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Protagoras by Plato Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Part I
The Protagoras, like several of the Dialogues of Plato, is put into the mouth of Socrates,
who describes a conversation which had taken place between himself and the great Sophist
at the house of Callias—'the man who had spent more upon the Sophists than all the
rest of the world'—and in which the learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus had also
shared, as well as Alcibiades and Critias, both of whom said a few words—in the presence
of a distinguished company consisting of disciples of Protagoras and of leading Athenians belonging
to the Socratic circle. The dialogue commences with a request on the part of Hippocrates
that Socrates would introduce him to the celebrated teacher. He has come before the dawn had risen—so
fervid is his zeal. Socrates moderates his excitement and advises him to find out 'what
Protagoras will make of him,' before he becomes his pupil.
They go together to the house of Callias; and Socrates, after explaining the purpose
of their visit to Protagoras, asks the question, 'What he will make of Hippocrates.' Protagoras
answers, 'That he will make him a better and a wiser man.' 'But in what will he be better?'—Socrates
desires to have a more precise answer. Protagoras replies, 'That he will teach him prudence
in affairs private and public; in short, the science or knowledge of human life.'
This, as Socrates admits, is a noble profession; but he is or rather would have been doubtful,
whether such knowledge can be taught, if Protagoras had not assured him of the fact, for two reasons:
(1) Because the Athenian people, who recognize in their assemblies the distinction between
the skilled and the unskilled in the arts, do not distinguish between the trained politician
and the untrained; (2) Because the wisest and best Athenian citizens do not teach their
sons political virtue. Will Protagoras answer these objections?
Protagoras explains his views in the form of an apologue, in which, after Prometheus
had given men the arts, Zeus is represented as sending Hermes to them, bearing with him
Justice and Reverence. These are not, like the arts, to be imparted to a few only, but
all men are to be partakers of them. Therefore the Athenian people are right in distinguishing
between the skilled and unskilled in the arts, and not between skilled and unskilled politicians.
(1) For all men have the political virtues to a certain degree, and are obliged to say
that they have them, whether they have them or not. A man would be thought a madman who
professed an art which he did not know; but he would be equally thought a madman if he
did not profess a virtue which he had not. (2) And that the political virtues can be
taught and acquired, in the opinion of the Athenians, is proved by the fact that they
punish evil-doers, with a view to prevention, of course—mere retribution is for beasts,
and not for men. (3) Again, would parents who teach her sons lesser matters leave them
ignorant of the common duty of citizens? To the doubt of Socrates the best answer is the
fact, that the education of youth in virtue begins almost as soon as they can speak, and
is continued by the state when they pass out of the parental control. (4) Nor need we wonder
that wise and good fathers sometimes have foolish and worthless sons. Virtue, as we
were saying, is not the private possession of any man, but is shared by all, only however
to the extent of which each individual is by nature capable. And, as a matter of fact,
even the worst of civilized mankind will appear virtuous and just, if we compare them with
savages. (5) The error of Socrates lies in supposing that there are no teachers of virtue,
whereas all men are teachers in a degree. Some, like Protagoras, are better than others,
and with this result we ought to be satisfied.
Socrates is highly delighted with the explanation of Protagoras. But he has still a doubt lingering
in his mind. Protagoras has spoken of the virtues: are they many, or one? are they parts
of a whole, or different names of the same thing? Protagoras replies that they are parts,
like the parts of a face, which have their several functions, and no one part is like
any other part. This admission, which has been somewhat hastily made, is now taken up
and cross-examined by Socrates:—
'Is justice just, and is holiness holy? And are justice and holiness opposed to one another?'—'Then
justice is unholy.' Protagoras would rather say that justice is different from holiness,
and yet in a certain point of view nearly the same. He does not, however, escape in
this way from the cunning of Socrates, who inveigles him into an admission that everything
has but one opposite. Folly, for example, is opposed to wisdom; and folly is also opposed
to temperance; and therefore temperance and wisdom are the same. And holiness has been
already admitted to be nearly the same as justice. Temperance, therefore, has now to
be compared with justice.
Protagoras, whose temper begins to get a little ruffled at the process to which he has been
subjected, is aware that he will soon be compelled by the dialectics of Socrates to admit that
the temperate is the just. He therefore defends himself with his favourite weapon; that is
to say, he makes a long speech not much to the point, which elicits the applause of the
audience.
Here occurs a sort of interlude, which commences with a declaration on the part of Socrates
that he cannot follow a long speech, and therefore he must beg Protagoras to speak shorter. As
Protagoras declines to accommodate him, he rises to depart, but is detained by Callias,
who thinks him unreasonable in not allowing Protagoras the liberty which he takes himself
of speaking as he likes. But Alcibiades answers that the two cases are not parallel. For Socrates
admits his inability to speak long; will Protagoras in like manner acknowledge his inability to
speak short?
Counsels of moderation are urged first in a few words by Critias, and then by Prodicus
in balanced and sententious language: and Hippias proposes an umpire. But who is to
be the umpire? rejoins Socrates; he would rather suggest as a compromise that Protagoras
shall ask and he will answer, and that when Protagoras is tired of asking he himself will
ask and Protagoras shall answer. To this the latter yields a reluctant assent.
Protagoras selects as his thesis a poem of Simonides of Ceos, in which he professes to
find a contradiction. First the poet says,
'Hard is it to become good,'
and then reproaches Pittacus for having said, 'Hard is it to be good.' How is this to be
reconciled? Socrates, who is familiar with the poem, is embarrassed at first, and invokes
the aid of Prodicus, the countryman of Simonides, but apparently only with the intention of
flattering him into absurdities. First a distinction is drawn between (Greek) to be, and (Greek)
to become: to become good is difficult; to be good is easy. Then the word difficult or
hard is explained to mean 'evil' in the Cean dialect. To all this Prodicus assents; but
when Protagoras reclaims, Socrates slily withdraws Prodicus from the fray, under the pretence
that his assent was only intended to test the wits of his adversary. He then proceeds
to give another and more elaborate explanation of the whole passage. The explanation is as
follows:—
The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers (although this is a fact which is not generally
known); and the soul of their philosophy is brevity, which was also the style of primitive
antiquity and of the seven sages. Now Pittacus had a saying, 'Hard is it to be good:' and
Simonides, who was jealous of the fame of this saying, wrote a poem which was designed
to controvert it. No, says he, Pittacus; not 'hard to be good,' but 'hard to become good.'
Socrates proceeds to argue in a highly impressive manner that the whole composition is intended
as an attack upon Pittacus. This, though manifestly absurd, is accepted by the company, and meets
with the special approval of Hippias, who has however a favourite interpretation of
his own, which he is requested by Alcibiades to defer.
The argument is now resumed, not without some disdainful remarks of Socrates on the practice
of introducing the poets, who ought not to be allowed, any more than flute-girls, to
come into good society. Men's own thoughts should supply them with the materials for
discussion. A few soothing flatteries are addressed to Protagoras by Callias and Socrates,
and then the old question is repeated, 'Whether the virtues are one or many?' To which Protagoras
is now disposed to reply, that four out of the five virtues are in some degree similar;
but he still contends that the fifth, courage, is unlike the rest. Socrates proceeds to undermine
the last stronghold of the adversary, first obtaining from him the admission that all
virtue is in the highest degree good:—
The courageous are the confident; and the confident are those who know their business
or profession: those who have no such knowledge and are still confident are madmen. This is
admitted. Then, says Socrates, courage is knowledge—an inference which Protagoras
evades by drawing a futile distinction between the courageous and the confident in a fluent
speech.
Socrates renews the attack from another side: he would like to know whether pleasure is
not the only good, and pain the only evil? Protagoras seems to doubt the morality or
propriety of assenting to this; he would rather say that 'some pleasures are good, some pains
are evil,' which is also the opinion of the generality of mankind. What does he think
of knowledge? Does he agree with the common opinion that knowledge is overcome by passion?
or does he hold that knowledge is power? Protagoras agrees that knowledge is certainly a governing
power.
This, however, is not the doctrine of men in general, who maintain that many who know
what is best, act contrary to their knowledge under the influence of pleasure. But this
opposition of good and evil is really the opposition of a greater or lesser amount of
pleasure. Pleasures are evils because they end in pain, and pains are goods because they
end in pleasures. Thus pleasure is seen to be the only good; and the only evil is the
preference of the lesser pleasure to the greater. But then comes in the illusion of distance.
Some art of mensuration is required in order to show us pleasures and pains in their true
proportion. This art of mensuration is a kind of knowledge, and knowledge is thus proved
once more to be the governing principle of human life, and ignorance the origin of all
evil: for no one prefers the less pleasure to the greater, or the greater pain to the
less, except from ignorance. The argument is drawn out in an imaginary 'dialogue within
a dialogue,' conducted by Socrates and Protagoras on the one part, and the rest of the world
on the other. Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, admit the soundness of the
conclusion.
Socrates then applies this new conclusion to the case of courage—the only virtue which
still holds out against the assaults of the Socratic dialectic. No one chooses the evil
or refuses the good except through ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to
war:—because they form a wrong estimate of good, and honour, and pleasure. And why
are the courageous willing to go to war?—because they form a right estimate of pleasures and
pains, of things terrible and not terrible. Courage then is knowledge, and cowardice is
ignorance. And the five virtues, which were originally maintained to have five different
natures, after having been easily reduced to two only, at last coalesce in one. The
assent of Protagoras to this last position is extracted with great difficulty.
Socrates concludes by professing his disinterested love of the truth, and remarks on the singular
manner in which he and his adversary had changed sides. Protagoras began by asserting, and
Socrates by denying, the teachableness of virtue, and now the latter ends by affirming
that virtue is knowledge, which is the most teachable of all things, while Protagoras
has been striving to show that virtue is not knowledge, and this is almost equivalent to
saying that virtue cannot be taught. He is not satisfied with the result, and would like
to renew the enquiry with the help of Protagoras in a different order, asking (1) What virtue
is, and (2) Whether virtue can be taught. Protagoras declines this offer, but commends
Socrates' earnestness and his style of discussion.
The Protagoras is often supposed to be full of difficulties. These are partly imaginary
and partly real. The imaginary ones are (1) Chronological,—which were pointed out in
ancient times by Athenaeus, and are noticed by Schleiermacher and others, and relate to
the impossibility of all the persons in the Dialogue meeting at any one time, whether
in the year 425 B.C., or in any other. But Plato, like all writers of fiction, aims only
at the probable, and shows in many Dialogues (e.g. the Symposium and Republic, and already
in the Laches) an extreme disregard of the historical accuracy which is sometimes demanded
of him. (2) The exact place of the Protagoras among the Dialogues, and the date of composition,
have also been much disputed. But there are no criteria which afford any real grounds
for determining the date of composition; and the affinities of the Dialogues, when they
are not indicated by Plato himself, must always to a great extent remain uncertain. (3) There
is another class of difficulties, which may be ascribed to preconceived notions of commentators,
who imagine that Protagoras the Sophist ought always to be in the wrong, and his adversary
Socrates in the right; or that in this or that passage—e.g. in the explanation of
good as pleasure—Plato is inconsistent with himself; or that the Dialogue fails in unity,
and has not a proper beginning, middle, and ending. They seem to forget that Plato is
a dramatic writer who throws his thoughts into both sides of the argument, and certainly
does not aim at any unity which is inconsistent with freedom, and with a natural or even wild
manner of treating his subject; also that his mode of revealing the truth is by lights
and shadows, and far-off and opposing points of view, and not by dogmatic statements or
definite results.
The real difficulties arise out of the extreme subtlety of the work, which, as Socrates says
of the poem of Simonides, is a most perfect piece of art. There are dramatic contrasts
and interests, threads of philosophy broken and resumed, satirical reflections on mankind,
veils thrown over truths which are lightly suggested, and all woven together in a single
design, and moving towards one end.
In the introductory scene Plato raises the expectation that a 'great personage' is about
to appear on the stage; perhaps with a further view of showing that he is destined to be
overthrown by a greater still, who makes no pretensions. Before introducing Hippocrates
to him, Socrates thinks proper to warn the youth against the dangers of 'influence,'
of which the invidious nature is recognized by Protagoras himself. Hippocrates readily
adopts the suggestion of Socrates that he shall learn of Protagoras only the accomplishments
which befit an Athenian gentleman, and let alone his 'sophistry.' There is nothing however
in the introduction which leads to the inference that Plato intended to blacken the character
of the Sophists; he only makes a little merry at their expense.
The 'great personage' is somewhat ostentatious, but frank and honest. He is introduced on
a stage which is worthy of him—at the house of the rich Callias, in which are congregated
the noblest and wisest of the Athenians. He considers openness to be the best policy,
and particularly mentions his own liberal mode of dealing with his pupils, as if in
answer to the favourite accusation of the Sophists that they received pay. He is remarkable
for the good temper which he exhibits throughout the discussion under the trying and often
sophistical cross-examination of Socrates. Although once or twice ruffled, and reluctant
to continue the discussion, he parts company on perfectly good terms, and appears to be,
as he says of himself, the 'least jealous of mankind.'
Nor is there anything in the sentiments of Protagoras which impairs this pleasing impression
of the grave and weighty old man. His real defect is that he is inferior to Socrates
in dialectics. The opposition between him and Socrates is not the opposition of good
and bad, true and false, but of the old art of rhetoric and the new science of interrogation
and argument; also of the irony of Socrates and the self-assertion of the Sophists. There
is quite as much truth on the side of Protagoras as of Socrates; but the truth of Protagoras
is based on common sense and common maxims of morality, while that of Socrates is paradoxical
or transcendental, and though full of meaning and insight, hardly intelligible to the rest
of mankind. Here as elsewhere is the usual contrast between the Sophists representing
average public opinion and Socrates seeking for increased clearness and unity of ideas.
But to a great extent Protagoras has the best of the argument and represents the better
mind of man.
For example: (1) one of the noblest statements to be found in antiquity about the preventive
nature of punishment is put into his mouth; (2) he is clearly right also in maintaining
that virtue can be taught (which Socrates himself, at the end of the Dialogue, is disposed
to concede); and also (3) in his explanation of the phenomenon that good fathers have bad
sons; (4) he is right also in observing that the virtues are not like the arts, gifts or
attainments of special individuals, but the common property of all: this, which in all
ages has been the strength and weakness of ethics and politics, is deeply seated in human
nature; (5) there is a sort of half-truth in the notion that all civilized men are teachers
of virtue; and more than a half-truth (6) in ascribing to man, who in his outward conditions
is more helpless than the other animals, the power of self-improvement; (7) the religious
allegory should be noticed, in which the arts are said to be given by Prometheus (who stole
them), whereas justice and reverence and the political virtues could only be imparted by
Zeus; (8) in the latter part of the Dialogue, when Socrates is arguing that 'pleasure is
the only good,' Protagoras deems it more in accordance with his character to maintain
that 'some pleasures only are good;' and admits that 'he, above all other men, is bound to
say "that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things."'
There is no reason to suppose that in all this Plato is depicting an imaginary Protagoras;
he seems to be showing us the teaching of the Sophists under the milder aspect under
which he once regarded them. Nor is there any reason to doubt that Socrates is equally
an historical character, paradoxical, ironical, tiresome, but seeking for the unity of virtue
and knowledge as for a precious treasure; willing to rest this even on a calculation
of pleasure, and irresistible here, as everywhere in Plato, in his intellectual superiority.
The aim of Socrates, and of the Dialogue, is to show the unity of virtue. In the determination
of this question the identity of virtue and knowledge is found to be involved. But if
virtue and knowledge are one, then virtue can be taught; the end of the Dialogue returns
to the beginning. Had Protagoras been allowed by Plato to make the Aristotelian distinction,
and say that virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied with knowledge; or to point
out with Aristotle that the same quality may have more than one opposite; or with Plato
himself in the Phaedo to deny that good is a mere exchange of a greater pleasure for
a less—the unity of virtue and the identity of virtue and knowledge would have required
to be proved by other arguments.
The victory of Socrates over Protagoras is in every way complete when their minds are
fairly brought together. Protagoras falls before him after two or three blows. Socrates
partially gains his object in the first part of the Dialogue, and completely in the second.
Nor does he appear at any disadvantage when subjected to 'the question' by Protagoras.
He succeeds in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, ludicrous by the way; he also
makes a long speech in defence of the poem of Simonides, after the manner of the Sophists,
showing, as Alcibiades says, that he is only pretending to have a bad memory, and that
he and not Protagoras is really a master in the two styles of speaking; and that he can
undertake, not one side of the argument only, but both, when Protagoras begins to break
down. Against the authority of the poets with whom Protagoras has ingeniously identified
himself at the commencement of the Dialogue, Socrates sets up the proverbial philosophers
and those masters of brevity the Lacedaemonians. The poets, the Laconizers, and Protagoras
are satirized at the same time.
Not having the whole of this poem before us, it is impossible for us to answer certainly
the question of Protagoras, how the two passages of Simonides are to be reconciled. We can
only follow the indications given by Plato himself. But it seems likely that the reconcilement
offered by Socrates is a caricature of the methods of interpretation which were practised
by the Sophists—for the following reasons: (1) The transparent irony of the previous
interpretations given by Socrates. (2) The ludicrous opening of the speech in which the
Lacedaemonians are described as the true philosophers, and Laconic brevity as the true form of philosophy,
evidently with an allusion to Protagoras' long speeches. (3) The manifest futility and
absurdity of the explanation of (Greek), which is hardly consistent with the rational interpretation
of the rest of the poem. The opposition of (Greek) and (Greek) seems also intended to
express the rival doctrines of Socrates and Protagoras, and is a facetious commentary
on their differences. (4) The general treatment in Plato both of the Poets and the Sophists,
who are their interpreters, and whom he delights to identify with them. (5) The depreciating
spirit in which Socrates speaks of the introduction of the poets as a substitute for original
conversation, which is intended to contrast with Protagoras' exaltation of the study of
them—this again is hardly consistent with the serious defence of Simonides. (6) the
marked approval of Hippias, who is supposed at once to catch the familiar sound, just
as in the previous conversation Prodicus is represented as ready to accept any distinctions
of language however absurd. At the same time Hippias is desirous of substituting a new
interpretation of his own; as if the words might really be made to mean anything, and
were only to be regarded as affording a field for the ingenuity of the interpreter.
This curious passage is, therefore, to be regarded as Plato's satire on the tedious
and hypercritical arts of interpretation which prevailed in his own day, and may be compared
with his condemnation of the same arts when applied to mythology in the Phaedrus, and
with his other parodies, e.g. with the two first speeches in the Phaedrus and with the
Menexenus. Several lesser touches of satire may be observed, such as the claim of philosophy
advanced for the Lacedaemonians, which is a parody of the claims advanced for the Poets
by Protagoras; the mistake of the Laconizing set in supposing that the Lacedaemonians are
a great nation because they bruise their ears; the far-fetched notion, which is 'really too
bad,' that Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, (Greek), because he is addressing a Lesbian.
The whole may also be considered as a satire on those who spin pompous theories out of
nothing. As in the arguments of the Euthydemus and of the Cratylus, the veil of irony is
never withdrawn; and we are left in doubt at last how far in this interpretation of
Simonides Socrates is 'fooling,' how far he is in earnest.
All the interests and contrasts of character in a great dramatic work like the Protagoras
are not easily exhausted. The impressiveness of the scene should not be lost upon us, or
the gradual substitution of Socrates in the second part for Protagoras in the first. The
characters to whom we are introduced at the beginning of the Dialogue all play a part
more or less conspicuous towards the end. There is Alcibiades, who is compelled by the
necessity of his nature to be a partisan, lending effectual aid to Socrates; there is
Critias assuming the tone of impartiality; Callias, here as always inclining to the Sophists,
but eager for any intellectual repast; Prodicus, who finds an opportunity for displaying his
distinctions of language, which are valueless and pedantic, because they are not based on
dialectic; Hippias, who has previously exhibited his superficial knowledge of natural philosophy,
to which, as in both the Dialogues called by his name, he now adds the profession of
an interpreter of the Poets. The two latter personages have been already damaged by the
mock heroic description of them in the introduction. It may be remarked that Protagoras is consistently
presented to us throughout as the teacher of moral and political virtue; there is no
allusion to the theories of sensation which are attributed to him in the Theaetetus and
elsewhere, or to his denial of the existence of the gods in a well-known fragment ascribed
to him; he is the religious rather than the irreligious teacher in this Dialogue. Also
it may be observed that Socrates shows him as much respect as is consistent with his
own ironical character; he admits that the dialectic which has overthrown Protagoras
has carried himself round to a conclusion opposed to his first thesis. The force of
argument, therefore, and not Socrates or Protagoras, has won the day.
But is Socrates serious in maintaining (1) that virtue cannot be taught; (2) that the
virtues are one; (3) that virtue is the knowledge of pleasures and pains present and future?
These propositions to us have an appearance of paradox—they are really moments or aspects
of the truth by the help of which we pass from the old conventional morality to a higher
conception of virtue and knowledge. That virtue cannot be taught is a paradox of the same
sort as the profession of Socrates that he knew nothing. Plato means to say that virtue
is not brought to a man, but must be drawn out of him; and cannot be taught by rhetorical
discourses or citations from the poets. The second question, whether the virtues are one
or many, though at first sight distinct, is really a part of the same subject; for if
the virtues are to be taught, they must be reducible to a common principle; and this
common principle is found to be knowledge. Here, as Aristotle remarks, Socrates and Plato
outstep the truth—they make a part of virtue into the whole. Further, the nature of this
knowledge, which is assumed to be a knowledge of pleasures and pains, appears to us too
superficial and at variance with the spirit of Plato himself. Yet, in this, Plato is only
following the historical Socrates as he is depicted to us in Xenophon's Memorabilia.
Like Socrates, he finds on the surface of human life one common bond by which the virtues
are united,—their tendency to produce happiness,—though such a principle is afterwards repudiated
by him.
It remains to be considered in what relation the Protagoras stands to the other Dialogues
of Plato. That it is one of the earlier or purely Socratic works—perhaps the last,
as it is certainly the greatest of them—is indicated by the absence of any allusion to
the doctrine of reminiscence; and also by the different attitude assumed towards the
teaching and persons of the Sophists in some of the later Dialogues. The Charmides, Laches,
Lysis, all touch on the question of the relation of knowledge to virtue, and may be regarded,
if not as preliminary studies or sketches of the more important work, at any rate as
closely connected with it. The Io and the lesser Hippias contain discussions of the
Poets, which offer a parallel to the ironical criticism of Simonides, and are conceived
in a similar spirit. The affinity of the Protagoras to the Meno is more doubtful. For there, although
the same question is discussed, 'whether virtue can be taught,' and the relation of Meno to
the Sophists is much the same as that of Hippocrates, the answer to the question is supplied out
of the doctrine of ideas; the real Socrates is already passing into the Platonic one.
At a later stage of the Platonic philosophy we shall find that both the paradox and the
solution of it appear to have been retracted. The Phaedo, the Gorgias, and the Philebus
offer further corrections of the teaching of the Protagoras; in all of them the doctrine
that virtue is pleasure, or that pleasure is the chief or only good, is distinctly renounced.
Thus after many preparations and oppositions, both of the characters of men and aspects
of the truth, especially of the popular and philosophical aspect; and after many interruptions
and detentions by the way, which, as Theodorus says in the Theaetetus, are quite as agreeable
as the argument, we arrive at the great Socratic thesis that virtue is knowledge. This is an
aspect of the truth which was lost almost as soon as it was found; and yet has to be
recovered by every one for himself who would pass the limits of proverbial and popular
philosophy. The moral and intellectual are always dividing, yet they must be reunited,
and in the highest conception of them are inseparable. The thesis of Socrates is not
merely a hasty assumption, but may be also deemed an anticipation of some 'metaphysic
of the future,' in which the divided elements of human nature are reconciled.
End of Part I
Section II
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his Companion.
Hippocrates, Alcibiades and Critias. Protagoras, Hippias and Prodicus (Sophists). Callias,
a wealthy Athenian.
SCENE: The House of Callias.
COMPANION: Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet I need hardly ask the question, for
I know that you have been in chase of the fair Alcibiades. I saw him the day before
yesterday; and he had got a beard like a man,—and he is a man, as I may tell you in your ear.
But I thought that he was still very charming.
SOCRATES: What of his beard? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who says 'Youth is most charming
when the beard first appears'? And that is now the charm of Alcibiades.
COMPANION: Well, and how do matters proceed? Have you been visiting him, and was he gracious
to you?
SOCRATES: Yes, I thought that he was very gracious; and especially to-day, for I have
just come from him, and he has been helping me in an argument. But shall I tell you a
strange thing? I paid no attention to him, and several times I quite forgot that he was
present.
COMPANION: What is the meaning of this? Has anything happened between you and him? For
surely you cannot have discovered a fairer love than he is; certainly not in this city
of Athens.
SOCRATES: Yes, much fairer.
COMPANION: What do you mean—a citizen or a foreigner?
SOCRATES: A foreigner.
COMPANION: Of what country?
SOCRATES: Of Abdera.
COMPANION: And is this stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than the son of
Cleinias?
SOCRATES: And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend?
COMPANION: But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one?
SOCRATES: Say rather, with the wisest of all living men, if you are willing to accord that
title to Protagoras.
COMPANION: What! Is Protagoras in Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes; he has been here two days.
COMPANION: And do you just come from an interview with him?
SOCRATES: Yes; and I have heard and said many things.
COMPANION: Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit down and tell me what
passed, and my attendant here shall give up his place to you.
SOCRATES: To be sure; and I shall be grateful to you for listening.
COMPANION: Thank you, too, for telling us.
SOCRATES: That is thank you twice over. Listen then:—
Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the son of Apollodorus and the
brother of Phason, gave a tremendous thump with his staff at my door; some one opened
to him, and he came rushing in and bawled out: Socrates, are you awake or asleep?
I knew his voice, and said: Hippocrates, is that you? and do you bring any news?
Good news, he said; nothing but good.
Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at this unearthly
hour?
He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come.
Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his arrival?
Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening.
At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and then he said:
Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in pursuit
of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some other matter had not
come in the way;—on my return, when we had done supper and were about to retire to rest,
my brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and then I thought
that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my fatigue, I got up and
came hither direct.
I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the matter? Has Protagoras
robbed you of anything?
He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from
me.
But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you
as wise as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all that I have, and
all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in order
that you may speak to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor
heard him; (when he visited Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him,
Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why we should
not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I hear, with Callias
the son of Hipponicus: let us start.
I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a turn
in the court and wait about there until day-break; when the day breaks, then we will go. For
Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him; never fear.
Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make trial
of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell me, Hippocrates,
I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your money to him, what is
he to whom you are going? and what will he make of you? If, for example, you had thought
of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were about to give him your money, and
some one had said to you: You are paying money to your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates;
tell me, what is he that you give him money? how would you have answered?
I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.
And what will he make of you?
A physician, he said.
And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and
were intending to give them money, and some one had asked you: What are Polycleitus and
Pheidias? and why do you give them this money?—how would you have answered?
I should have answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they make of you?
A statuary, of course.
Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money on your
behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall be only
too glad; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your friends as well. Now suppose,
that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one were to say to us: Tell
me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why are you going to pay him
money,—how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a sculptor, and that Homer is
a poet; but what appellation is given to Protagoras? how is he designated?
They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?
Certainly.
But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about yourself? What will
Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?
He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that
I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose that
he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in
the character of a Sophist?
Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this nature:
may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the grammarian, or
musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a profession, but only
as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and freeman ought to know them?
Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of
Protagoras.
I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?
And what am I doing?
You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And yet
I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if not, then you do not even know
to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you commit yourself be
good or evil.
I certainly think that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?
I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name implies.
And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also: Do
not they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to ask us: In what are the painters
wise? We should answer: In what relates to the making of likenesses, and similarly of
other things. And if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the Sophist, and what
is the manufacture over which he presides?—how should we answer him?
How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but that he presides
over the art which makes men eloquent?
Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer a further
question is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk eloquently? The player on
the lyre may be supposed to make a man talk eloquently about that which he makes him understand,
that is about playing the lyre. Is not that true?
Yes.
Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him eloquent in
that which he understands?
Yes, that may be assumed.
And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?
Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring?
If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to it, would
you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and kindred, and deliberate
many days as to whether you should give him the care of your body? But when the soul is
in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and upon the good or
evil of which depends the well-being of your all,—about this you never consulted either
with your father or with your brother or with any one of us who are your companions. But
no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly commit your soul to his keeping.
In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the morning you go to him, never deliberating
or taking the opinion of any one as to whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;—you
have quite made up your mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and
are prepared to expend all the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out
at any price this determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have
never spoken with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what
a Sophist is; and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping.
When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from
your words.
I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food
of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?
Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that
the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers wholesale
or retail who sell the food of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their goods,
without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers know,
with the exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In like manner
those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the cities, and sell
or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all alike; though I should
not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of their effect upon the soul;
and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of them happens to be a physician
of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of what is good and evil, you may safely buy
knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not
hazard your dearest interests at a game of chance. For there is far greater peril in
buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink: the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail
dealer, and carry them away in other vessels, and before you receive them into the body
as food, you may deposit them at home and call in any experienced friend who knows what
is good to be eaten or drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger
of purchasing them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry
them away in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must receive them into the
soul and go your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited; and therefore we should
deliberate and take counsel with our elders; for we are still young—too young to determine
such a matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras; and when we
have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only is Protagoras
at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not mistaken, Prodicus
of Ceos, and several other wise men.
To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the house;
and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen between us as
we were going along; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had finished and
come to an understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a eunuch, and who
was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must have heard us talking.
At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us, he grumbled: They
are Sophists—he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a hearty *** with both his
hands. Again we knocked, and he answered without opening: Did you not hear me say that he is
not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need not be alarmed; for we are not Sophists,
and we are not come to see Callias, but we want to see Protagoras; and I must request
you to announce us. At last, after a good deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded
to open the door.
When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and next to him, on
one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and Paralus, the son of Pericles,
who, by the mother's side, is his half-brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On the
other side of him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son of Philomelus;
also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples of Protagoras is the most famous, and intends
to make sophistry his profession. A train of listeners followed him; the greater part
of them appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with him out of the various cities
visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus, attracting them his voice, and they following
(Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there were some Athenians in the company.
Nothing delighted me more than the precision of their movements: they never got into his
way at all; but when he and those who were with him turned back, then the band of listeners
parted regularly on either side; he was always in front, and they wheeled round and took
their places behind him in perfect order.
After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias the Elean sitting
in the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him were seated on benches Eryximachus,
the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son of Androtion, and there
were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native city of Elis, and some others:
they were putting to Hippias certain physical and astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra,
was determining their several questions to them, and discoursing of them.
Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens: he had been
lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a storehouse; but, as the house was full,
Callias had cleared this out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now Prodicus was
still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there seemed to be a
great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias of the deme of
Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly remarkable for his
good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle nature. I thought
that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the beloved of Pausanias. There
was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses, one the son of Cepis, and the
other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very anxious to hear what Prodicus was
saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and inspired man; but I was not able to get
into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice made an echo in the room which rendered his
words inaudible.
No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say, and
I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus.
On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to Protagoras,
and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you.
Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the company?
Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of our visit.
And what is your purpose? he said.
I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he is the son of Apollodorus,
and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural ability quite a match
for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political eminence; and this
he thinks that conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now you can
determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or in the presence
of the company.
Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his
way into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave company
of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the
idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great jealousies
are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many enmities and conspiracies.
Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of great antiquity; but in ancient times those
who practised it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under various names,
some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of hierophants and prophets,
as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under the name of gymnastic-masters,
like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently celebrated Herodicus, now of Selymbria and
formerly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician,
but was really an eminent Sophist; also Pythocleides the Cean; and there were many others; and
all of them, as I was saying, adopted these arts as veils or disguises because they were
afraid of the odium which they would incur. But that is not my way, for I do not believe
that they effected their purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded
by them; and as to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their
rulers are pleased to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is
the very height of folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; for
they regard him who runs away as a rogue, in addition to any other objections which
they have to him; and therefore I take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge
myself to be a Sophist and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me
to be a better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and therefore
I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the acknowledgment
that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the profession—for all my years
when added up are many: there is no one here present of whom I might not be the father.
Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if you want to speak with me, in
the presence of the company.
As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and glorification in the
presence of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his
admirers, I said: But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to
hear us?
Very good, he said.
Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss.—This was
agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we
ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where the other
benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of
bed and brought in him and his companions.
When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are assembled, Socrates,
tell me about the young man of whom you were just now speaking.
I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more
the purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your
acquaintance; he would like to know what will happen to him if he associates with you. I
have no more to say.
Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you will return
home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than on the first, and better
every day than you were on the day before.
When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this;
even at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did
not know before, you would become better no doubt: but please to answer in a different
way—I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of desiring
your acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man Zeuxippus of Heraclea,
who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he has come to you, and had
heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day he would grow and become better
if he associated with him: and then suppose that he were to ask him, 'In what shall I
become better, and in what shall I grow?'—Zeuxippus would answer, 'In painting.' And suppose that
he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and heard him say the same thing, and asked him, 'In
what shall I become better day by day?' he would reply, 'In flute-playing.' Now I want
you to make the same sort of answer to this young man and to me, who am asking questions
on his account. When you say that on the first day on which he associates with you he will
return home a better man, and on every day will grow in like manner,—in what, Protagoras,
will he be better? and about what?
When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly, and I like to answer
a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience the sort
of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting their pupils; who,
when they have just escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by these
teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music (he gave
a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me, he will learn that which he
comes to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public; he will learn to
order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the best
in the affairs of the state.
Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and that
you promise to make men good citizens?
That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make.
Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this; for
I will freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is capable
of being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to
tell you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to
man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are esteemed to be
such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met together in the assembly,
and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders are summoned as advisers; when
the question is one of ship-building, then the ship-wrights; and the like of other arts
which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if some person offers to give
them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill in the art, even though he
be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to him, but laugh and hoot
at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself; or if he persist,
he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the command of the prytanes. This is their
way of behaving about professors of the arts. But when the question is an affair of state,
then everybody is free to have a say—carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and
poor, high and low—any one who likes gets up, and no one reproaches him, as in the former
case, with not having learned, and having no teacher, and yet giving advice; evidently
because they are under the impression that this sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And
not only is this true of the state, but of individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens
are unable to impart their political wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the father
of these young men, who gave them excellent instruction in all that could be learned from
masters, in his own department of politics neither taught them, nor gave them teachers;
but they were allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would
light upon virtue of their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the
younger brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian;
and he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades,
took him away, and placed him in the house of Ariphron to be educated; but before six
months had elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I could
mention numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and never yet made
any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras, having these examples before
me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But then again, when I listen to
your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there must be something in what you say,
because I know that you have great experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that
you would, if possible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you
be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as an elder, speak
to you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the question?
To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself.
End of Part II
Section III
Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.
Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time came
that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire and various
mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth; and when they were about to
bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to equip them, and
to distribute to them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said to Prometheus:
'Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, and Epimetheus made the distribution.
There were some to whom he gave strength without swiftness, while he equipped the weaker with
swiftness; some he armed, and others he left unarmed; and devised for the latter some other
means of preservation, making some large, and having their size as a protection, and
others small, whose nature was to fly in the air or burrow in the ground; this was to be
their way of escape. Thus did he compensate them with the view of preventing any race
from becoming extinct. And when he had provided against their destruction by one another,
he contrived also a means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them
with close hair and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and
able to resist the summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed of their own when
they wanted to rest; also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins
under their feet. Then he gave them varieties of food,—herb of the soil to some, to others
fruits of trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food.
And some he made to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very prolific;
and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus, who, not being very wise,
forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals all the qualities which he had to
give,—and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly perplexed. Now
while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the distribution, and he found
that the other animals were suitably furnished, but that man alone was naked and shoeless,
and had neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed hour was approaching when man in
his turn was to go forth into the light of day; and Prometheus, not knowing how he could
devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with
them (they could neither have been acquired nor used without fire), and gave them to man.
Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the support of life, but political wisdom he had not;
for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering
into the citadel of heaven, where Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; but he
did enter by stealth into the common workshop of Athene and Hephaestus, in which they used
to practise their favourite arts, and carried off Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and
also the art of Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the
means of life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing
to the blunder of Epimetheus.
Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals who
had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and he would raise altars and images
of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and names; and he also constructed
houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the earth. Thus provided,
mankind at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the consequence was that
they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly weak in comparison of them,
and their art was only sufficient to provide them with the means of life, and did not enable
them to carry on war against the animals: food they had, but not as yet the art of government,
of which the art of war is a part. After a while the desire of self-preservation gathered
them into cities; but when they were gathered together, having no art of government, they
evil intreated one another, and were again in process of dispersion and destruction.
Zeus feared that the entire race would be exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them,
bearing reverence and justice to be the ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship
and conciliation. Hermes asked Zeus how he should impart justice and reverence among
men:—Should he distribute them as the arts are distributed; that is to say, to a favoured
few only, one skilled individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled
ones? 'Shall this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence among
men, or shall I give them to all?' 'To all,' said Zeus; 'I should like them all to have
a share; for cities cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts.
And further, make a law by my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice
shall be put to death, for he is a plague of the state.'
And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the
question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in
their deliberations; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they object,
if he be not of the favoured few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet
to deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom,
they are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural, because they
think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, and that states could not
exist if this were otherwise. I have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon.
And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard every
man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let me
give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says
that he is a good flute-player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill,
people either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad
and go and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other political virtue,
even if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells
the truth about his dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good
sense, they now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty whether
they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything else. Their
notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if he has none at all
he ought not to be in the world.
I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about
this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I
will now endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given by
nature, or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes
to a man by taking pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with those
whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not try to punish
or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity them. Who is so foolish as
to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble? And for this reason. Because
he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of chance; whereas
if a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study and exercise and
teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men are angry with him, and punish and
reprove him—of these evil qualities one is impiety, another injustice, and they may
be described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In such cases any man
will be angry with another, and reprimand him,—clearly because he thinks that by study
and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be acquired. If you will
think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at once that in the opinion of
mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes the evil-doer under the notion, or for the
reason, that he has done wrong,—only the unreasonable fury of a beast acts in that
manner. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment does not retaliate for a past wrong
which cannot be undone; he has regard to the future, and is desirous that the man who is
punished, and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from doing wrong again. He punishes
for the sake of prevention, thereby clearly implying that virtue is capable of being taught.
This is the notion of all who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the
Athenians, too, your own citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom
they regard as evil doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who
think that virtue may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly
enough, if I am not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the
cobbler to advise about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being
taught and acquired.
There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good
men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained from
teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in the virtues
which distinguish themselves? And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue and resume the argument.
Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality of which all the citizens
must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the answer to this question is
contained the only solution of your difficulty; there is no other. For if there be any such
quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the smith, or
the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly virtue—if
this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very condition
of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this, whether
he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman, must be taught and punished, until by punishment
he becomes better, and he who rebels against instruction and punishment is either exiled
or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable—if what I am saying be true,
good men have their sons taught other things and not this, do consider how extraordinary
their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown that they think virtue capable of being
taught and cultivated both in private and public; and, notwithstanding, they have their
sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which does not involve the punishment of death:
but greater things, of which the ignorance may cause death and exile to those who have
no training or knowledge of them—aye, and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word,
may be the ruin of families—those things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them,—not
to take the utmost care that they should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates!
Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very end
of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the improvement
of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to him: he cannot
say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and that is unjust;
this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this and
abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by threats
and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him to teachers,
and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and music; and the
teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters and is beginning
to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was spoken, they put
into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a bench at school; in
these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient
famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he may imitate or
emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the teachers of the lyre take
similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into no mischief; and when
they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to the poems of other excellent
poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music, and make their harmonies
and rhythms quite familiar to the children's souls, in order that they may learn to be
more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fitted for speech and action;
for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and rhythm. Then they send them
to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may better minister to the virtuous
mind, and that they may not be compelled through bodily weakness to play the coward in war
or on any other occasion. This is what is done by those who have the means, and those
who have the means are the rich; their children begin to go to school soonest and leave off
latest. When they have done with masters, the state again compels them to learn the
laws, and live after the pattern which they furnish, and not after their own fancies;
and just as in learning to write, the writing-master first draws lines with a style for the use
of the young beginner, and gives him the tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city
draws the laws, which were the invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these
are given to the young man, in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding
or obeying; and he who transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called
to account, which is a term used not only in your country, but also in many others,
seeing that justice calls men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue
private and public, why, Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can
be taught? Cease to wonder, for the opposite would be far more surprising.
But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very wonderful
in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is not any
man's private possession. If so—and nothing can be truer—then I will further ask you
to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which may be
assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that there could
be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity, and everybody
was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and reproving the bad
player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the laws, not concealing
them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them—for all of us have a mutual
interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the reason why every
one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;—suppose, I say, that there were the same readiness
and liberality among us in teaching one another flute-playing, do you imagine, Socrates, that
the sons of good flute-players would be more likely to be good than the sons of bad ones?
I think not. Would not their sons grow up to be distinguished or undistinguished according
to their own natural capacities as flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn
out to be a bad one, and the son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players
would be good enough in comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the
art of flute-playing? In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you
to be the worst of those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to
be a just man and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education,
or courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise
virtue—with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the stage
at the last year's Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the man-haters
in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and
you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the world. You,
Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue, each one according
to his ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as well ask, Who teaches
Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or you might ask, Who is to
teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have learned of their fathers?
He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of their ability,—but who will
carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have a difficulty, Socrates,
in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in finding a teacher of those
who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of anything else; if a man is
better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we must be content with the
result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above all other men to have the
knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my pupils their money's-worth,
and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I have introduced the following
mode of payment:—When a man has been my pupil, if he likes he pays my price, but there
is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to go into a temple and take an
oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more than he declares to be their
value.
Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show
that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also
attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at good
sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who are
the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in comparison
with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I ought
not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young and there is
still hope of them.
Protagoras ended, and in my ear
'So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed
to hear (Borrowed by Milton, "Paradise Lost".).'
At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without difficulty
I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of Apollodorus,
how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not have missed
the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no human care could
make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small difficulty which
I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained so much. If a
man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about these matters,
he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a question to ask of
any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any one challenges
the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long harangue, like brazen
pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some one puts his hand upon
them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good speech, as he has already
shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly; and when he asks he will
wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, want to ask
of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be quite satisfied. You
were saying that virtue can be taught;—that I will take upon your authority, and there
is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one thing about which I should
like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus sending justice and reverence
to men; and several times while you were speaking, justice, and temperance, and holiness, and
all these qualities, were described by you as if together they made up virtue. Now I
want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one whole, of which justice and temperance
and holiness are parts; or whether all these are only the names of one and the same thing:
that is the doubt which still lingers in my mind.
There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking
are the parts of virtue which is one.
And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears,
are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole
and from one another only in being larger or smaller?
I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one
another as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.
And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one part,
must he also have all the others?
By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise.
You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?
Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts.
And they are all different from one another? I said.
Yes.
And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;—the eye, for example,
is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are none of
them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to know whether
the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ from one another
in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile would imply.
Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ.
Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage,
or like temperance, or like holiness?
No, he answered.
Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you
would agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is
my opinion: would it not be yours also?
Mine also, he said.
And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, 'O Protagoras, and you, Socrates,
what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?'—and I were
to answer, just: would you vote with me or against me?
With you, he said.
Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just:
would not you?
Yes, he said.
And suppose that he went on to say: 'Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?'—we
should answer, 'Yes,' if I am not mistaken?
Yes, he said.
Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing—should we not say so?
He assented.
'And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the
unholy?' I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, 'Peace, man;
nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.' What would you say? Would you not answer in
the same way?
Certainly, he said.
And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, 'What were you saying just now?
Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that the
parts of virtue were not the same as one another.' I should reply, 'You certainly heard that
said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question; Protagoras gave
the answer.' And suppose that he turned to you and said, 'Is this true, Protagoras? and
do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this your position?'—how
would you answer him?
I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.
Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say
further, 'Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness,
but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and therefore
of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy': how shall we answer him? I should certainly
answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I would
say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either
the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice
is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether
I may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with
me.
He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and
that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what
matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will I, that justice is holy,
and that holiness is just.
Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this 'if you wish' or 'if you will' sort of conclusion
to be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion
will be best proven if there be no 'if.'
Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always
some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain
way like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities
in common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and
have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is
like another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same principle
that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some particular
ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular, however slight,
unlike.
And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small
degree of likeness?
Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view.
Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the examples
which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly?
I do.
And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly?
That is true, he said.
And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate?
Yes, he said.
And temperance makes them temperate?
Certainly.
And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate?
I agree, he said.
Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately?
He assented.
And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance?
He agreed.
And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by
weakness?
He assented.
And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with slowness,
slowly?
He assented again.
And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done
in an opposite manner by the opposite?
He agreed.
Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful?
Yes.
To which the only opposite is the ugly?
There is no other.
And is there anything good?
There is.
To which the only opposite is the evil?
There is no other.
And there is the acute in sound?
True.
To which the only opposite is the grave?
There is no other, he said, but that.
Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more?
He assented.
Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that
everything has one opposite and not more than one?
We did so.
And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites?
Yes.
And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite way to
that which was done temperately?
Yes.
And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was done foolishly
by folly?
He agreed.
And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?
Yes.
And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly?
Yes.
And in opposite ways?
Certainly.
And therefore by opposites:—then folly is the opposite of temperance?
Clearly.
And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the opposite
of wisdom?
He assented.
And we said that everything has only one opposite?
Yes.
Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that everything
has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance, and that both
of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but dissimilar, both
in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of these two assertions
shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in harmony; they do not
accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is assumed to have
only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one, has clearly the two
opposites—wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras? What else would you
say?
He assented, but with great reluctance.
Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to us
to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and not
faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice?
I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, which nevertheless many
may be found to assert.
And shall I argue with them or with you? I replied.
I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many first, if you will.
Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their opinion
or not. My object is to test the validity of the argument; and yet the result may be
that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our trial.
Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not encouraging;
at length, he consented to answer. End of Part III
Section IV
Now then, I said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are temperate,
and yet unjust?
Yes, he said; let that be admitted.
And temperance is good sense?
Yes.
And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice?
Granted.
If they succeed, I said, or if they do not succeed?
If they succeed.
And you would admit the existence of goods?
Yes.
And is the good that which is expedient for man?
Yes, indeed, he said: and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call them
good.
I thought that Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited; he seemed to be setting himself
in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently said:—
When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient for man
only, or inexpedient altogether? and do you call the latter good?
Certainly not the last, he replied; for I know of many things—meats, drinks, medicines,
and ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are expedient; and
some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man, but only for horses; and some for
oxen only, and some for dogs; and some for no animals, but only for trees; and some for
the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for example, manure, which is a good thing
when laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly destructive if thrown upon the shoots and
young branches; or I may instance olive oil, which is mischievous to all plants, and generally
most injurious to the hair of every animal with the exception of man, but beneficial
to human hair and to the human body generally; and even in this application (so various and
changeable is the nature of the benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward
parts of a man, is a very great evil to his inward parts: and for this reason physicians
always forbid their patients the use of oil in their food, except in very small quantities,
just enough to extinguish the disagreeable sensation of smell in meats and sauces.
When he had given this answer, the company cheered him. And I said: Protagoras, I have
a wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never remember what
he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to converse with
me, you would have had to raise your voice; so now, having such a bad memory, I will ask
you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take me with you.
What do you mean? he said: how am I to shorten my answers? shall I make them too short?
Certainly not, I said.
But short enough?
Yes, I said.
Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be short
enough?
I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things
at such length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could
use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or more
compendious method.
Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the method
of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should have been no
better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been nowhere.
I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the part
of answerer any more if he could help; and I considered that there was no call upon me
to continue the conversation; so I said: Protagoras, I do not wish to force the conversation upon
you if you had rather not, but when you are willing to argue with me in such a way that
I can follow you, then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you by others and as
you say of yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of speech as well as in longer,
for you are a master of wisdom; but I cannot manage these long speeches: I only wish that
I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of either, ought to speak shorter as I beg
you, and then we might converse. But I see that you are disinclined, and as I have an
engagement which will prevent my staying to hear you at greater length (for I have to
be in another place), I will depart; although I should have liked to have heard you.
Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand,
and in his left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said: We cannot let you
go, Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussions: I must therefore
beg you to remain, as there is nothing in the world that I should like better than to
hear you and Protagoras discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure.
Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have always
admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I would gladly
comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I cannot. And what you ask
is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me run a race with Crison of Himera,
when in his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To such a request
I should reply that I would fain ask the same of my own legs; but they refuse to comply.
And therefore if you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium, you must bid him slacken
his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run slowly. And in like manner
if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must ask him to shorten his answers, and
keep to the point, as he did at first; if not, how can there be any discussion? For
discussion is one thing, and making an oration is quite another, in my humble opinion.
But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his
own way, just as you claim to speak in yours.
Here Alcibiades interposed, and said: That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case.
For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech—in this he yields the palm
to Protagoras: but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man in the power
of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if Protagoras will make a similar admission,
and confess that he is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is enough for
Socrates; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and answer—not,
when a question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of answering, making
a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question at issue (not that Socrates
is likely to forget—I will be bound for that, although he may pretend in fun that
he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears to me to be more in the right than Protagoras;
that is my view, and every man ought to say what he thinks.
When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one—Critias, I believe—went on to say: O Prodicus and
Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras: and this led Alcibiades, who
loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be partisans either of Socrates
or of Protagoras; let us rather unite in entreating both of them not to break up the discussion.
Prodicus added: That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are present
at such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the speakers; remembering,
however, that impartiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be impartially
heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned to both of them; but to the wiser
a higher meed should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as Critias
would beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you will
argue with one another and not wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of good-will,
but only adversaries and enemies wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful; for
in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win esteem, and not praise
only, among us who are your audience; for esteem is a sincere conviction of the hearers'
souls, but praise is often an insincere expression of men uttering falsehoods contrary to their
conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be gratified and not pleased; for gratification
is of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge, but pleasure is of the body when eating or
experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded
his words.
Hippias the sage spoke next. He said: All of you who are here present I reckon to be
kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like
is akin to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to do many
things which are against nature. How great would be the disgrace then, if we, who know
the nature of things, and are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together
in this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest and most glorious house
of this city, should have nothing to show worthy of this height of dignity, but should
only quarrel with one another like the meanest of mankind! I do pray and advise you, Protagoras,
and you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your peacemakers. And do not you,
Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in discourse, if Protagoras objects,
but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your words may be grander and more becoming
to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth on the gale with every sail set out of sight
of land into an ocean of words, but let there be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I
say. And let me also persuade you to choose an arbiter or overseer or president; he will
keep watch over your words and will prescribe their proper length.
This proposal was received by the company with universal approval; Callias said that
he would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose
an umpire of discourse would be unseemly; for if the person chosen was inferior, then
the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the better; or if he was equal, neither
would that be well; for he who is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use
of choosing him? And if you say, 'Let us have a better then,'—to that I answer that you
cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is not really
better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as though he were an
inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him; not that, as far as I am concerned,
any reflection is of much consequence to me. Let me tell you then what I will do in order
that the conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras is not disposed
to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and I will endeavour to show at the same time
how, as I maintain, he ought to answer: and when I have answered as many questions as
he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me; and if he seems to be not very ready at
answering the precise question asked of him, you and I will unite in entreating him, as
you entreated me, not to spoil the discussion. And this will require no special arbiter—all
of you shall be arbiters.
This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was obliged
to agree that he would ask questions; and when he had put a sufficient number of them,
that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short replies. He began to
put his questions as follows:—
I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of education;
and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what compositions of the poets are correct,
and what are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining when asked the reason of
the difference. And I propose to transfer the question which you and I have been discussing
to the domain of poetry; we will speak as before of virtue, but in reference to a passage
of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon the Thessalian:
'Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and feet
and mind, a work without a flaw.'
Do you know the poem? or shall I repeat the whole?
There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode,—I have made
a careful study of it.
Very well, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and true?
Yes, I said, both good and true.
But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good or true?
No, not in that case, I replied.
And is there not a contradiction? he asked. Reflect.
Well, my friend, I have reflected.
And does not the poet proceed to say, 'I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit
the utterance of a wise man: Hardly can a man be good'? Now you will observe that this
is said by the same poet.
I know it.
And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent?
Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might
be something in what he said). And you think otherwise?
Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising as his own thought,
'Hardly can a man become truly good'; and then a little further on in the poem, forgetting,
and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he says, 'Hardly can a man
be good,' which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who says the same with
himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in his first or his second
assertion.
Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint,
as if I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words
and the sound of the cheering; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what
the meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus, I said,
Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to
you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons the
Simois to aid him, saying:
'Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).'
And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of Simonides. Now is the
time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application of your philosophy of synonyms, which enables
you to distinguish 'will' and 'wish,' and make other charming distinctions like those
which you drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree with me; for
I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides. And first of all
I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, Prodicus, 'being' is the same as
'becoming.'
Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus.
Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that 'Hardly can a man become truly
good'?
Quite right, said Prodicus.
And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating that which he says
himself, but for saying something different from himself. Pittacus does not say as Simonides
says, that hardly can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good: and our friend Prodicus
would maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as becoming; and if they are
not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself. I dare say that Prodicus and
many others would say, as Hesiod says, 'On the one hand, hardly can a man become
good,
For the gods have made virtue the reward of toil,
But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height,
Then, to retain virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy
—(Works and Days).'
Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, involves
a greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are correcting.
Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder
which I am seeking to cure.
Such is the fact, he said.
How so? I asked.
The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which
in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily retained.
Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right moment;
for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and of very
ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are in many
things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his. And
now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word 'hard' (chalepon) in the sense which
Simonides intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I use the word
'awful' (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else is an
'awfully' wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good 'awful';
and then he explains to me that the term 'awful' is always taken in a bad sense, and that no
one speaks of being 'awfully' healthy or wealthy, or of 'awful' peace, but of 'awful' disease,
'awful' war, 'awful' poverty, meaning by the term 'awful,' evil. And I think that Simonides
and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 'hard' meant 'evil,' or something which
you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to answer questions
about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the term 'hard'?
Evil, said Prodicus.
And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 'Hard is the good,' just
as if that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.
Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance
of the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a barbarous language,
is natural.
Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying? And have you an
answer for him?
You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very well that Simonides
in using the word 'hard' meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is not easy—that
which takes a great deal of trouble: of this I am positive.
I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of
which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make fun, and
try if you could maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the
other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift.
Now he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds
to say that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other.
For if this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness
which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine
to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of
speaking, would be called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the listener.
To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;—and Hippias, Prodicus, and the others
told me by all means to do as I proposed.
Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of Simonides.
There is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon than
in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those countries than
anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the Lacedaemonians deny;
and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish to have it thought that they
rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom Protagoras was speaking, and not by
valour of arms; considering that if the reason of their superiority were disclosed, all men
would be practising their wisdom. And this secret of theirs has never been discovered
by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions in other cities, who go about with their ears
bruised in imitation of them, and have the caestus bound on their arms, and are always
in training, and wear short cloaks; for they imagine that these are the practices which
have enabled the Lacedaemonians to conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians
want to unbend and hold free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied
with mere secret intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners
who may happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown to
strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into other cities—in
this they are like the Cretans—in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which
they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women have a pride
in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in attributing to
the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a man converses with the
most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for much in general conversation,
but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out some notable saying, terse
and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with whom he is talking seems to
be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and of former ages have noted
that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love of philosophy even stronger than
the love of gymnastics; they are conscious that only a perfectly educated man is capable
of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and
Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh
in the catalogue of wise men was the Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators
and disciples of the culture of the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom
was of this character; consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally
uttered. And they met together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the
first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men's mouths—'Know
thyself,' and 'Nothing too much.'
Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of
primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated
and received the approbation of the wise, 'Hard is it to be good.' And Simonides, who
was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying, then,
as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry off the palm among
his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire poem with the secret
intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying.
Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth. Simonides
must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to say only
that to become good is hard, he inserted (Greek) 'on the one hand' ('on the one hand to become
good is hard'); there would be no reason for the introduction of (Greek), unless you suppose
him to speak with a hostile reference to the words of Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 'Hard
is it to be good,' and he, in refutation of this thesis, rejoins that the truly hard thing,
Pittacus, is to become good, not joining 'truly' with 'good,' but with 'hard.' Not, that the
hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were some truly good men, and there
were others who were good but not truly good (this would be a very simple observation,
and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must suppose him to make a trajection of the
word 'truly' (Greek), construing the saying of Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus
to be speaking and Simonides answering him): 'O my friends,' says Pittacus, 'hard is it
to be good,' and Simonides answers, 'In that, Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty
is not to be good, but on the one hand, to become good, four-square in hands and feet
and mind, without a flaw—that is hard truly.' This way of reading the passage accounts for
the insertion of (Greek) 'on the one hand,' and for the position at the end of the clause
of the word 'truly,' and all that follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal
might be said in praise of the details of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship,
and very finished, but such minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point
out the general intention of the poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be
a refutation of the saying of Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further
on as if he meant to argue that although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this
is possible for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good
state and be good, as you, Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man;
God only has this blessing; 'but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances
overpowers him.' Now whom does the force of circumstance overpower in the command of a
vessel?—not the private individual, for he is always overpowered; and as one who is
already prostrate cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he
who is prostrate can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower
him who, at some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at all times helpless.
The descent of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season
the husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another poet witnesses:—
'The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.'
But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the force of circumstances
overpowers the man of resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot help being bad.
And you, Pittacus, are saying, 'Hard is it to be good.' Now there is a difficulty in
becoming good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility—
'For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.'
But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes a man good in
letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well-doing makes a man a good
physician? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill
is the bad.' Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a physician,
and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a bad one also: but none
of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more than
we can become carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot become
a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the good may
become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident (the only real doing ill
is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad, for he is always
bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good. Thus the words
of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be continuously good, but that
he may become good and may also become bad; and again that
'They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.'
All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he adds:—
'Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the
impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of the
fruit of the broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.'
(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus throughout the whole
poem):
'But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;—not even the gods war against
necessity.'
All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to say that he praised
those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily.
For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or
voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who
do evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says that
he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word 'voluntarily' applies to himself.
For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel himself to love and
praise another, and to be the friend and approver of another; and that there might be an involuntary
love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother, or country, or the like.
Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects, look on them with malignant
joy, and find fault with them and expose and denounce them to others, under the idea that
the rest of mankind will be less likely to take themselves to task and accuse them of
neglect; and they blame their defects far more than they deserve, in order that the
odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be increased: but the good man dissembles
his feelings, and constrains himself to praise them; and if they have wronged him and he
is angry, he pacifies his anger and is reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his
own flesh and blood. And Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself had often
had to praise and magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes
to imply to Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious.
'For I am satisfied' he says, 'when a man is neither bad nor very stupid; and when he
knows justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault
with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable fools'
(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant opportunity of finding
fault).
'All things are good with which evil is unmingled.'
In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good which have no
evil in them, as you might say 'All things are white which have no black in them,' for
that would be ridiculous; but he means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with
the moderate or intermediate state.
('I do not hope' he says, 'to find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of the
fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word); in this sense
I praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for
me, who love and approve every one')
(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve), because he is addressing
Pittacus,
'Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:'
and that the stop should be put after 'voluntarily'); 'but there are some whom I involuntarily praise
and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had spoken what was moderately
good and true; but I do blame you because, putting on the appearance of truth, you are
speaking falsely about the highest matters.'—And this, I said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take
to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem.
Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the
poem; but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will propound to you, if
you will allow me.
Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At present we must abide
by the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect that as long
as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would rather
answer, then that Socrates should ask.
I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but I would rather
have done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to the question
about which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The
talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar company have
recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or amuse one another, while they
are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversation, by reason of their
stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great sum the
voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse among them:
but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you will see no flute-girls,
nor dancing-girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or games, but are contented
with one another's conversation, of which their own voices are the medium, and which
they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though they are very liberal in their
potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as we profess to be, do not require
the help of another's voice, or of the poets whom you cannot interrogate about the meaning
of what they are saying; people who cite them declaring, some that the poet has one meaning,
and others that he has another, and the point which is in dispute can never be decided.
This sort of entertainment they decline, and prefer to talk with one another, and put one
another to the proof in conversation. And these are the models which I desire that you
and I should imitate. Leaving the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle
of one another and make proof of the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to ask,
I am ready to answer; or if you would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity
of resuming and completing our unfinished argument.
End of Part IV Section V
I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not distinctly say which
he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to Callias, and said:—Do you think, Callias,
that Protagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I
certainly think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument, or distinctly
refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and then Socrates will be able to discourse
with some one else, and the rest of the company will be free to talk with one another.
I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of Alcibiades, and when the
prayers of Callias and the company were superadded, he was at last induced to argue, and said
that I might ask and he would answer.
So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in asking questions
of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right in saying
that
'When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),'
for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought; but if a man
'Sees a thing when he is alone,'
he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may show his discoveries,
and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather hold discourse with you than with any
one, because I think that no man has a better understanding of most things which a good
man may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For who is there, but
you?—who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for many are this, and yet
have not the power of making others good—whereas you are not only good yourself, but also the
cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence have you in yourself, that although
other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in the face of Hellas that you are
a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are the first who demanded pay in return.
How then can I do otherwise than invite you to the examination of these subjects, and
ask questions and consult with you? I must, indeed. And I should like once more to have
my memory refreshed by you about the questions which I was asking you at first, and also
to have your help in considering them. If I am not mistaken the question was this: Are
wisdom and temperance and courage and justice and holiness five names of the same thing?
or has each of the names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar
function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that the five names
were not the names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate object, and
that all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts of gold
are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the face
are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and have each of them a distinct
function. I should like to know whether this is still your opinion; or if not, I will ask
you to define your meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a different
statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in order to make trial
of me.
I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four
out of the five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage,
is very different from the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that
many men are utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless
remarkable for their courage.
Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you
mean the confident, or another sort of nature?
Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to approach.
In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you
assert yourself to be a teacher.
Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right mind.
And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?
Wholly good, and in the highest degree.
Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well?
I should say, the divers.
And the reason of this is that they have knowledge?
Yes, that is the reason.
And who have confidence when fighting on horseback—the skilled horseman or the unskilled?
The skilled.
And who when fighting with light shields—the peltasts or the nonpeltasts?
The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point: those
who have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they are
more confident after they have learned than before.
And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet confident
about them?
Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident.
And are not these confident persons also courageous?
In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are speaking
are surely madmen.
Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident?
Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere.
And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous,
but mad; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being the most confident
are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage.
Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by me.
When you asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident; but I was
never asked whether the confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I should
have answered 'Not all of them': and what I did answer you have not proved to be false,
although you proceeded to show that those who have knowledge are more courageous than
they were before they had knowledge, and more courageous than others who have no knowledge,
and were then led on to think that courage is the same as wisdom. But in this way of
arguing you might come to imagine that strength is wisdom. You might begin by asking whether
the strong are able, and I should say 'Yes'; and then whether those who know how to wrestle
are not more able to wrestle than those who do not know how to wrestle, and more able
after than before they had learned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this,
you might use my admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is strength;
whereas in that case I should not have admitted, any more than in the other, that the able
are strong, although I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference
between ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or
rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like manner
I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and I argue that the courageous
are confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may be given to men by art,
and also, like ability, by madness and rage; but courage comes to them from nature and
the healthy state of the soul.
I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others ill?
He assented.
And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief?
He does not.
But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived
well?
He will.
Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil?
Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable.
And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and
some painful things good?—for I am rather disposed to say that things are good in as
far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far
as they are painful they are bad.
I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified
manner that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to
my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not mistaken,
in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and that there are some
painful things which are good, and some which are not good, and that there are some which
are neither good nor evil.
And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create pleasure?
Certainly, he said.
Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are good; and my question
would imply that pleasure is a good in itself.
According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, 'Let us reflect about this,' he
said; and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and good
are really the same, then we will agree; but if not, then we will argue.
And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I said; or shall I begin?
You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the discussion.
May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health
or some other bodily quality of another:—he looks at his face and at the tips of his fingers,
and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better view:—that
is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation. Having seen what your opinion
is about good and pleasure, I am minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to me, Protagoras,
and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you agree with the rest
of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that knowledge is a principle not
of strength, or of rule, or of command: their notion is that a man may have knowledge, and
yet that the knowledge which is in him may be overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or
pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,—just as if knowledge were a slave, and might be
dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view? or do you think that knowledge is a noble
and commanding thing, which cannot be overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows
the difference of good and evil, to do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom
will have strength to help him?
I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I, above all other men,
am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things.
Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another
mind; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are best, and not to
do them when they might? And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this have
said that when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or pleasure, or
some of those affections which I was just now mentioning.
Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in
error.
Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature
of this affection which they call 'being overcome by pleasure,' and which they affirm to be
the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends, you
are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably reply: Socrates and Protagoras,
if this affection of the soul is not to be called 'being overcome by pleasure,' pray,
what is it, and by what name would you describe it?
But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just say
anything that happens to occur to them?
I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related
to the other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should show
the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be cleared up, do you follow;
but if not, never mind.
You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you have begun.
Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you
give of that which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure? I should
answer thus: Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men are overcome
by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant, and they, knowing them
to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would you not say that they were overcome
by pleasure? They will not deny this. And suppose that you and I were to go on and ask
them again: 'In what way do you say that they are evil,—in that they are pleasant and
give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and poverty and other like evils
in the future? Would they still be evil, if they had no attendant evil consequences, simply
because they give the consciousness of pleasure of whatever nature?'—Would they not answer
that they are not evil on account of the pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on
account of the after consequences—diseases and the like?
Translated by Benjamin Jowett