Chapter Two

First Step

ELENCHUS
OR WHAT WILL YOU BECOME?

The conversation that is not affectionate is not worth mentioning.

Socrates quoted in Xenophon's BANQUET viii.13

SOCRATES AWOKE TO POUNDING AT HIS FRONT DOOR, THE RUSH
of footsteps, a loud voice. He sat up in the dark just before a man burst into his bedroom.

Socrates peered at his intruder. “Hello, there, Hippocrates."

"Fabulous news,” Hippocrates exulted, and flung himself down by the bed.

“Glad to hear it,” Socrates said. He got up, and pulled on his clothes. “Isn’t it a little early for a visit? What time is it?"

“Time to see Protagoras.  I just learned he’s in Athens.”

"That’s old news. He came two days ago.” He splashed cold water on his face, and wiped it with a towel. “Are you pissed?” he asked in the tone of an elder brother. He was almost ten years older than his visitor.

"You bet I am. I want Protagoras to teach me everything he knows.”

"He will if you give him cash,” he said drily, and concealed his dismay.

“I’ll pay him," Hippocrates said, "but I need you to introduce me and set us up.”

“You want me to introduce you to Protagoras so you can pay him. What an interesting idea.” He threw on his cloak, and strolled out of his bedroom into the cold, pre-dawn twilight of his courtyard. He felt a mixture of feelings. He was worried that Protagoras would be a bad influence on the kid, and, though he tried to laugh it off, he felt slighted.

“Let’s see if I understand you," Socrates said, and gazed at him. "You say you are willing to pay Protagoras to teach you.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Hippocrates said, and did a little dance of excitement.

“Mmm." Socrates studied the ground. Above his head, the sky imperceptibly lightened, but in the court it was still dark. "Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Not at all.”

 "What will you become?” Socrates asked, looking up at him.

“Become?” asked Hippocrates. “What do you mean become?”

The question hovered in the silence between them. What will you become? 

“If you were going to visit your namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, and someone asked ‘Who is he?’ What would you say?” Socrates asked, and began strolling across the court.

“I’d say he’s a doctor,” said Hippocrates, hurrying to keep up.

“And if you paid the doctor a fee to teach you, what would he make you into?”

“A doctor.”

“And if you went to Phidias the Athenian, and paid him a fee to teach you, and someone asked you, ‘Who is he?’ What would you say?”

“Why, I’d say he’s a sculptor, Socrates.”

“And what would he make you into?”

“A sculptor, obviously.” Hippocrates jogged ahead of Socrates, and crashed into the cooking equipment that stood in the court.

 “Right,” said Socrates, ignoring the uproar. “So now you and I are going to Protagoras with your cold, hard cash. Suppose someone stopped us and said, ‘Tell me, who is this Protagoras? What would you say?”

“I’d say he’s a sophist, of course.”

“Which means you’re going to pay Protagoras money in his capacity as a sophist.”

“Well of course I am.”

“And if this person asked you, ‘What do you hope to become?’”

 “If it’s like the previous cases, I’d say, 'a sophist.'” Hippocrates spoke with easy confidence, then stopped dead in his tracks, and blushed, or perhaps that was just the first rosy finger of dawn touching his face.

“So you want to become a sophist,” Socrates said. He gazed with interest at Hippocrates.

“No, no, no, I don’t want to become a sophist,” Hippocrates protested.

“You don’t?”

“Of course I don’t want to become a sophist,” Hippocrates said in mortified tones.

“I see,” said Socrates, and refrained from pointing out the obvious.

Looking chagrined, Hippocrates ran both hands through his thick, curly hair. He had forgotten how much Socrates liked to ask questions.

He has no idea of the danger he’s running, Socrates thought. He doesn't understand that what he learns has the power to make or break his life. For a second he felt like gripping Hippocrates by the shoulders, and shaking him. Instead, he took a firmer grip on his temper, and decided to try a different tack. 

“I suppose you could look at Protagoras’ teaching as if it were math or music or sports," he said, strolling on. "Something you learn not because you’re going to make it a profession, but as part of your education, just because you ought to know it.”

“That’s it,” Hippocrates said with relief. “That’s exactly the way to look at it.”

“So, since you’re planning to go to a sophist for some education, tell me – mind the pans, won't you – exactly what is a sophist, and what is he going to teach you?”

“A sophist? Why a sophist is someone who knows wise things, just as the name implies," said Hippocrates with a self-satisfied air.

“Mmm,” said Socrates. He gazed up at the flushed sky with his wide eyes, and said, “Doesn’t the painter also know wise things? Suppose a person said to us, ‘What does the painter know?’ We would say, 'He knows how to make images.' What are the wise things the sophist knows?”

 “He knows how to make a person eloquent,” Hippocrates snapped.

 “I’m sorry to be so obtuse," Socrates laughed, "but what does a sophist make a man talk eloquently about? If he were a lyre player he would make a man talk eloquently about the subject he understands – playing the lyre. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Of course.”

“So what does a sophist make a person talk eloquently about?”

“Why, whatever subject he makes him understand!” exclaimed Hippocrates.

“But what is the subject that the sophist knows and makes his student understand?"

“I don’t know,” Hippocrates shouted. “I don’t have a clue."

 “Right,” said Socrates. As the old proverb had it, he would have laughed except he felt like crying. His reaction was to push the wall. “Let's go hear what Protagoras has to say,” he said. As he spoke he felt hope like wings brushing his heart, and his heart pounding in his chest. Perhaps at last he would find someone who would share his love for the beautiful and elusive source of the question what will you become? He had not mentioned it to Hippocrates, but there was nothing he loved more, yet he had never been able to say exactly what it was or really see it or touch it. What he loved had a name, yet it was a mystery to him, as mysterious and lovely and irresistible as the friend he did not have and longed to meet. NEXT »

©2006 CATHERINE GLASS