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Title: Protagoras
Author: Plato
Translator: B. Jowett
Release Date: November 3, 2008 [EBook #1591]
Last Updated: January 15, 2013
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROTAGORAS ***
Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger
PROTAGORAS
By Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
Contents
INTRODUCTION.
PROTAGORAS
INTRODUCTION.
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.
PROTAGORAS
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.
309
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.
310
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.
311 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?
312
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?
313
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, 314 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
bang 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, 315 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 316 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 317
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.
318
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; 319
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, 320 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.
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.
321 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.
322 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. 323 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.
324 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, 325
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, 326
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, 327
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? 328 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. 329 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?
330
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, 331
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.
332
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.
333
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.
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:—334 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. 335 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. 336
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.
337
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. 338
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, 339
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, 340
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. 341
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, 342 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. 343
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): 344
'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.'
345 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 346
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; 347 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, 348
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.
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, 349 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.
350
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. 351
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.
352
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. 353 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?
I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer
as you do.
And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing
poverty do they not cause pain;—they would agree to that also, if I
am not mistaken?
Protagoras assented.
Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them
evil for any other reason, except because they end in pain and rob
us of other pleasures:—there again they would agree?
354
We both of us thought that they would.
And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view,
and say: 'Friends, when you speak of goods being painful, do you not
mean remedial goods, such as gymnastic exercises, and military
service, and the physician's use of burning, cutting, drugging, and
starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?'—they
would assent to me?
He agreed.
'And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest
immediate suffering and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring
health and improvement of the bodily condition and the salvation of
states and power over others and wealth?'—they would agree to the
latter alternative, if I am not mistaken?
He assented.
'Are these things good for any other reason except that they end in
pleasure, and get rid of and avert pain? Are you looking to any
other standard but pleasure and pain when you call them good?'—they
would acknowledge that they were not?
I think so, said Protagoras.
'And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as
an evil?'
He assented.
'Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and
even pleasure you deem an evil, when it robs you of greater
pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than the pleasure.
If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end
or standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have
none to show.'
I do not think that they have, said Protagoras.
'And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call
pain a good when it takes away greater pains than those which it
has, or gives pleasures greater than the pains: then if you have
some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer when
you call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you
cannot.'
True, said Protagoras.
Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: 'Why do you spend
many words and speak in many ways on this subject?' Excuse me,
friends, I should reply; but in the first place there is a
difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression 'overcome by
pleasure'; and the whole argument turns upon this. 355
And even now, if you see any possible way in which evil can be
explained as other than pain, or good as other than pleasure, you
may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of
pleasure which is without pain? If you are, and if you are unable to
show any good or evil which does not end in pleasure and pain, hear
the consequences:—If what you say is true, then the argument is
absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he
might abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or
again, when you say that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good
because he is overcome at the moment by pleasure. And that this is
ridiculous will be evident if only we give up the use of various
names, such as pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are
two things, let us call them by two names—first, good and evil, and
then pleasant and painful. Assuming this, let us go on to say that a
man does evil knowing that he does evil. But some one will ask, Why?
Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And by what is he
overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. And we shall not be able
to reply 'By pleasure,' for the name of pleasure has been exchanged
for that of good. In our answer, then, we shall only say that he is
overcome. 'By what?' he will reiterate. By the good, we shall have
to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with
a laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, 'That is too
ridiculous, that a man should do what he knows to be evil when he
ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that, he will ask,
because the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil'?
And in answer to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not
worthy; for if it had been worthy, then he who, as we say, was
overcome by pleasure, would not have been wrong. 'But how,' he will
reply, 'can the good be unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the
good'? Is not the real explanation that they are out of proportion
to one another, either as greater and smaller, or more and fewer?
This we cannot deny. And when you speak of being overcome—'what do
you mean,' he will say, 'but that you choose the greater evil in
exchange for the lesser good?' Admitted. And now substitute the
names of pleasure and pain for good and evil, and say, not as
before, that a man does what is evil knowingly, but that he does
what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure,
which is unworthy to overcome. 356
What measure is there of the relations of pleasure to pain other
than excess and defect, which means that they become greater and
smaller, and more and fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one
says: 'Yes, Socrates, but immediate pleasure differs widely from
future pleasure and pain'—To that I should reply: And do they differ
in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no other measure
of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance
the pleasures and the pains, and their nearness and distance, and
weigh them, and then say which outweighs the other. If you weigh
pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the more and
greater; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and
the less; or if pleasures against pains, then you choose that course
of action in which the painful is exceeded by the pleasant, whether
the distant by the near or the near by the distant; and you avoid
that course of action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the
painful. Would you not admit, my friends, that this is true? I am
confident that they cannot deny this.
He agreed with me.
Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer
me a question: Do not the same magnitudes appear larger to your
sight when near, and smaller when at a distance? They will
acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also
sounds, which are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and
lesser when at a distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose
happiness to consist in doing or choosing the greater, and in not
doing or in avoiding the less, what would be the saving principle of
human life? Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle;
or would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving
art which makes us wander up and down and take the things at one
time of which we repent at another, both in our actions and in our
choice of things great and small? But the art of measurement would
do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth,
would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and
would thus save our life. Would not mankind generally acknowledge
that the art which accomplishes this result is the art of
measurement?
Yes, he said, the art of measurement.
Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice
of odd and even, and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose
the greater or less, either in reference to themselves or to each
other, and whether near or at a distance; what would be the saving
principle of our lives? 357 Would not
knowledge?—a knowledge of measuring, when the question is one of
excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the question is
of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not?
Protagoras himself thought that they would.
Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of
human life has been found to consist in the right choice of
pleasures and pains,—in the choice of the more and the fewer, and
the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this
measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality
in relation to each other?
This is undeniably true.
And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and
science?
They will agree, he said.
The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future
consideration; but the existence of such a science furnishes a
demonstrative answer to the question which you asked of me and
Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you
remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier
than knowledge, and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have
the advantage over pleasure and all other things; and then you said
that pleasure often got the advantage even over a man who has
knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O
Protagoras and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by
pleasure if not this?—tell us what you call such a state:—if we had
immediately and at the time answered 'Ignorance,' you would have
laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be laughing at
yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of
pleasures and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from
defect of knowledge; and you admitted further, that they err, not
only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that particular
knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the
erring act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance.
This, therefore, is the meaning of being overcome by
pleasure;—ignorance, and that the greatest. And our friends
Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are the
physicians of ignorance; but you, who are under the mistaken
impression that ignorance is not the cause, and that the art of
which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves, nor
send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these
things—you take care of your money and give them none; and the
result is, that you are the worse off both in public and private
life:—Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in general:
358 And now I should like to ask you,
Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as Protagoras (for the argument
is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I am
speaking the truth or not?
They all thought that what I said was entirely true.
Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the
painful evil. And here I would beg my friend Prodicus not to
introduce his distinction of names, whether he is disposed to say
pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he
prefers to call them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to
answer in my sense of the words.
Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.
Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions
honourable and useful, of which the tendency is to make life
painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also useful and good?
This was admitted.
Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything
under the idea or conviction that some other thing would be better
and is also attainable, when he might do the better. And this
inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the
superiority of a man to himself is wisdom.
They all assented.
And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived
about important matters?
To this also they unanimously assented.
Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he
thinks to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human nature;
and when a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will
choose the greater when he may have the less.
All of us agreed to every word of this.
Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and
here, Prodicus, I should particularly like to know whether you would
agree with me in defining this fear or terror as expectation of
evil.
Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear
and not terror.
Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former
assertions are true, a man will pursue that which he fears when he
is not compelled? Would not this be in flat contradiction to the
admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things
which he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily
accept that which he thinks to be evil?
359
That also was universally admitted.
Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I
would beg Protagoras to explain to us how he can be right in what he
said at first. I do not mean in what he said quite at first, for his
first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there were
five parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each
of them had a separate function. To this, however, I am not
referring, but to the assertion which he afterwards made that of the
five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, but that the
fifth, which was courage, differed greatly from the others. And of
this he gave me the following proof. He said: You will find,
Socrates, that some of the most impious, and unrighteous, and
intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most courageous;
which proves that courage is very different from the other parts of
virtue. I was surprised at his saying this at the time, and I am
still more surprised now that I have discussed the matter with you.
So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he
replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras,
that this was your answer.)
He assented.
Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to
go—against the same dangers as the cowards?
No, he answered.
Then against something different?
Yes, he said.
Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where
there is danger?
Yes, Socrates, so men say.
Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that
the courageous are ready to go—against dangers, believing them to be
dangers, or not against dangers?
No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous
argument to be impossible.
That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly
proven, then no one goes to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since
the want of self-control, which makes men rush into dangers, has
been shown to be ignorance.
He assented.
And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that
about which they are confident; so that, in this point of view, the
cowardly and the courageous go to meet the same things.
And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is
the opposite of that to which the courageous goes; the one, for
example, is ready to go to battle, and the other is not ready.
And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.
Honourable, he replied.
And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all
honourable actions we have admitted to be good.
That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.
360
True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are
unwilling to go to war, which is a good and honourable thing?
The cowards, he replied.
And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?
It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.
And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and
pleasanter, and better?
The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former
admissions.
But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and
pleasanter, and nobler?
That must be admitted.
And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?
True, he replied.
And if not base, then honourable?
He admitted this.
And if honourable, then good?
Yes.
But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on
the contrary, are base?
He assented.
And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and
uninstructedness?
True, he said.
Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it
cowardice or courage?
I should say cowardice, he replied.
And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance
of dangers?
Assuredly, he said.
And because of that ignorance they are cowards?
He assented.
And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be
cowardice?
He again assented.
Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice?
He nodded assent.
But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice?
Yes.
Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is opposed
to the ignorance of them?
To that again he nodded assent.
And the ignorance of them is cowardice?
To that he very reluctantly nodded assent.
And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is courage,
and is opposed to the ignorance of these things?
At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.
And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras?
Finish the argument by yourself, he said.
I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether
you still think that there are men who are most ignorant and yet
most courageous?
You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and
therefore I will gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be
impossible consistently with the argument.
My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the
desire to ascertain the nature and relations of virtue; 361
for if this were clear, I am very sure that the other controversy
which has been carried on at great length by both of us—you
affirming and I denying that virtue can be taught—would also become
clear. The result of our discussion appears to me to be singular.
For if the argument had a human voice, that voice would be heard
laughing at us and saying: 'Protagoras and Socrates, you are strange
beings; there are you, Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot
be taught, contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that
all things are knowledge, including justice, and temperance, and
courage,—which tends to show that virtue can certainly be taught;
for if virtue were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to
prove, then clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is
entirely knowledge, as you are seeking to show, then I cannot but
suppose that virtue is capable of being taught. Protagoras, on the
other hand, who started by saying that it might be taught, is now
eager to prove it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this
is true, it must be quite incapable of being taught.' Now I,
Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of our ideas, have a
great desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to
carry on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether
capable of being taught or not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us
up and deceive us in the argument, as he forgot us in the story; I
prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make use,
whenever I am busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my
own life. And if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should
like to have your help in the enquiry.
Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am
the last man in the world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your
energy and your conduct of an argument. As I have often said, I
admire you above all men whom I know, and far above all men of your
age; and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy.
Let us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we
had better turn to something else.
362
By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long
since to have kept the engagement of which I spoke before, and only
tarried because I could not refuse the request of the noble Callias.
So the conversation ended, and we went our way.
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