Plato
PROTAGORAS
translated
by Benjamin Jowett
Persons
of the Dialogue :
SOCRATES, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his
Companion ;
HIPPOCRATES ; ALCIBIADES ;
CRITIAS ;
PROTAGORAS, HIPPIAS, PRODICUS, Sophists ;
CALLIAS, a
wealthy Athenian.
Scene :
The house of Callias
Companion. Where do you come
from, Socrates ? And yet I need hardly ask the question, for I know that
you have been in chase of the fair Alcibiades. I saw 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.
Com. Well, and how do
matters proceed ? Have you been visiting him, and was he gracious to
you ?
Soc. 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.
Com. 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.
Soc. Yes, much
fairer.
Com. What do you mean —
a citizen or a foreigner ?
Soc. A
foreigner.
Com. Of what
country ?
Soc. Of
Abdera.
Com. And is this
stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than the son of
Cleinias ?
Soc. And is not the
wiser always the fairer, sweet friend ?
Com. But have you
really met, Socrates, with some wise one ?
Soc. Say rather, with
the wisest of all living men, if you are willing to accord that title to
Protagoras.
Com. What ! Is
Protagoras in Athens ?
Soc. Yes ; he has
been here two days.
Com. And do you just
come from an interview with him ?
Soc. Yes ; and I
have heard and said many things.
Com. Then, if you have
no engagement, suppose that you sit down tell me what passed, and my attendant
here shall give up his place to you.
Soc. To be sure ;
and I shall be grateful to you for listening.
Com. Thank you, too,
for telling us.
Soc. 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 OEnoë whither I had gone
in pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some
other matter had not come in the way ; — on my return, when we had done
supper and were about to retire to rest, my brother said to me : Protagoras
is come. I was going to you at once, and then I thought that the night was far
spent. But the moment sleep left me after my fatigue, I got up and came hither
direct.
I, who knew the
very courageous madness of the man, said : What is the matter ? Has
Protagoras robbed you of anything ?
He replied,
laughing : Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from
me.
But, surely, I
said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you as wise
as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he
replied, that this were the case ! He might take all that I have, and all
that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in
order that you may speak to him on my behalf ; for I am young, and also I
have never seen nor heard him ; (when he visited Athens before I was but a
child) and all men praise him, Socrates ; he is reputed to be the most
accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why we should not go to him at
once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I hear, with Callias the
son of Hipponicus : let us start.
I replied :
Not yet, my good friend ; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a
turn in the court and wait about there until daybreak ; when the day
breaks, then we will go. For Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be
sure to find him ; never fear.
Upon this we got up
and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make trial of the
strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell me,
Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your
money to him, what is he to whom you are going ? and what will he make of
you ? If, for example, you had thought of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the
Asclepiad, and were about to give him your money, and some one had said to
you : You are paying money to your namesake Hippocrates, O
Hippocrates ; tell me, what is he that you give him money ? how would
you have answered ?
I should say, he
replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.
And what will he
make of you ?
A physician, he
said.
And if you were
resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and were
intending to give them money, and some one had asked you : What are
Polycleitus and Pheidias ? and why do you give them this money ? — how
would you have answered ?
I should have
answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they
make of you ?
A statuary, of
course.
Well now, I said,
you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money on your
behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we
shall be only too glad ; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your
friends as well. Now suppose, that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing
our object some one were to say to us : Tell me, Socrates, and you
Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why are you going to pay him money, — how
should we answer ? I know that Pheidias is a sculptor, and that Homer is a
poet ; but what appellation is given to Protagoras ? how is he
designated ?
They call him a
Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going
to pay our money to him in the character of a
Sophist ?
Certainly.
But suppose a
person were to ask this further question : And how about yourself ?
What will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see
him ?
He answered, with a
blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that I could see
him) : Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose
that he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I
said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in the
character of a Sophist ?
Indeed, Socrates,
to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not
assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this nature :
may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the
grammarian, musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a
profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and
freeman ought to know them ?
Just so, he
said ; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of
Protagoras.
I said : I
wonder whether you know what you are doing ?
And what am I
doing ?
You are going to
commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And yet I hardly
think that you know what a Sophist is ; and if not, then you do not even
know to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you
commit yourself be good or evil.
I certainly think
that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what
do you imagine that he is ?
I take him to be
one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name
implies.
And might you not,
I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also : Do not they,
too, know wise things ? But suppose a person were to ask us : In what
are the painters wise ? We should answer : In what relates to the
making of likenesses, and similarly of other things. And if he were further to
ask : What is the wisdom of the Sophist, and what is the manufacture over
which he presides ? — how should we answer him ?
How should we
answer him, Socrates ? What other answer could there be but that he
presides over the art which makes men eloquent ?
Yes, I replied,
that is very likely true, but not enough ; for in the answer a further
question is involved : Of what does the Sophist make a man talk
eloquently ? The player on the lyre may be supposed to make a man talk
eloquently about that which he makes him understand, that is about playing the
lyre. Is not that true ?
Yes.
Then about what
does the Sophist make him eloquent ? Must not he make him eloquent in that
which he understands ?
Yes, that may be
assumed.
And what is that
which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know ?
Indeed, he said, I
cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to
say : Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring ?
If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to
it, would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and
kindred, and deliberate many days as to whether you should give him the care of
your body ? But when the soul is in question, which you hold to be of far
more value than the body, and upon the good or evil of which depends the
well-being of your all, — about this never consulted either with your father or
with your brother or with any one of us who are your companions. But no sooner
does this foreigner appear, than you instantly commit your soul to his keeping.
In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the morning you go to him,
never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to whether you ought to
intrust yourself to him or not ; — you have quite made up your mind that
you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all
the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any price this
determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never
spoken with him : and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant
of what a Sophist is ; and yet you are going to commit yourself to his
keeping.
When he heard me
say this, he replied : No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from your
words.
I proceeded :
Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food of
the soul ? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates,
is the food of the soul ?
Surely, I said,
knowledge is the food of the soul ; and we must take care, my friend, that
the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers
wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body ; for they praise
indiscriminately all their goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or
hurtful : neither do their customers know, with the exception of any
trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In like manner those who
carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the cities, and sell
or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all
alike ; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were
really ignorant of their effect upon the soul ; and their customers equally
ignorant, unless he who buys of them happens to be a physician of the soul. If,
therefore, you have understanding of what is good and evil, you may safely buy
knowledge of Protagoras or of any one ; but if not, then, O my friend,
pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game of chance. For there
is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink :
the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in
other vessels, and before you receive them into the body as food, you may
deposit them at home and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good
to be eaten or drunken, and what not, and how much, and when ; and then the
danger of purchasing them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of
knowledge and carry them away in another vessel ; when you have paid for
them you must receive them into the soul and go your way, either greatly harmed
or greatly benefited ; and therefore we should deliberate and take counsel
with our elders ; for we are still young — too young to determine such a
matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras ; and
when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others ; for
not only is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis,
and, if I am not mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise
men.
To this we agreed,
and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the house ; and
there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen between us
as we were going along ; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had
finished and come to an understanding. And I think that the doorkeeper, 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, 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. 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, “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” ; 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
bed-clothes, of which there seemed to be a great heap ; and there was
sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias of the deme of Cerameis, and with
Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly remarkable for his good
looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle nature. I thought
that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the beloved of
Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses, one
the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very
anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise
and inspired man ; but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his
fine deep voice made an echo in the room which rendered his words
inaudible.
No sooner had we
entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say, and I
believe you ; and also Critias the son of
Callaeschrus.
On entering we
stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to Protagoras,
and I said : Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see
you.
Do you wish, he
said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the
company ?
Whichever you
please, I said ; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of our
visit.
And what is your
purpose ? he said.
I must explain, I
said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian ; he is the son of
Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural
ability quite a match for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to
political eminence ; and this he thinks that conversation with you is most
likely to procure for him. And now you can determine whether you would wish to
speak to him of your teaching alone or in the presence of the
company.
Thank you,
Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his way
into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave
company of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with
him, under the idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be
very cautious ; great jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is
the subject of many enmities and conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as
I believe, of great antiquity ; but in ancient times those who practised
it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under various names,
some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of hierophants
and prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under the
name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently
celebrated Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a
first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but was
really an eminent Sophist ; also Pythocleides the Cean ; and there
were many others ; and all of them, as I was saying, adopted these arts as
veils or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which they would incur.
But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their purpose,
which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them ; and as
to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are
pleased to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is the
very height of folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of
mankind ; for they regard him who runs away as a rogue, in addition to any
other objections which they have to him ; and therefore I take an entirely
opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist and instructor of
mankind ; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be a better sort of
caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and therefore I
hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the
acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the
profession — for all my years when added up are many : there is no one here
present of whom I might not be the father. Wherefore I should much prefer
conversing with you, if you want to speak with me, in the presence of the
company.
As I suspected that
he would like to have a little display and glorification in the presence of
Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his
admirers, I said : But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and
their friends to hear us ?
Very good, he
said.
Suppose, said
Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss. — This was
agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men
talk ; we ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by
Hippias, where the other benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and
Alcibiades got Prodicus out of bed and brought in him and his
companions.
When we were all
seated, Protagoras said : Now that the company are assembled, Socrates,
tell me about the youngman of whom you were just now
speaking.
I replied : I
will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more the
purport of my visit : this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of
making your acquaintance ; he would like to know what will happen to him if
he associates with you. I have no more to say.
Protagoras
answered : Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you
will return home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than
on the first, and better every day than you were on the day
before.
When I heard this,
I said : Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this ;
even at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what
you did not know before, you would become better no doubt : but please to
answer in a different way — I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose
that Hippocrates, instead of desiring your acquaintance, wished to become
acquainted with the young man Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has lately been in
Athens, and he had come to him as he has come to you, and had heard him say, as
he has heard you say, that every day he would grow and become better if he
associated with him : and then suppose that he were to ask him, “In what
shall I become better, and in what shall I grow ?” — Zeuxippus would
answer, “In painting.” And suppose that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and
heard him say the same thing, and asked him, “In what shall I become better day
by day ?” he would reply, “In flute-playing.” Now I want you to make the
same sort of answer to this young man and to me, who am asking questions on his
account. When you say that on the first day on which he associates with you he
will return home a better man, and on every day will grow in like manner, — In
what, Protagoras, will he be better ? and about
what ?
When Protagoras
heard me say this, he replied : You ask questions fairly, and I like to
answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not
experience the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of
insulting their pupils ; who, when they have just escaped from the arts,
are taken and driven back into them by these teachers, and made to learn
calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music (he gave a look at Hippias
as he said this) ; but if he comes to me, he will learn that which he comes
to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public ; he
will learn to order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to
speak and act for the best in the affairs of the state.
Do I understand
you, I said ; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and
that you promise to make men good citizens ?
That, Socrates, is
exactly the profession which I make.
Then, I said, you
do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this ; for I
will freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is
capable of being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion.
And I ought to tell you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or
communicated by man to man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding
people, and indeed they are esteemed to be such by the other Hellenes. Now I
observe that when we are met together in the assembly, and the matter in hand
relates to building, the builders are summoned as advisers ; when the
question is one of shipbuilding, then the ship-wrights ; and the like of
other arts which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if some
person offers to give them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill
in the art, even though he be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not
listen to him, but laugh and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and
retires of himself ; or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the
constables at the command of the prytanes. This is their way of behaving about
professors of the arts. But when the question is an affair of state, then
everybody is free to have a say — carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor,
passenger ; rich and poor, high and low — any one who likes gets up, and no
one reproaches him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having
no teacher, and yet giving advice ; evidently because they are under the
impression that this sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this
true of the state, but of individuals ; the best and wisest of our citizens
are unable to impart their political wisdom to others : as for example,
Pericles, the father of these young men, who gave them excellent instruction in
all that could be learned from masters, in his own department of politics
neither taught them, nor gave them teachers ; but they were allowed to
wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon
virtue of their own accord. Or take another example : there was Cleinias
the younger brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles
was the guardian ; and he being in fact under the apprehension that
Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades, took him away, and placed him in the
house of Ariphron to be educated ; but before six months had elapsed,
Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I could mention
numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and never yet
made any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras, having
these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But
then again, when I listen to your words, I waver ; and am disposed to think
that there must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great
experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible,
show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so
good ?
That I will,
Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like ? Shall I, as an elder, speak
to you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the
question ?
To this several of
the company answered that he should choose for himself.
Well, then, he
said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.
Once upon a time
there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time came that these
also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire and
various mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth ; and when
they were about to bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and
Epimetheus to equip them, and to distribute to them severally their proper
qualities. Epimetheus said to Prometheus : “Let me distribute, and do you
inspect.” This was agreed, and Epimetheus made the distribution. There were some
to whom he gave strength without swiftness, while he equipped the weaker with
swiftness ; some he armed, and others he left unarmed ; and devised
for the latter some other means of preservation, making some large, and having
their size as a protection, and others small, whose nature was to fly in the air
or burrow in the ground ; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he
compensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And
when he had provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also
a means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven ; clothing them
with close hair and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter
cold and able to resist the summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed
of their own when they wanted to rest ; also he furnished them with hoofs
and hair and hard and callous skins under their feet. Then he gave them
varieties of food-herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of trees, and to
others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food. And some he made
to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very
prolific ; and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus,
who, not being very wise, forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals
all the qualities which he had to give — and when he came to man, who was still
unprovided, he was terribly perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity,
Prometheus came to inspect the distribution, and he found that the other animals
were suitably furnished, but that man alone was naked and shoeless, and had
neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed hour was approaching when man in
his turn was to go forth into the light of day ; and Prometheus, not
knowing how he could devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of
Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired
nor used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary
to the support of life, but political wisdom he had not ; for that was in
the keeping of Zeus, and the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering into
the citadel of heaven, where Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible
sentinels ; but he did enter by stealth into the common workshop of Athene
and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their favourite arts, and carried
off Hephaestus’ art of working by fire, and also the art of Athene, and gave
them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of life. But
Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the
blunder of Epimetheus.
Now man, having a
share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals who had
any gods, because he alone was of their kindred ; and he would raise altars
and images of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and
names ; and he also constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and
drew sustenance from the earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dispersed,
and there were no cities. But the consequence was that they were destroyed by
the wild beasts, for they were utterly weak in comparison of them, and their art
was only sufficient to provide them with the means of life, and did not enable
them to carry on war against the animals : food they had, but not as yet
the art of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while the
desire of self-preservation gathered them into cities ; but when they were
gathered together, having no art of government, they evil intreated one another,
and were again in process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the
entire race would be exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing
reverence and justice to be the ordering principles of cities and the bonds of
friendship and conciliation. Hermes asked Zeus how he should impart justice and
reverence among men : — Should he distribute them as the arts are
distributed ; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled
individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled
ones ? “Shall this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and
reverence among men, or shall I give them to all ?” “To all,” said
Zeus ; “I should like them all to have a share ; for cities cannot
exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a
law by my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put
to death, for he is a plague of the state.”
And this is the
reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the question
relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in
their deliberations ; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say,
they object, if he be not of the favoured few ; which, as I reply, is very
natural. But when they meet to deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds
only by way of justice and wisdom, they are patient enough of any man who speaks
of them, as is also natural, because they think that every man ought to share in
this sort of virtue, and that states could not exist if this were otherwise. I
have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this
phenomenon.
And that you may
not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard every man as
having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let me
give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a
man says that he is a good flute-player, or skilful in any other art in which he
has no skill, people either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his
relations think that he is mad and go and admonish him ; but when honesty
is in question, or some other political virtue, even if they know that he is
dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells the truth about his
dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good sense, they
now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty whether
they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything
else. Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty ; and
that if he has none at all he ought not to be in the
world.
I have been showing
that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about this sort of
virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I will
now endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given
by nature, or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be
taught ; and which comes to a man by taking pains. No one would instruct,
no one would rebuke, or be angry with those whose calamities they suppose to be
due to nature or chance ; they do not try to punish or to prevent them from
being what they are ; they do but pity them. Who is so foolish as to
chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble ? And for
this reason. Because he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of
nature and of chance ; whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities
which are attained by study and exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary
evil qualities, other men are angry with him, and punish and reprove him — of
these evil qualities one is impiety, another injustice, and they may be
described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In such cases any
man will be angry with another, and reprimand him, — clearly because he thinks
that by study and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be
acquired. If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see
at once that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired ; no one
punishes the evil-doer under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done
wrong, only the unreasonable fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who
desires to inflict rational punishment does not retaliate for a past wrong which
cannot be undone ; he has regard to the future, and is desirous that the
man who is punished, and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from doing
wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention, thereby clearly implying
that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all who retaliate
upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, your own
citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom they regard as
evil doers ; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who
think that virtue may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown
you clearly enough, if I am not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in
admitting the tinker and the cobbler to advise about politics, and also that
they deem virtue to be capable of being taught and
acquired.
There yet remains
one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good men. What is
the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained from
teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in
the virtues which distinguish themselves ? And here, Socrates, I will leave
the apologue and resume the argument. Please to consider : Is there or is
there not some one quality of which all the citizens must be partakers, if there
is to be a city at all ? In the answer to this question is contained the
only solution of your difficulty ; there is no other. For if there be any
such quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the
smith, or the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word,
manly virtue — if this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and
which is the very condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he
who is wanting in this, whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman,
must be taught and punished, until by punishment he becomes better, and he who
rebels against instruction and punishment is either exiled or condemned to death
under the idea that he is incurable — if what I am saying be true, good men have
their sons taught other things and not this, do consider how extraordinary their
conduct would appear to be. For we have shown that they think virtue capable of
being taught and cultivated both in private and public ; and,
notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which
does not involve the punishment of death : but greater things, of which the
ignorance may cause death and exile to those who have no training or knowledge
of them — aye, and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word, may be the
ruin of families — those things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them —
not to take the utmost care that they should learn. How improbable is this,
Socrates !
Education and
admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very end of
life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the
improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being
said to him : he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to
him that this is just and that is unjust ; this is honourable, that is
dishonourable ; this is holy, that is unholy ; do this and abstain
from that. And if he obeys, well and good ; if not, he is straightened by
threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they
send him to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to
his reading and music ; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when
the boy has learned his letters and is beginning to understand what is written,
as before he understood only what was spoken, they put into his hands the works
of great poets, which he reads sitting on a bench at school ; in these are
contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient
famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he may imitate
or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the teachers of the
lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into no
mischief ; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they
introduce him to the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric
poets ; and these they set to music, and make their harmonies ana rhythms
quite familiar to the children’s souls, in order that they may learn to be more
gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fitted for speech and
action ; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and rhythm.
Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may
better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through
bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what
is done by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the
rich ; their children begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest.
When they have done with masters, the state again compels them to learn the
laws, and live after the pattern which they furnish, and not after their own
fancies ; and just as in learning to write, the writing-master first draws
lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the tablet
and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the
invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time ; these are given to
the young man, in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or
obeying ; and he who transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other
words, called to account, which is a term used not only in your country, but
also in many others, seeing that justice calls men to account. Now when there is
all this care about virtue private and public, why, Socrates, do you still
wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught ? Cease to wonder, for the
opposite would be far more surprising.
But why then do the
sons of good fathers often turn out ill ? There is nothing very wonderful
in this ; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that
virtue is not any man’s private possession. If so — and nothing can be truer —
then I will further ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit
or branch of knowledge which may be assumed equally to be the condition of the
existence of a state. Suppose that there could be no state unless we were all
flute-players, as far as each had the capacity, and everybody was freely
teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and reproving the bad
player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the laws, not
concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them — for all
of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this
is the reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws ; —
suppose, I say, that there were the same readiness and liberality among us in
teaching one another flute-playing, do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of
good flute players would be more likely to be good than the sons of bad
ones ? I think not. Would not their sons grow up to be distinguished or
undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as flute-players, and
the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and the son of a
bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good enough in
comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of
flute-playing ? In like manner I would have you consider that he who
appears to you to be the worst of those who have been brought up in laws and
humanities, would appear to be a just man and a master of justice if he were to
be compared with men who had no education, or courts of justice, or laws, or any
restraints upon them which compelled them to practise virtue — with the savages,
for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the stage at the last year’s
Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the man-haters in his
Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and
you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the world.
you, Socrates, are discontented, and why ? Because all men are teachers of
virtue, each one according to his ability ; and you say, Where are the
teachers ? You might as well ask, Who teaches Greek ? For of that too
there will not be any teachers found. Or you might ask, Who is to teach the sons
of our artisans this same art which they have learned of their fathers ? He
and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of their ability, — but who
will carry them further in their arts ? And you would certainly have a
difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them ; but there would be no
difficulty in finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is
true of virtue or of anything else ; if a man is better able than we are to
promote virtue ever so little, we must be content with the result. A teacher of
this sort I believe myself to be, and above all other men to have the knowledge
which makes a man noble and good ; and I give my pupils their
money’s-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I have
introduced the following mode of payment : — When a man has been my pupil,
if he likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion ; and if he does
not like, he has only to go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the
instructions, and he pays no more than he declares to be their
value.
Such is my
Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show that
virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have
also attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad
sons, or at good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus
afford an example, who are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and
Xanthippus, but are nothing in comparison with their father ; and this is
true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I ought not to say the same of
Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young and there is still hope of
them.
Protagoras ended,
and in my ear
So charming left
his voice, that I the while
Thought him still
speaking ; still stood fixed to hear. At length, when the truth dawned upon
me, that he had really finished, not without difficulty I began to collect
myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him : O son of Apollodorus,
how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither ; I would not
have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine
that no human care could make men good ; but I know better now. Yet I have
still one very small difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily
explain, as he has already explained so much. If a man were to go and consult
Pericles or any of our great speakers about these matters, he might perhaps hear
as fine a discourse ; but then when one has a question to ask of any of
them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask ; and if any one
challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long
harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless
some one puts his hand upon them ; whereas our friend Protagoras can not
only make a good speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a
question he can answer briefly ; and when he asks he will wait and hear the
answer ; and this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, want to ask of
you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be quite
satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught ; — that I will take
upon your authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I
marvel at one thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You
were speaking of Zeus sending justice and reverence to men ; and several
times while you were speaking, justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all
these qualities, were described by you as if together they made up virtue. Now I
want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one whole, of which justice and
temperance and holiness are parts ; or whether all these are only the names
of one and the same thing : that is the doubt which still lingers in my
mind.
There is no
difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking
are the parts of virtue which is one.
And are they parts,
I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears, are the
parts of a face ; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the
whole and from one another only in being larger or
smaller ?
I should say that
they differed, Socrates, in the first way ; they are related to one another
as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.
And do men have
some one part and some another part of virtue ? Of if a man has one part,
must he also have all the others ?
By no means, he
said ; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not
wise.
You would not deny,
then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of
virtue ?
Most undoubtedly
they are, he answered ; and wisdom is the noblest of the
parts.
And they are all
different from one another ? I said.
Yes.
And has each of
them a distinct function like the parts of the face ; — the eye, for
example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions ; and the
other parts are none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in
any other way ? I want to know whether the comparison holds concerning the
parts of virtue. Do they also differ from one another in themselves and in their
functions ? For that is clearly what the simile would
imply.
Yes, Socrates, you
are right in supposing that they differ.
Then, I said, no
other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or
like temperance, or like holiness ?
No, he
answered.
Well then, I said,
suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would agree
with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not ? That is
my opinion : would it not be yours also ?
Mine also, he
said.
And suppose that
some one were to ask us, saying, “O Protagoras, and you, Socrates, what about
this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust ?” — and I
were to answer, just : would you vote with me or against
me ?
With you, he
said.
Thereupon I should
answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just :
would not you ?
Yes, he
said.
And suppose that he
went on to say : “Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness ?
“we should answer, “Yes,” if I am not mistaken ?
Yes, he
said.
Which you would
also acknowledge to be a thing — should we not say
so ?
He
assented.
“And is this a sort
of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the
unholy ?” I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say,
“Peace, man ; nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.” What would you
say ? Would you not answer in the same way ?
Certainly, he
said.
And then after this
suppose that he came and asked us, “What were you saying just now ? Perhaps
I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that the
parts of virtue were not the same as one another.” I should reply, “You
certainly heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me ; for I only
asked the question ; Protagoras gave the answer.” And suppose that he
turned to you and said, “Is this true, Protagoras ? and do you maintain
that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this your position ?” —
how would you answer him ?
I could not help
acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.
Well then,
Protagoras, we will assume this ; and now supposing that he proceeded to
say further, “Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the
nature of holiness, but of the nature of unholiness ; and holiness is of
the nature of the not just, and therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the
unholy” : how shall we answer him ? I should certainly answer him on
my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just ; and I would
say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is
either the same with holiness, or very nearly the same ; and above all I
would assert that justice is like holiness and holiness is like justice ;
and I wish that you would tell me whether I may be permitted to give this answer
on your behalf, and whether you would agree with me.
He replied, I
cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and that
holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But
what matter ? if you please I please ; and let us assume, if you will
I, that justice is holy, and that holiness is just.
Pardon me, I
replied ; I do not want this “if you wish” or “if you will” sort of
conclusion to be proven, but I want you and me to be proven : I mean to say
that the conclusion will be best proven if there be no
“if.”
Well, he said, I
admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always some
point of view in which everything is like every other thing ; white is in a
certain way like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites
have some qualities in common ; even the parts of the face which, as we
were saying before, are distinct and have different functions, are still in a
certain point of view similar, and one of them is like another of them. And you
may prove that they are like one another on the same principle that all things
are like one another ; and yet things which are like in some particular
ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular,
however slight, unlike.
And do you think, I
said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small degree of
likeness ?
Certainly
not ; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your
view.
Well, I said, as
you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the examples
which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of
folly ?
I
do.
And is not wisdom
the. very opposite of folly ?
That is true, he
said.
And when men act
rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be
temperate ?
Yes, he
said.
And temperance
makes them temperate ?
Certainly.
And they who do not
act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not
temperate ?
I agree, he
said.
Then to act
foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately ?
He
assented.
And foolish actions
are done by folly, and temperate actions by
temperance ?
He
agreed.
And that is done
strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by
weakness ?
He
assented.
And that which is
done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with slowness,
slowly ?
He assented
again.
And that which is
done in the same manner, is done by the same ; and that which is done in an
opposite manner by the opposite ?
He
agreed.
Once more, I said,
is there anything beautiful ?
Yes.
To which the only
opposite is the ugly ?
There is no
other.
And is there
anything good ?
There
is.
To which the only
opposite is the evil ?
There is no
other.
And there is the
acute in sound ?
True.
To which the only
opposite is the grave ?
There is no other,
he said, but that.
Then every opposite
has one opposite only and no more ?
He
assented.
Then now, I said,
let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that everything has
one opposite and not more than one ?
We did
so.
And we admitted
also that what was done in opposite ways was done by
opposites ?
Yes.
And that which was
done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite way to that
which was done temperately ?
Yes.
And that which was
done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was done foolishly by
folly ?
He
agreed.
And that which is
done in opposite ways is done by opposites ?
Yes.
And one thing is
done by temperance, and quite another thing by
folly ?
Yes.
And in opposite
ways ?
Certainly.
And therefore by
opposites : — then folly is the opposite of
temperance ?
Clearly.
And do you remember
that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the opposite of
wisdom ?
He
assented.
And we said that
everything has only one opposite ?
Yes.
Then, Protagoras,
which of the two assertions shall we renounce ? One says that everything
has but one opposite ; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance,
and that both of them are parts of virtue ; and that they are not only
distinct, but dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the
parts of a face. Which of these two assertions shall we renounce ? For both
of them together are certainly not in harmony ; they do not accord or
agree : for how can they be said to agree if everything is assumed to have
only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one, has
clearly the two opposites wisdom and temperance ? Is not that true,
Protagoras ? What else would you say ?
He assented, but
with great reluctance.
Then temperance and
wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to us to be nearly
the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and not
faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his
injustice ?
I should be
ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this which nevertheless many may be
found to assert.
And shall I argue
with them or with you ? I replied.
I would rather, he
said, that you should argue with the many first, if you
will.
Whichever you
please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their opinion or
not. My object is to test the validity of the argument ; and yet the result
may be that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our
trial.
Protagoras at first
made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not encouraging ;
at length, he consented to answer.
Now then, I said,
begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are temperate, and
yet unjust ?
Yes, he said ;
let that be admitted.
And temperance is
good sense ?
Yes.
And good sense is
good counsel in doing injustice ?
Granted.
If they succeed, I
said, or if they do not succeed ?
If they
succeed.
And you would admit
the existence of goods ?
Yes.
And is the good
that which is expedient for man ?
Yes, indeed, he
said : and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call
them good.
I thought that
Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited ; he seemed to be setting
himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently
said : —
When you say,
Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient for man
only, or inexpedient altogether ? and do you call the latter
good ?
Certainly not the
last, he replied ; for I know of many things-meats, drinks, medicines, and
ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are
expedient ; and some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man,
but only for horses ; and some for oxen only, and some for dogs ; and
some for no animals, but only for trees ; and some for the roots of trees
and not for their branches, as for example, manure, which is a good thing when
laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly destructive if thrown upon the
shoots and young branches ; or I may instance olive oil, which is
mischievous to all plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every
animal with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to the human
body generally ; and even in this application (so various and changeable is
the nature of the benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward parts
of a man, is a very great evil to his inward parts : and for this reason
physicians always forbid their patients the use of oil in their food, except in
very small quantities, just enough to extinguish the disagreeable sensation of
smell in meats and sauces.
When he had given
this answer, the company cheered him. And I said : Protagoras, I have a
wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never remember
what he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to
converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice ; so now, having
such a bad memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take
me with you.
What do you
mean ? he said : how am I to shorten my answers ? shall I make
them too short ?
Certainly not, I
said.
But short
enough ?
Yes, I
said.
Shall I answer what
appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be short
enough ?
I have heard, I
said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things at such
length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could
use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or
more compendious method.
Socrates, he
replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the method
of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should have
been no better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been
nowhere.
I saw that he was
not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the part of
answerer any more if he could help ; and I considered that there was no
call upon me to continue the conversation ; so I said : Protagoras, I
do not wish to force the conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when
you are willing to argue with me in such a way that I can follow you, then I
will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you by others and as you say of
yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of speech as well as in
longer, for you are a master of wisdom ; but I cannot manage these long
speeches : I only wish that I could. You, on the other hand, who are
capable of either, ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might
converse. But I see that you are disinclined, and as I have an engagement which
will prevent my staying to hear you at greater length (for I have to be in
another place), I will depart ; although I should have liked to have heard
you.
Thus I spoke, and
was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand, and in his
left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said : We cannot let
you go, Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our
discussions : I must therefore beg you to remain, as there is nothing in
the world that I should like better than to hear you and Protagoras discourse.
Do not deny the company this pleasure.
Now I had got up,
and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have always
admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I
would gladly comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I
cannot. And what you ask is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me
run a race with Crison of Himera, when in his prime, or with some one of the
long or day course runners. To such a request I should reply that I would fain
ask the same of my own legs ; but they refuse to comply. And therefore if
you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium, you must bid him slacken his
speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run slowly. And in like
manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must ask him to
shorten his answers, and keep to the point, as he did at first ; if not,
how can there be any discussion ? For discussion is one thing, and making
an oration is quite another, in my humble opinion.
But you see,
Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his own
way, just as you claim to speak in yours.
Here Alcibiades
interposed, and said : That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case.
For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech — in this he yields
the palm to Protagoras : but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to
any living man in the power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if
Protagoras will make a similar admission, and confess that he is inferior to
Socrates in argumentative skill, that is enough for Socrates ; but if he
claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and answer — not, when a
question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of answering,
making a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question at
issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget — I will be bound for that,
although he may pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears
to me to be more in the right than Protagoras ; that is my view, and every
man ought to say what he thinks.
When Alcibiades had
done speaking, some one — Critias, I believe — went on to say : O Prodicus
and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras : and
this led Alcibiades, who loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should
not be partisans either of Socrates or of Protagoras ; let us rather unite
in entreating both of them not to break up the discussion.
Prodicus
added : That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are
present at such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the
speakers ; remembering, however, that impartiality is not the same as
equality, for both sides should be impartially heard, and yet an equal meed
should not be assigned to both of them ; but to the wiser a higher meed
should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as Critias would
beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you will
argue with one another and not wrangle ; for friends argue with friends out
of goodwill, 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 pray and advise you, Protagoras, and
you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your peacemakers. And do
not you, Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in discourse, if
Protagoras objects, but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your words
may be grander and more becoming to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth on
the gale with every sail set out of sight of land into an ocean of words, but
let there be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I say. And let me also
persuade you to choose an arbiter or overseer or president ; he will keep
watch over your words and will prescribe their proper
length.
This proposal was
received by the company with universal approval ; Callias said that he
would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that
to choose an umpire of discourse would be unseemly ; for if the person
chosen was inferior, then the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the
better ; or if he was equal, neither would that be well ; for he who
is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of choosing him ?
And if you say, “Let us have a better then,” — to that I answer that you cannot
have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is not
really better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as
though he were an inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him ;
not that, as far as I am concerned, any reflection is of much consequence to me.
Let me tell you then what I will do in order that the conversation and
discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras is not disposed to answer, let
him ask and I will answer ; and I will endeavour to show at the same time
how, as I maintain, he ought to answer : and when I have answered as many
questions as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me ; and if he
seems to be not very ready at answering the precise question asked of him, you
and I will unite in entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the
discussion. And this will require no special arbiter — all of you shall be
arbiters.
This was generally
approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was obliged to
agree that he would ask questions ; and when he had put a sufficient number
of them, that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short
replies. He began to put his questions as follows : —
I am of opinion,
Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of
education ; and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what
compositions of the poets are correct, and what are not, and how they are to be
distinguished, and of explaining when asked the reason of the difference. And I
propose to transfer the question which you and I have been discussing to the
domain of poetry ; we will speak as before of virtue, but in reference to a
passage of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon the
Thessalian :
Hardly on the one
hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and feet and mind,
a work without a flaw. Do you know the poem ? or shall I repeat the
whole ?
There is no need, I
said ; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode — I have made a
careful study of it.
Very well, he said.
And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and
true ?
Yes, I said, both
good and true.
But if there is a
contradiction, can the composition be good or true ?
No, not in that
case, I replied.
And is there not a
contradiction ? he asked. Reflect.
Well, my friend, I
have reflected.
And does not the
poet proceed to say, “I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit the
utterance of a wise man : Hardly can a man be good” ? Now you will
observe that this is said by the same poet.
I know
it.
And do you think,
he said, that the two sayings are consistent ?
Yes, I said, I
think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might be
something in what he said). And you think otherwise ?
Why, he said, how
can he be consistent in both ? First of all, premising as his own thought,
“Hardly can a man become truly good” ; and then a little further on in the
poem, forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he
says, “Hardly can a man be good,” which is the very same thing. And yet when he
blames him who says the same with himself, he blames himself ; so that he
must be wrong either in his first or his second assertion.
Many of the
audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint, as if
I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words
and the sound of the cheering ; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get
time to think what the meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus
and called him. Prodicus, I said, Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you
ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to you, like the river Scamander in
Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons the Simois to aid him,
saying :
Brother dear, let
us both together stay the force of the hero. 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.
Prodicus heard and
approved ; but Protagoras said : Your correction, Socrates, involves a
greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are
correcting.
Alas ! I said,
Protagoras ; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder
which I am seeking to cure.
Such is the fact,
he said.
How so ? I
asked.
The poet, he
replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which in
the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily
retained.
Well, I said, and
how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right moment ; for
he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and of very
ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are
in many things, you appear to know nothing of this ; but I know, for I am a
disciple of his. And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word
“hard” (chalepon) in the sense which Simonides intended ; and I must
correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I use the word “awful” (deinon) as a
term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else is an “awfully” wise
man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good “awful” ;
and then he explains to me that the term “awful” is always taken in a bad sense,
and that no one speaks of being “awfully” healthy or wealthy, or “awful” peace,
but of “awful” disease, “awful” war, “awful” poverty, meaning by the term
“awful,” evil. And I think that Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when
they spoke of “hard” meant “evil,” or something which you do not understand. Let
us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to answer questions about the dialect
of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the term
“hard ?”
Evil, said
Prodicus.
And therefore, I
said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, “Hard is the good,” just as if
that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.
Yes, he said, that
was certainly his meaning ; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance of
the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a
barbarous language, is natural.
Do you hear,
Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying ? And have you an
answer for him ?
You are entirely
mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras ; and I know very well that Simonides
in using the word “hard” meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is
not easy — that which takes a great deal of trouble : of this I am
positive.
I said : I
also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of
which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make
fun, and try if you could maintain your thesis ; for that Simonides could
never have meant the other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says
that God only has this gift. Now he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is
evil, when he afterwards proceeds to say that God only has this gift, and that
this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if this be his meaning,
Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness which is very
unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine to
be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your
way of speaking, would be called my skill in poetry ; or if you would
rather, I will be the listener.
To this proposal
Protagoras replied : As you please ; — and Hippias, Prodicus, and the
others told me by all means to do as I proposed.
Then now, I said, I
will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of Simonides. There
is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon
than in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those
countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the
Lacedaemonians deny ; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do
not wish to have it thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the
Sophists of whom Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms ;
considering that if the reason of their superiority were disclosed, all men
would be practising their wisdom. And this secret of theirs has never been
discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions in other cities, who go
about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the caestus bound
on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks ; for they
imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to
conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold
free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere
secret intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other
foreigners who may happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical
seance unknown to strangers ; and they themselves forbid their young men to
go out into other cities — in this they are like the Cretans — in order that
they may not unlearn the lessons which they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon
and Crete not only men but also women have a pride in their high cultivation.
And hereby you may know that I am right in attributing to the Lacedaemonians
this excellence in philosophy and speculation : If a man converses with the
most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for much in general
conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out some
notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim ; and the
person with whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And many
of our own age and of former ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of
character has the love of philosophy even stronger than the love of
gymnastics ; they are conscious that only a perfectly educated man is
capable of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus
of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus the Lindian,
and Myson the Chenian ; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the
Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples of the
culture of the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of
this character ; consisting of short memorable sentences, which they
severally uttered. And they met together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo
at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions,
which are in all men’s mouths — ”Know thyself,” and “Nothing too
much.”
Why do I say all
this ? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of
primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately
circulated and received the approbation of the wise, “Hard is it to be good.”
And Simonides, who was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he
could overthrow this saying, then, as if he had won a victory over some famous
athlete, he would carry off the palm among his contemporaries. And if I am not
mistaken, he composed the entire poem with the secret intention of damaging
Pittacus and his saying.
Let us all unite in
examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth. Simonides must
have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to say
only that to become good is hard, he inserted (men) “on the one hand” [“on the
one hand to become good is hard”] ; there would be no reason for the
introduction of (men), 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,” construing the saying of Pittacus thus
(and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him) :
“O my friends,” says Pittacus, “hard is it to be good,” and Simonides answers,
“In that, Pittacus, you are mistaken ; the difficulty is not to be good,
but on the one hand, to become good, four-square in hands and feet and mind,
without a flaw — that is hard truly.” This way of reading the passage accounts
for the insertion of (men) “on the one hand,” and for the position at the end of
the clause of the word “truly,” and all that follows shows this to be the
meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details of the poem, which
is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished, but such minutiae would
be tedious. I should like, however, to point out the general intention of the
poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying
of Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to
argue that although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is possible
for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good
state and be good, as you, Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted
to man ; God only has this blessing ; “but man cannot help being bad
when the force of circumstances overpowers him.” Now whom does the force of
circumstance overpower in the command of a vessel ? — not the private
individual, for he is always overpowered ; and as one who is already
prostrate cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he
who is prostrate can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only
overpower him who, at some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at
all times helpless. The descent of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or
the severity of the season the husbandman or the physician ; for the good
may become bad, as another poet witnesses :
The good are
sometimes good and sometimes bad. But the bad does not become bad ; he is
always bad. So that when the force of circumstances overpowers the man of
resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot help being bad. And you,
Pittacus, are saying, “Hard is it to be good.” Now there is a difficulty in
becoming good ; and yet this is possible : but to be good is an
impossibility —
For he who does
well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad. But what sort of doing is
good in letters ? and what sort of doing makes a man good in letters ?
Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well-doing makes a man a good
physician ? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. “But he
who does ill is the bad.” Now who becomes a bad physician ? Clearly he who
is in the first place a physician, and in the second place a good
physician ; for he may become a bad one also : but none of us
unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more
than we can become carpenters or anything of that sort ; and he who by
doing ill cannot become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad
physician. In like manner the good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or
disease, or other accident (the only real doing ill is to be deprived of
knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad, for he is always bad ;
and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good. Thus the words
of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be continuously good,
but that he may become good and may also become bad ; and again
that
They are the best
for the longest time whom the gods love.
All this relates to
Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he
adds :
Therefore I will
not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the impossible,
hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of the
fruit of the broad-bosomed earth : if I find him, I will send you word.
(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus
throughout the whole poem) :
But him who does no
evil, voluntarily I praise and love ; — not even the gods war against
necessity. All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to
say that he praised those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some
who did evil voluntarily. For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any
human being errs voluntarily, or voluntarily does evil and dishonourable
actions ; but they are very well aware that all who do evil and
dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says that
he praises him who does no evil voluntarily ; the word “voluntarily”
applies to himself. For he was under the impression that a good man might often
compel himself to love and praise another, and to be the friend and approver of
another ; and that there might be an involuntary love, such as a man might
feel to an unnatural father or mother, or country, or the like. Now bad men,
when their parents or country have any defects, look on them with malignant joy,
and find fault with them and expose and denounce them to others, under the idea
that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take themselves to task and
accuse them of neglect ; and they blame their defects far more than they
deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be
increased : but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains
himself to praise them ; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he
pacifies his anger and is reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his
own flesh and blood. And Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself
had often had to praise and magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will,
and he also wishes to imply to Pittacus that he does not censure him because he
is censorious.
For I am satisfied
[he says] when a man is neither bad nor very stupid ; and when he knows
justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no
fault with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable
fools (implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant
opportunity of finding fault).
All things are good
with which evil is unmingled. In these latter words he does not mean to say that
all things are good which have no evil in them, as you might say “All things are
white which have no black in them,” for that would be ridiculous ; but he
means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the moderate or
intermediate state. He says :
I do not hope to
find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of the fruits of the
broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word) ; in this sense I
praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough
for me, who love and approve every one. (and here observe that he uses a Lesbian
word, epainemi [approve], because he is addressing
Pittacus,
Who love and
approve every one voluntarily, who does no evil : and that the stop should
be put after “voluntarily”) ; “but there are some whom I involuntarily
praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had spoken
what was moderately good and true ; but I do blame you because, putting on
the appearance of truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters. And
this, I said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in
this poem.
Hippias said :
I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the
poem ; but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will
propound to you, if you will allow me.
Nay, Hippias, said
Alcibiades ; not now, but at some other time. At present we must abide by
the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect that
as long as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer ; or that
if he would rather answer, then that Socrates should ask.
I said : I
wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined ; but I would
rather have done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to
the question about which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help
make an end of that. The talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace
entertainment to which a vulgar company have recourse ; who, because they
are not able to converse or amuse one another, while they are drinking, with the
sound of their own voices and conversation, by reason of their stupidity, raise
the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great sum the voice of a
flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse among
them : but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you
will see no flute-girls, nor dancing-girls, nor harp-girls ; and they have
no nonsense or games, but are contented with one another’s conversation, of
which their own voices are the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in
an orderly manner, even though they are very liberal in their potations. And a
company like this of ours, and men such as we profess to be, do not require the
help of another’s voice, or of the poets whom you cannot interrogate about
meaning of what they are saying ; people who cite them declaring, some that
the poet has meaning, and others that he has another, and the point which is in
dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline, and
prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in
conversation. And these are the models which I desire that you and I should
imitate. Leaving the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of
one another and make proof of the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to
ask, I am ready to answer ; or if you would rather, do you answer, and give
me the opportunity of resuming and completing our unfinished
argument.
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, for all men who have a companion are
readier in deed, word, or thought ; but if a man
Sees a thing when
he is alone, he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom
he may show his discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather
hold discourse with you than with any one, because I think that no man has a
better understanding of most things which a good man may be expected to
understand, and in particular of virtue. For who is there, but you ? — who
not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for many are this, and yet have
not the power of making others good whereas you are not only good yourself, but
also the cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence have you in
yourself, that although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in
the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education,
and are the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than
invite you to the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and consult
with you ? I must, indeed. And I should like once more to have my memory
refreshed by you about the questions which I was asking you at first, and also
to have your help in considering them. If I am not mistaken the question was
this : Are wisdom and temperance and courage and justice and holiness five
names of the same thing ? or has each of the names a separate underlying
essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar function, no one of them being
like any other of them ? And you replied that the five names were not the
names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate object, and that
all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts of
gold are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts
of the face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and
have each of them a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is
still your opinion ; or if not, I will ask you to define your meaning, and
I shall not take you to task if you now make a different statement. For I dare
say that you may have said what you did only in order to make trial of
me.
I answer, Socrates,
he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four out of the
five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage,
is very different from the other four, as I prove in this way : You may
observe that many men are utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant,
who are nevertheless remarkable for their courage.
Stop, I said ;
I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you mean the
confident, or another sort of nature ?
Yes, he said ;
I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to
approach.
In the next place,
you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you assert
yourself to be a teacher.
Yes, he said ;
I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right
mind.
And is it partly
good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good ?
Wholly good, and in
the highest degree.
Tell me then ;
who are they who have confidence when diving into a
well ?
I should say, the
divers.
And the reason of
this is that they have knowledge ?
Yes, that is the
reason.
And who have
confidence when fighting on horseback — the skilled horseman or the
unskilled ?
The
skilled.
And who when
fighting with light shields — the peltasts or the
nonpeltasts ?
The peltasts. And
that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point : those
who have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they
are more confident after they have learned than before.
And have you not
seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet confident about
them ?
Yes, he said, I
have seen such persons far too confident.
And are not these
confident persons also courageous ?
In that case, he
replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are speaking are
surely madmen.
Then who are the
courageous ? Are they not the confident ?
Yes, he said ;
to that statement I adhere.
And those, I said,
who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous, but
mad ; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being
the most confident are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be
courage.
Nay, Socrates, he
replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by me. When you
asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident ; but I
was never asked whether the confident are the courageous ; if you had asked
me, I should have answered “Not all of them” : and what I did answer you
have not proved to be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have
knowledge are more courageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more
courageous than others who have no knowledge, and were then led on to think that
courage is the same as wisdom. But in this way of arguing you might come to
imagine that strength is wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong
are able, and I should say “Yes” ; and then whether those who know how to
wrestle are not more able to wrestle than those who do not know how to wrestle,
and more able after than before they had learned, and I should assent. And when
I had admitted this, you might use my admissions in such a way as to prove that
upon my view wisdom is strength ; whereas in that case I should not have
admitted, any more than in the other, that the able are strong, although I have
admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference between ability and
strength ; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or rage,
but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like
manner I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same ; and I
argue that the courageous are confident, but not all the confident courageous.
For confidence may be given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness
and rage ; but courage comes to them from nature and the healthy state of
the soul.
I said : You
would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others
ill ?
He
assented.
And do you think
that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief ?
He does
not.
But if he lives
pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived
well ?
He
will.
Then to live
pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an
evil ?
Yes, he said, if
the pleasure be good and honourable.
And do you,
Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and some
painful things good ? — for I am rather disposed to say that things are
good in as far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another
sort, and in as far as they are painful they are bad.
I do not know,
Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified manner
that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only
to my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I
am not mistaken, in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not
good, and that there are some painful things which are good, and some which are
not good, and that there are some which are neither good nor
evil.
And you would call
pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create
pleasure ?
Certainly, he
said.
Then my meaning is,
that in as far as they are pleasant they are good ; and my question would
imply that pleasure is a good in itself.
According to your
favourite mode of speech, Socrates, “Let us reflect about this,” he said ;
and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and
good are really the same, then we will agree ; but if not, then we will
argue.
And would you wish
to begin the enquiry ?
I said ; or
shall I begin ?
You ought to take
the lead, he said ; for you are the author of the
discussion.
May I employ an
illustration ? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health or
some other bodily quality of another : — he looks at his face and at the
tips of his fingers, and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I
may have a better view : — that is the sort of thing which I desire in this
speculation. Having seen what your opinion is about good and pleasure, I am
minded to say to you : Uncover your mind to me, Protagoras, and reveal your
opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you agree with the rest of the
world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that knowledge is a principle
not of strength, or of rule, or of command : their notion is that a man may
have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in him may be overmastered
by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear, — just as if
knowledge were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your
view ? or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding thing,
which cannot be overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the
difference of good and evil, to do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but
that wisdom will have strength to help him ?
I agree with you,
Socrates, said Protagoras ; and not only so, but I, above all other men, am
bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human
things.
Good, I said, and
true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another
mind ; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are
best, and not to do them when they might ? And most persons whom I have
asked the reason of this have said that when men act contrary to knowledge they
are overcome by pain, or pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just
now mentioning.
Yes, Socrates, he
replied ; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in
error.
Suppose, then, that
you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature of this
affection which they call “being overcome by pleasure,” and which they affirm to
be the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them :
Friends, you are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably
reply : Socrates and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not to be
called “being overcome by pleasure,” pray, what is it, and by what name would
you describe it ?
But why, Socrates,
should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just say anything
that happens to occur to them ?
I believe, I said,
that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related to the
other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I
should show the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely
to be cleared up, do you follow ; but if not, never
mind.
You are quite
right, he said ; and I would have you proceed as you have
begun.
Well then, I said,
let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you give of that
which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure ? I
should answer thus : Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show
you. When men are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensual desires
which are pleasant, and they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in
them, would you not say that they were overcome by pleasure ? They will not
deny this. And suppose that you and I were to go on and ask them again :
“In what way do you say that they are evil — in that they are pleasant and give
pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and poverty and other like
evils in the future ? Would they still be evil, if they had no attendant
evil consequences, simply because they give the consciousness of pleasure of
whatever nature ?” — Would they not answer that they are not evil on
account of the pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on account of
the after consequences-diseases and the like ?
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 ?
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.
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. 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 ? 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 : 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 ?
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.
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 ; 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.
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.