they had walked a
long distance they came to a little hut, and the maiden, peeping in,
found it empty, and thought, "Here we can stay and dwell." Then
she looked for leaves and moss to make a soft couch for the Fawn,
and every morning she went out and collected roots and berries and
nuts for herself and tender grass for the Fawn, which he ate out of
her hand, and played happily around her. In the evening, when the
Sister was tired and had said her prayers, she laid her head upon the
back of the Fawn, which served for a pillow, on which she slept
soundly. Had but the Brother regained his own proper form, their life
would have been happy indeed.
Thus they dwelt in this wilderness, and some time had elapsed,
when it happened that the King of the country held a great hunt in
the forest; and now resounded through the trees the blowing of
horns, the barking of dogs, and the lusty cries of the hunters, so
that the little Fawn heard them and wanted very much to join. "Ah!"
said he to his Sister, "let me go to the hunt, I cannot restrain myself
any longer"; and he begged so hard that at last she consented.

"But," said she to him, "return again in the evening, for I shall shut
my door against the wild huntsmen, and, that I may know you, do
you knock and say, 'Sister, let me in,' and if you do not speak I shall
not open the door." As soon as she had said this, the little Fawn
sprang off, quite glad and merry in the fresh breeze. The King and
his huntsmen perceived the beautiful animal, and pursued him; but
they could not catch him, and when they thought they had him for
certain he sprang away over the bushes and got out of sight. Just as
it was getting dark he ran up to the hut, and, knocking, said, "Sister
mine, let me in." Then she undid the little door, and he went in and
rested all night long upon his soft couch. The next morning the hunt
was commenced again, and as soon as the little Fawn heard the
horns and the tallyho of the sportsmen he could not rest, and said,
"Sister, dear, open the door, I must be off." The Sister opened it,
saying, "Return at evening, mind, and say the words as before."
When the King and his huntsmen saw again the Fawn with the
golden necklace, they followed him closely, but he was too nimble
and quick for them. The whole day long they kept up with him, but
toward evening the huntsmen made a circle around him, and one
wounded him slightly in the hind foot, so that he could only run
slowly. Then one of them slipped after him to the little hut, and
heard him say, "Sister, dear, open the door," and saw that the door
was opened and immediately shut behind. The huntsman, having
observed all this, went and told the King what he had seen and
heard, and he said, "On the morrow I will once more pursue him."
The Sister, however, was terribly frightened when she saw that
her Fawn was wounded, and washing off the blood she put herbs
upon the foot and said: "Go and rest upon your bed, dear Fawn, that
the wound may heal." It was so slight that the next morning he felt
nothing of it, and when he heard the hunting cries outside he
exclaimed: "I cannot stop away—I must be there, and none shall
catch me so easily again!" The Sister wept very much and told him:
"Soon they will kill you, and I shall be here all alone in this forest,
forsaken by all the world. I cannot let you go."

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Theaetetus Oxford Worlds Classics 1st Edition Plato John Mcdowell

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