Persons of the Dialogue
SOCRATES, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his Companion
HIPPOCRATES
ALCIBIADES
CRINAS
PROTAGORAS, HIPPIAS, PRODICUS, Sophists
CALLIAS, a wealthy Athenian
Scene
The House of Callias
Com. 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.
Soc. 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
Oenoe whither I had gone in pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I
meant to have told you, if some other matter had not come in the way;-on
my return, when we had done supper and were about to retire to rest, my
brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and
then I thought that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left
me after my fatigue, I got up and came hither direct.
I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the
matter? Has Protagoras robbed you of anything?
He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which
he keeps from me.
But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him,
he will make you as wise as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all
that I have, and all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is
why I have come to you now, in order that you may speak to him on my
behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor heard him; (when
he visited Athens before I was but a child) and all men praise him,
Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There
is no reason why we should not go to him at once, and then we shall find
him at home. He lodges, as I hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus:
let us start.
I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us
rise and take a turn in the court and wait about there until 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!