PROTAGORAS
by Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
INTRODUCTION.
The Protagoras, like several of the Dialogues of Plato, is put into the
mouth of Socrates, who describes a conversation which had taken place
between himself and the great Sophist at the house of Callias--'the man who
had spent more upon the Sophists than all the rest of the world'--and in
which the learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus had also shared, as
well as Alcibiades and Critias, both of whom said a few words--in the
presence of a distinguished company consisting of disciples of Protagoras
and of leading Athenians belonging to the Socratic circle. The dialogue
commences with a request on the part of Hippocrates that Socrates would
introduce him to the celebrated teacher. He has come before the dawn had
risen--so fervid is his zeal. Socrates moderates his excitement and
advises him to find out 'what Protagoras will make of him,' before he
becomes his pupil.
They go together to the house of Callias; and Socrates, after explaining
the purpose of their visit to Protagoras, asks the question, 'What he will
make of Hippocrates.' Protagoras answers, 'That he will make him a better
and a wiser man.' 'But in what will he be better?'--Socrates desires to
have a more precise answer. Protagoras replies, 'That he will teach him
prudence in affairs private and public; in short, the science or knowledge
of human life.'
This, as Socrates admits, is a noble profession; but he is or rather would
have been doubtful, whether such knowledge can be taught, if Protagoras had
not assured him of the fact, for two reasons: (1) Because the Athenian
people, who recognize in their assemblies the distinction between the
skilled and the unskilled in the arts, do not distinguish between the
trained politician and the untrained; (2) Because the wisest and best
Athenian citizens do not teach their sons political virtue. Will
Protagoras answer these objections?
Protagoras explains his views in the form of an apologue, in which, after
Prometheus had given men the arts, Zeus is represented as sending Hermes to
them, bearing with him Justice and Reverence. These are not, like the
arts, to be imparted to a few only, but all men are to be partakers of
them. Therefore the Athenian people are right in distinguishing between
the skilled and unskilled in the arts, and not between skilled and
unskilled politicians. (1) For all men have the political virtues to a
certain degree, and are obliged to say that they have them, whether they
have them or not. A man would be thought a madman who professed an art
which he did not know; but he would be equally thought a madman if he did
not profess a virtue which he had not. (2) And that the political virtues
can be taught and acquired, in the opinion of the Athenians, is proved by
the fact that they punish evil-doers, with a view to prevention, of course
--mere retribution is for beasts, and not for men. (3) Again, would
parents who teach her sons lesser matters leave them ignorant of the common
duty of citizens? To the doubt of Socrates the best answer is the fact,
that the education of youth in virtue begins almost as soon as they can
speak, and is continued by the state when they pass out of the parental
control. (4) Nor need we wonder that wise and good fathers sometimes have
foolish and worthless sons. Virtue, as we were saying, is not the private
possession of any man, but is shared by all, only however to the extent of
which each individual is by nature capable. And, as a matter of fact, even
the worst of civilized mankind will appear virtuous and just, if we compare
them with savages. (5) The error of Socrates lies in supposing that there
are no teachers of virtue, whereas all men are teachers in a degree. Some,
like Protagoras, are better than others, and with this result we ought to
be satisfied.
Socrates is highly delighted with the explanation of Protagoras. But he
has still a doubt lingering in his mind. Protagoras has spoken of the
virtues: are they many, or one? are they parts of a whole, or different
names of the same thing? Protagoras replies that they are parts, like the
parts of a face, which have their several functions, and no one part is
like any other part. This admission, which has been somewhat hastily made,
is now taken up and cross-examined by Socrates:--
'Is justice just, and is holiness holy? And are justice and holiness
opposed to one another?'--'Then justice is unholy.' Protagoras would
rather say that justice is different from holiness, and yet in a certain
point of view nearly the same. He does not, however, escape in this way
from the cunning of Socrates, who inveigles him into an admission that
everything has but one opposite. Folly, for example, is opposed to wisdom;
and folly is also opposed to temperance; and therefore temperance and
wisdom are the same. And holiness has been already admitted to be nearly
the same as justice. Temperance, therefore, has now to be compared with
justice.
Protagoras, whose temper begins to get a little ruffled at the process to
which he has been subjected, is aware that he will soon be compelled by the
dialectics of Socrates to admit that the temperate is the just. He
therefore defends himself with his favourite weapon; that is to say, he
makes a long speech not much to the point, which elicits the applause of
the audience.
Here occurs a sort of interlude, which commences with a declaration on the
part of Socrates that he cannot follow a long speech, and therefore he must
beg Protagoras to speak shorter. As Protagoras declines to accommodate
him, he rises to depart, but is detained by Callias, who thinks him
unreasonable in not allowing Protagoras the liberty which he takes himself
of speaking as he likes. But Alcibiades answers that the two cases are not
parallel. For Socrates admits his inability to speak long; will Protagoras
in like manner acknowledge his inability to speak short?
Counsels of moderation are urged first in a few words by Critias, and then
by Prodicus in balanced and sententious language: and Hippias proposes an
umpire. But who is to be the umpire? rejoins Socrates; he would rather
suggest as a compromise that Protagoras shall ask and he will answer, and
that when Protagoras is tired of asking he himself will ask and Protagoras
shall answer. To this the latter yields a reluctant assent.
Protagoras selects as his thesis a poem of Simonides of Ceos, in which he
professes to find a contradiction. First the poet says,
'Hard is it to become good,'
and then reproaches Pittacus for having said, 'Hard is it to be good.' How
is this to be reconciled? Socrates, who is familiar with the poem, is
embarrassed at first, and invokes the aid of Prodicus, the countryman of
Simonides, but apparently only with the intention of flattering him into
absurdities. First a distinction is drawn between (Greek) to be, and
(Greek) to become: to become good is difficult; to be good is easy. Then
the word difficult or hard is explained to mean 'evil' in the Cean dialect.
To all this Prodicus assents; but when Protagoras reclaims, Socrates slily
withdraws Prodicus from the fray, under the pretence that his assent was
only intended to test the wits of his adversary. He then proceeds to give
another and more elaborate explanation of the whole passage. The
explanation is as follows:--
The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers (although this is a fact which is
not generally known); and the soul of their philosophy is brevity, which
was also the style of primitive antiquity and of the seven sages. Now
Pittacus had a saying, 'Hard is it to be good:' and Simonides, who was
jealous of the fame of this saying, wrote a poem which was designed to
controvert it. No, says he, Pittacus; not 'hard to be good,' but 'hard to
become good.' Socrates proceeds to argue in a highly impressive manner
that the whole composition is intended as an attack upon Pittacus. This,
though manifestly absurd, is accepted by the company, and meets with the
special approval of Hippias, who has however a favourite interpretation of
his own, which he is requested by Alcibiades to defer.
The argument is now resumed, not without some disdainful remarks of
Socrates on the practice of introducing the poets, who ought not to be
allowed, any more than flute-girls, to come into good society. Men's own
thoughts should supply them with the materials for discussion. A few
soothing flatteries are addressed to Protagoras by Callias and Socrates,
and then the old question is repeated, 'Whether the virtues are one or
many?' To which Protagoras is now disposed to reply, that four out of the
five virtues are in some degree similar; but he still contends that the
fifth, courage, is unlike the rest. Socrates proceeds to undermine the
last stronghold of the adversary, first obtaining from him the admission
that all virtue is in the highest degree good:--
The courageous are the confident; and the confident are those who know
their business or profession: those who have no such knowledge and are
still confident are madmen. This is admitted. Then, says Socrates,
courage is knowledge--an inference which Protagoras evades by drawing a
futile distinction between the courageous and the confident in a fluent
speech.
Socrates renews the attack from another side: he would like to know
whether pleasure is not the only good, and pain the only evil? Protagoras
seems to doubt the morality or propriety of assenting to this; he would
rather say that 'some pleasures are good, some pains are evil,' which is
also the opinion of the generality of mankind. What does he think of
knowledge? Does he agree with the common opinion that knowledge is
overcome by passion? or does he hold that knowledge is power? Protagoras
agrees that knowledge is certainly a governing power.
This, however, is not the doctrine of men in general, who maintain that
many who know what is best, act contrary to their knowledge under the
influence of pleasure. But this opposition of good and evil is really the
opposition of a greater or lesser amount of pleasure. Pleasures are evils
because they end in pain, and pains are goods because they end in
pleasures. Thus pleasure is seen to be the only good; and the only evil is
the preference of the lesser pleasure to the greater. But then comes in
the illusion of distance. Some art of mensuration is required in order to
show us pleasures and pains in their true proportion. This art of
mensuration is a kind of knowledge, and knowledge is thus proved once more
to be the governing principle of human life, and ignorance the origin of
all evil: for no one prefers the less pleasure to the greater, or the
greater pain to the less, except from ignorance. The argument is drawn out
in an imaginary 'dialogue within a dialogue,' conducted by Socrates and
Protagoras on the one part, and the rest of the world on the other.
Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, admit the soundness of the
conclusion.
Socrates then applies this new conclusion to the case of courage--the only
virtue which still holds out against the assaults of the Socratic
dialectic. No one chooses the evil or refuses the good except through
ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to war:--because they
form a wrong estimate of good, and honour, and pleasure. And why are the
courageous willing to go to war?--because they form a right estimate of
pleasures and pains, of things terrible and not terrible. Courage then is
knowledge, and cowardice is ignorance. And the five virtues, which were
originally maintained to have five different natures, after having been
easily reduced to two only, at last coalesce in one. The assent of
Protagoras to this last position is extracted with great difficulty.
Socrates concludes by professing his disinterested love of the truth, and
remarks on the singular manner in which he and his adversary had changed
sides. Protagoras began by asserting, and Socrates by denying, the
teachableness of virtue, and now the latter ends by affirming that virtue
is knowledge, which is the most teachable of all things, while Protagoras
has been striving to show that virtue is not knowledge, and this is almost
equivalent to saying that virtue cannot be taught. He is not satisfied
with the result, and would like to renew the enquiry with the help of
Protagoras in a different order, asking (1) What virtue is, and (2) Whether
virtue can be taught. Protagoras declines this offer, but commends
Socrates' earnestness and his style of discussion.
The Protagoras is often supposed to be full of difficulties. These are
partly imaginary and partly real. The imaginary ones are (1)
Chronological,--which were pointed out in ancient times by Athenaeus, and
are noticed by Schleiermacher and others, and relate to the impossibility
of all the persons in the Dialogue meeting at any one time, whether in the
year 425 B.C., or in any other. But Plato, like all writers of fiction,
aims only at the probable, and shows in many Dialogues (e.g. the Symposium
and Republic, and already in the Laches) an extreme disregard of the
historical accuracy which is sometimes demanded of him. (2) The exact
place of the Protagoras among the Dialogues, and the date of composition,
have also been much disputed. But there are no criteria which afford any
real grounds for determining the date of composition; and the affinities of
the Dialogues, when they are not indicated by Plato himself, must always to
a great extent remain uncertain. (3) There is another class of
difficulties, which may be ascribed to preconceived notions of
commentators, who imagine that Protagoras the Sophist ought always to be in
the wrong, and his adversary Socrates in the right; or that in this or that
passage--e.g. in the explanation of good as pleasure--Plato is inconsistent
with himself; or that the Dialogue fails in unity, and has not a proper
beginning, middle, and ending. They seem to forget that Plato is a
dramatic writer who throws his thoughts into both sides of the argument,
and certainly does not aim at any unity which is inconsistent with freedom,
and with a natural or even wild manner of treating his subject; also that
his mode of revealing the truth is by lights and shadows, and far-off and
opposing points of view, and not by dogmatic statements or definite
results.
The real difficulties arise out of the extreme subtlety of the work, which,
as Socrates says of the poem of Simonides, is a most perfect piece of art.
There are dramatic contrasts and interests, threads of philosophy broken
and resumed, satirical reflections on mankind, veils thrown over truths
which are lightly suggested, and all woven together in a single design, and
moving towards one end.
In the introductory scene Plato raises the expectation that a 'great
personage' is about to appear on the stage; perhaps with a further view of
showing that he is destined to be overthrown by a greater still, who makes
no pretensions. Before introducing Hippocrates to him, Socrates thinks
proper to warn the youth against the dangers of 'influence,' of which the
invidious nature is recognized by Protagoras himself. Hippocrates readily
adopts the suggestion of Socrates that he shall learn of Protagoras only
the accomplishments which befit an Athenian gentleman, and let alone his
'sophistry.' There is nothing however in the introduction which leads to
the inference that Plato intended to blacken the character of the Sophists;
he only makes a little merry at their expense.
The 'great personage' is somewhat ostentatious, but frank and honest. He
is introduced on a stage which is worthy of him--at the house of the rich
Callias, in which are congregated the noblest and wisest of the Athenians.
He considers openness to be the best policy, and particularly mentions his
own liberal mode of dealing with his pupils, as if in answer to the
favourite accusation of the Sophists that they received pay. He is
remarkable for the good temper which he exhibits throughout the discussion
under the trying and often sophistical cross-examination of Socrates.
Although once or twice ruffled, and reluctant to continue the discussion,
he parts company on perfectly good terms, and appears to be, as he says of
himself, the 'least jealous of mankind.'
Nor is there anything in the sentiments of Protagoras which impairs this
pleasing impression of the grave and weighty old man. His real defect is
that he is inferior to Socrates in dialectics. The opposition between him
and Socrates is not the opposition of good and bad, true and false, but of
the old art of rhetoric and the new science of interrogation and argument;
also of the irony of Socrates and the self-assertion of the Sophists.
There is quite as much truth on the side of Protagoras as of Socrates; but
the truth of Protagoras is based on common sense and common maxims of
morality, while that of Socrates is paradoxical or transcendental, and
though full of meaning and insight, hardly intelligible to the rest of
mankind. Here as elsewhere is the usual contrast between the Sophists
representing average public opinion and Socrates seeking for increased
clearness and unity of ideas. But to a great extent Protagoras has the
best of the argument and represents the better mind of man.
For example: (1) one of the noblest statements to be found in antiquity
about the preventive nature of punishment is put into his mouth; (2) he is
clearly right also in maintaining that virtue can be taught (which Socrates
himself, at the end of the Dialogue, is disposed to concede); and also (3)
in his explanation of the phenomenon that good fathers have bad sons; (4)
he is right also in observing that the virtues are not like the arts, gifts
or attainments of special individuals, but the common property of all:
this, which in all ages has been the strength and weakness of ethics and
politics, is deeply seated in human nature; (5) there is a sort of half-
truth in the notion that all civilized men are teachers of virtue; and more
than a half-truth (6) in ascribing to man, who in his outward conditions is
more helpless than the other animals, the power of self-improvement; (7)
the religious allegory should be noticed, in which the arts are said to be
given by Prometheus (who stole them), whereas justice and reverence and the
political virtues could only be imparted by Zeus; (8) in the latter part of
the Dialogue, when Socrates is arguing that 'pleasure is the only good,'
Protagoras deems it more in accordance with his character to maintain that
'some pleasures only are good;' and admits that 'he, above all other men,
is bound to say "that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human
things."'
There is no reason to suppose that in all this Plato is depicting an
imaginary Protagoras; he seems to be showing us the teaching of the
Sophists under the milder aspect under which he once regarded them. Nor is
there any reason to doubt that Socrates is equally an historical character,
paradoxical, ironical, tiresome, but seeking for the unity of virtue and
knowledge as for a precious treasure; willing to rest this even on a
calculation of pleasure, and irresistible here, as everywhere in Plato, in
his intellectual superiority.
The aim of Socrates, and of the Dialogue, is to show the unity of virtue.
In the determination of this question the identity of virtue and knowledge
is found to be involved. But if virtue and knowledge are one, then virtue
can be taught; the end of the Dialogue returns to the beginning. Had
Protagoras been allowed by Plato to make the Aristotelian distinction, and
say that virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied with knowledge; or to
point out with Aristotle that the same quality may have more than one
opposite; or with Plato himself in the Phaedo to deny that good is a mere
exchange of a greater pleasure for a less--the unity of virtue and the
identity of virtue and knowledge would have required to be proved by other
arguments.
The victory of Socrates over Protagoras is in every way complete when their
minds are fairly brought together. Protagoras falls before him after two
or three blows. Socrates partially gains his object in the first part of
the Dialogue, and completely in the second. Nor does he appear at any
disadvantage when subjected to 'the question' by Protagoras. He succeeds
in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, ludicrous by the way; he
also makes a long speech in defence of the poem of Simonides, after the
manner of the Sophists, showing, as Alcibiades says, that he is only
pretending to have a bad memory, and that he and not Protagoras is really a
master in the two styles of speaking; and that he can undertake, not one
side of the argument only, but both, when Protagoras begins to break down.
Against the authority of the poets with whom Protagoras has ingeniously
identified himself at the commencement of the Dialogue, Socrates sets up
the proverbial philosophers and those masters of brevity the
Lacedaemonians. The poets, the Laconizers, and Protagoras are satirized at
the same time.
Not having the whole of this poem before us, it is impossible for us to
answer certainly the question of Protagoras, how the two passages of
Simonides are to be reconciled. We can only follow the indications given
by Plato himself. But it seems likely that the reconcilement offered by
Socrates is a caricature of the methods of interpretation which were
practised by the Sophists--for the following reasons: (1) The transparent
irony of the previous interpretations given by Socrates. (2) The ludicrous
opening of the speech in which the Lacedaemonians are described as the true
philosophers, and Laconic brevity as the true form of philosophy, evidently
with an allusion to Protagoras' long speeches. (3) The manifest futility
and absurdity of the explanation of (Greek), which is hardly consistent
with the rational interpretation of the rest of the poem. The opposition
of (Greek) and (Greek) seems also intended to express the rival doctrines
of Socrates and Protagoras, and is a facetious commentary on their
differences. (4) The general treatment in Plato both of the Poets and the
Sophists, who are their interpreters, and whom he delights to identify with
them. (5) The depreciating spirit in which Socrates speaks of the
introduction of the poets as a substitute for original conversation, which
is intended to contrast with Protagoras' exaltation of the study of them--
this again is hardly consistent with the serious defence of Simonides. (6)
the marked approval of Hippias, who is supposed at once to catch the
familiar sound, just as in the previous conversation Prodicus is
represented as ready to accept any distinctions of language however absurd.
At the same time Hippias is desirous of substituting a new interpretation
of his own; as if the words might really be made to mean anything, and were
only to be regarded as affording a field for the ingenuity of the
interpreter.
This curious passage is, therefore, to be regarded as Plato's satire on the
tedious and hypercritical arts of interpretation which prevailed in his own
day, and may be compared with his condemnation of the same arts when
applied to mythology in the Phaedrus, and with his other parodies, e.g.
with the two first speeches in the Phaedrus and with the Menexenus.
Several lesser touches of satire may be observed, such as the claim of
philosophy advanced for the Lacedaemonians, which is a parody of the claims
advanced for the Poets by Protagoras; the mistake of the Laconizing set in
supposing that the Lacedaemonians are a great nation because they bruise
their ears; the far-fetched notion, which is 'really too bad,' that
Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, (Greek), because he is addressing a
Lesbian. The whole may also be considered as a satire on those who spin
pompous theories out of nothing. As in the arguments of the Euthydemus and
of the Cratylus, the veil of irony is never withdrawn; and we are left in
doubt at last how far in this interpretation of Simonides Socrates is
'fooling,' how far he is in earnest.
All the interests and contrasts of character in a great dramatic work like
the Protagoras are not easily exhausted. The impressiveness of the scene
should not be lost upon us, or the gradual substitution of Socrates in the
second part for Protagoras in the first. The characters to whom we are
introduced at the beginning of the Dialogue all play a part more or less
conspicuous towards the end. There is Alcibiades, who is compelled by the
necessity of his nature to be a partisan, lending effectual aid to
Socrates; there is Critias assuming the tone of impartiality; Callias, here
as always inclining to the Sophists, but eager for any intellectual repast;
Prodicus, who finds an opportunity for displaying his distinctions of
language, which are valueless and pedantic, because they are not based on
dialectic; Hippias, who has previously exhibited his superficial knowledge
of natural philosophy, to which, as in both the Dialogues called by his
name, he now adds the profession of an interpreter of the Poets. The two
latter personages have been already damaged by the mock heroic description
of them in the introduction. It may be remarked that Protagoras is
consistently presented to us throughout as the teacher of moral and
political virtue; there is no allusion to the theories of sensation which
are attributed to him in the Theaetetus and elsewhere, or to his denial of
the existence of the gods in a well-known fragment ascribed to him; he is
the religious rather than the irreligious teacher in this Dialogue. Also
it may be observed that Socrates shows him as much respect as is consistent
with his own ironical character; he admits that the dialectic which has
overthrown Protagoras has carried himself round to a conclusion opposed to
his first thesis. The force of argument, therefore, and not Socrates or
Protagoras, has won the day.
But is Socrates serious in maintaining (1) that virtue cannot be taught;
(2) that the virtues are one; (3) that virtue is the knowledge of pleasures
and pains present and future? These propositions to us have an appearance
of paradox--they are really moments or aspects of the truth by the help of
which we pass from the old conventional morality to a higher conception of
virtue and knowledge. That virtue cannot be taught is a paradox of the
same sort as the profession of Socrates that he knew nothing. Plato means
to say that virtue is not brought to a man, but must be drawn out of him;
and cannot be taught by rhetorical discourses or citations from the poets.
The second question, whether the virtues are one or many, though at first
sight distinct, is really a part of the same subject; for if the virtues
are to be taught, they must be reducible to a common principle; and this
common principle is found to be knowledge. Here, as Aristotle remarks,
Socrates and Plato outstep the truth--they make a part of virtue into the
whole. Further, the nature of this knowledge, which is assumed to be a
knowledge of pleasures and pains, appears to us too superficial and at
variance with the spirit of Plato himself. Yet, in this, Plato is only
following the historical Socrates as he is depicted to us in Xenophon's
Memorabilia. Like Socrates, he finds on the surface of human life one
common bond by which the virtues are united,--their tendency to produce
happiness,--though such a principle is afterwards repudiated by him.
It remains to be considered in what relation the Protagoras stands to the
other Dialogues of Plato. That it is one of the earlier or purely Socratic
works--perhaps the last, as it is certainly the greatest of them--is
indicated by the absence of any allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence;
and also by the different attitude assumed towards the teaching and persons
of the Sophists in some of the later Dialogues. The Charmides, Laches,
Lysis, all touch on the question of the relation of knowledge to virtue,
and may be regarded, if not as preliminary studies or sketches of the more
important work, at any rate as closely connected with it. The Io and the
lesser Hippias contain discussions of the Poets, which offer a parallel to
the ironical criticism of Simonides, and are conceived in a similar spirit.
The affinity of the Protagoras to the Meno is more doubtful. For there,
although the same question is discussed, 'whether virtue can be taught,'
and the relation of Meno to the Sophists is much the same as that of
Hippocrates, the answer to the question is supplied out of the doctrine of
ideas; the real Socrates is already passing into the Platonic one. At a
later stage of the Platonic philosophy we shall find that both the paradox
and the solution of it appear to have been retracted. The Phaedo, the
Gorgias, and the Philebus offer further corrections of the teaching of the
Protagoras; in all of them the doctrine that virtue is pleasure, or that
pleasure is the chief or only good, is distinctly renounced.
Thus after many preparations and oppositions, both of the characters of men
and aspects of the truth, especially of the popular and philosophical
aspect; and after many interruptions and detentions by the way, which, as
Theodorus says in the Theaetetus, are quite as agreeable as the argument,
we arrive at the great Socratic thesis that virtue is knowledge. This is
an aspect of the truth which was lost almost as soon as it was found; and
yet has to be recovered by every one for himself who would pass the limits
of proverbial and popular philosophy. The moral and intellectual are
always dividing, yet they must be reunited, and in the highest conception
of them are inseparable. The thesis of Socrates is not merely a hasty
assumption, but may be also deemed an anticipation of some 'metaphysic of
the future,' in which the divided elements of human nature are reconciled.
PROTAGORAS
by
Plato
Translated by Benjamin Jowett.
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE:
Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue to his Companion.
Hippocrates, Alcibiades and Critias.
Protagoras, Hippias and Prodicus (Sophists).
Callias, a wealthy Athenian.
SCENE: The House of Callias.
COMPANION: Where do you come from, Socrates? And yet I need hardly ask
the question, for I know that you have been in chase of the fair
Alcibiades. I saw him the day before yesterday; and he had got a beard
like a man,--and he is a man, as I may tell you in your ear. But I thought
that he was still very charming.
SOCRATES: What of his beard? Are you not of Homer's opinion, who says
'Youth is most charming when the beard first appears'?
And that is now the charm of Alcibiades.
COMPANION: Well, and how do matters proceed? Have you been visiting him,
and was he gracious to you?
SOCRATES: Yes, I thought that he was very gracious; and especially to-day,
for I have just come from him, and he has been helping me in an argument.
But shall I tell you a strange thing? I paid no attention to him, and
several times I quite forgot that he was present.
COMPANION: What is the meaning of this? Has anything happened between you
and him? For surely you cannot have discovered a fairer love than he is;
certainly not in this city of Athens.
SOCRATES: Yes, much fairer.
COMPANION: What do you mean--a citizen or a foreigner?
SOCRATES: A foreigner.
COMPANION: Of what country?
SOCRATES: Of Abdera.
COMPANION: And is this stranger really in your opinion a fairer love than
the son of Cleinias?
SOCRATES: And is not the wiser always the fairer, sweet friend?
COMPANION: But have you really met, Socrates, with some wise one?
SOCRATES: Say rather, with the wisest of all living men, if you are
willing to accord that title to Protagoras.
COMPANION: What! Is Protagoras in Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes; he has been here two days.
COMPANION: And do you just come from an interview with him?
SOCRATES: Yes; and I have heard and said many things.
COMPANION: Then, if you have no engagement, suppose that you sit down and
tell me what passed, and my attendant here shall give up his place to you.
SOCRATES: To be sure; and I shall be grateful to you for listening.
COMPANION: Thank you, too, for telling us.
SOCRATES: That is thank you twice over. Listen then:--
Last night, or rather very early this morning, Hippocrates, the son of
Apollodorus and the brother of Phason, gave a tremendous thump with his
staff at my door; some one opened to him, and he came rushing in and bawled
out: Socrates, are you awake or asleep?
I knew his voice, and said: Hippocrates, is that you? and do you bring any
news?
Good news, he said; nothing but good.
Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at
this unearthly hour?
He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come.
Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his
arrival?
Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening.
At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and
then he said: Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe
whither I had gone in pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to
have told you, if some other matter had not come in the way;--on my return,
when we had done supper and were about to retire to rest, my brother said
to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and then I thought
that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my
fatigue, I got up and came hither direct.
I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the
matter? Has Protagoras robbed you of anything?
He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he
keeps from me.
But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he
will make you as wise as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all
that I have, and all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why
I have come to you now, in order that you may speak to him on my behalf;
for I am young, and also I have never seen nor heard him; (when he visited
Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him, Socrates; he is
reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why we
should not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He
lodges, as I hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus: let us start.
I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us
rise and take a turn in the court and wait about there until day-break;
when the day breaks, then we will go. For Protagoras is generally at home,
and we shall be sure to find him; never fear.
Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I
would make trial of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and
put questions to him. Tell me, Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to
Protagoras, and will be paying your money to him, what is he to whom you
are going? and what will he make of you? If, for example, you had thought
of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were about to give him
your money, and some one had said to you: You are paying money to your
namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates; tell me, what is he that you give him
money? how would you have answered?
I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.
And what will he make of you?
A physician, he said.
And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the
Athenian, and were intending to give them money, and some one had asked
you: What are Polycleitus and Pheidias? and why do you give them this
money?--how would you have answered?
I should have answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they make of you?
A statuary, of course.
Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to
pay him money on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can
gain him with these, we shall be only too glad; but if not, then we are to
spend the money of your friends as well. Now suppose, that while we are
thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one were to say to us: Tell
me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why are you
going to pay him money,--how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a
sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation is given to
Protagoras? how is he designated?
They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?
Certainly.
But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about
yourself? What will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?
He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to
dawn, so that I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the
former instances, I suppose that he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the
Hellenes in the character of a Sophist?
Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras
is of this nature: may you not learn of him in the same way that you
learned the arts of the grammarian, or musician, or trainer, not with the
view of making any of them a profession, but only as a part of education,
and because a private gentleman and freeman ought to know them?
Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the
teaching of Protagoras.
I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?
And what am I doing?
You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a
Sophist. And yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if
not, then you do not even know to whom you are committing your soul and
whether the thing to which you commit yourself be good or evil.
I certainly think that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?
I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name
implies.
And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter
also: Do not they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to
ask us: In what are the painters wise? We should answer: In what relates
to the making of likenesses, and similarly of other things. And if he were
further to ask: What is the wisdom of the Sophist, and what is the
manufacture over which he presides?--how should we answer him?
How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but
that he presides over the art which makes men eloquent?
Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer
a further question is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk
eloquently? The player on the lyre may be supposed to make a man talk
eloquently about that which he makes him understand, that is about playing
the lyre. Is not that true?
Yes.
Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him
eloquent in that which he understands?
Yes, that may be assumed.
And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?
Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you
are incurring? If you were going to commit your body to some one, who
might do good or harm to it, would you not carefully consider and ask the
opinion of your friends and kindred, and deliberate many days as to whether
you should give him the care of your body? But when the soul is in
question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and upon
the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your all,--about this
you never consulted either with your father or with your brother or with
any one of us who are your companions. But no sooner does this foreigner
appear, than you instantly commit your soul to his keeping. In the
evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the morning you go to him,
never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to whether you ought
to intrust yourself to him or not;--you have quite made up your mind that
you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to
expend all the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at
any price this determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him,
and have never spoken with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are
manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is; and yet you are going to commit
yourself to his keeping.
When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can
be drawn from your words.
I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or
retail in the food of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?
Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care,
my friend, that the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he
sells, like the dealers wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body;
for they praise indiscriminately all their goods, without knowing what are
really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers know, with the
exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In
like manner those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the
round of the cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in want
of them, praise them all alike; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if
many of them were really ignorant of their effect upon the soul; and their
customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of them happens to be a
physician of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of what is
good and evil, you may safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one;
but if not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest
interests at a game of chance. For there is far greater peril in buying
knowledge than in buying meat and drink: the one you purchase of the
wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in other vessels, and
before you receive them into the body as food, you may deposit them at home
and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or
drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of
purchasing them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge
and carry them away in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must
receive them into the soul and go your way, either greatly harmed or
greatly benefited; and therefore we should deliberate and take counsel with
our elders; for we are still young--too young to determine such a matter.
And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras; and when we
have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only
is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and,
if I am not mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise men.
To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule
of the house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which
had arisen between us as we were going along; and we stood talking in the
vestibule until we had finished and come to an understanding. And I think
that the door-keeper, who was a eunuch, and who was probably annoyed at the
great inroad of the Sophists, must have heard us talking. At any rate,
when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us, he grumbled: They
are Sophists--he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a hearty 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 (Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there were some
Athenians in the company. Nothing delighted me more than the precision of
their movements: they never got into his way at all; but when he and those
who were with him turned back, then the band of listeners parted regularly
on either side; he was always in front, and they wheeled round and took
their places behind him in perfect order.
After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias the
Elean sitting in the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him
were seated on benches Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the
Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son of Androtion, and there were strangers
whom he had brought with him from his native city of Elis, and some others:
they were putting to Hippias certain physical and astronomical questions,
and he, ex cathedra, was determining their several questions to them, and
discoursing of them.
Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens:
he had been lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a
storehouse; but, as the house was full, Callias had cleared this out and
made the room into a guest-chamber. Now Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped
up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there seemed to be a great heap;
and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias of the deme of
Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly
remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair
and gentle nature. I thought that I heard him called Agathon, and my
suspicion is that he is the beloved of Pausanias. There was this youth,
and also there were the two Adeimantuses, one the son of Cepis, and the
other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very anxious to hear what
Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and inspired man;
but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice
made an echo in the room which rendered his words inaudible.
No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful,
as you say, and I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus.
On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked
up to Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have
come to see you.
Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the
company?
Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the
purpose of our visit.
And what is your purpose? he said.
I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he
is the son of Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is
himself in natural ability quite a match for anybody of his own age. I
believe that he aspires to political eminence; and this he thinks that
conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now you can
determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or
in the presence of the company.
Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a
stranger finding his way into great cities, and persuading the flower of
the youth in them to leave company of their kinsmen or any other
acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the idea that they
will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great
jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many
enmities and conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of
great antiquity; but in ancient times those who practised it, fearing this
odium, veiled and disguised themselves under various names, some under that
of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of hierophants and
prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under the
name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently
celebrated Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a
first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but
was really an eminent Sophist; also Pythocleides the Cean; and there were
many others; and all of them, as I was saying, adopted these arts as veils
or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which they would incur.
But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their
purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them;
and as to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what
their rulers are pleased to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught
in running away, is the very height of folly, and also greatly increases
the exasperation of mankind; for they regard him who runs away as a rogue,
in addition to any other objections which they have to him; and therefore I
take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist
and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be
a better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other
precautions, and therefore I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven
that no harm will come of the acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I
have been now many years in the profession--for all my years when added up
are many: there is no one here present of whom I might not be the father.
Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if you want to speak
with me, in the presence of the company.
As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and
glorification in the presence of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly
show us to them in the light of his admirers, I said: But why should we
not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to hear us?
Very good, he said.
Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and
discuss.--This was agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect
of hearing wise men talk; we ourselves took the chairs and benches, and
arranged them by Hippias, where the other benches had been already placed.
Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of bed and brought in him
and his companions.
When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are
assembled, Socrates, tell me about the young man of whom you were just now
speaking.
I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you
once more the purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is
desirous of making your acquaintance; he would like to know what will
happen to him if he associates with you. I have no more to say.
Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very
first day you will return home a better man than you came, and better on
the second day than on the first, and better every day than you were on the
day before.
When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing
you say this; even at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were
to teach you what you did not know before, you would become better no
doubt: but please to answer in a different way--I will explain how by an
example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of desiring your
acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man Zeuxippus of
Heraclea, who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he has
come to you, and had heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day
he would grow and become better if he associated with him: and then
suppose that he were to ask him, 'In what shall I become better, and in
what shall I grow?'--Zeuxippus would answer, 'In painting.' And suppose
that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and heard him say the same thing,
and asked him, 'In what shall I become better day by day?' he would reply,
'In flute-playing.' Now I want you to make the same sort of answer to this
young man and to me, who am asking questions on his account. When you say
that on the first day on which he associates with you he will return home a
better man, and on every day will grow in like manner,--in what,
Protagoras, will he be better? and about what?
When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly,
and I like to answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes
to me he will not experience the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists
are in the habit of insulting their pupils; who, when they have just
escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by these
teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and
music (he gave a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me,
he will learn that which he comes to learn. And this is prudence in
affairs private as well as public; he will learn to order his own house in
the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the best in the
affairs of the state.
Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of
politics, and that you promise to make men good citizens?
That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make.
Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake
about this; for I will freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a
doubt whether this art is capable of being taught, and yet I know not how
to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to tell you why I am of opinion
that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to man. I say that
the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are esteemed to
be such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met together
in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders
are summoned as advisers; when the question is one of ship-building, then
the ship-wrights; and the like of other arts which they think capable of
being taught and learned. And if some person offers to give them advice
who is not supposed by them to have any skill in the art, even though he be
good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to him, but laugh
and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself;
or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the
command of the prytanes. This is their way of behaving about professors of
the arts. But when the question is an affair of state, then everybody is
free to have a say--carpenter, tinker, cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and
poor, high and low--any one who likes gets up, and no one reproaches him,
as in the former case, with not having learned, and having no teacher, and
yet giving advice; evidently because they are under the impression that
this sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this true of the
state, but of individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens are unable
to impart their political wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the
father of these young men, who gave them excellent instruction in all that
could be learned from masters, in his own department of politics neither
taught them, nor gave them teachers; but they were allowed to wander at
their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon virtue of
their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the younger
brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the
guardian; and he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would
be corrupted by Alcibiades, took him away, and placed him in the house of
Ariphron to be educated; but before six months had elapsed, Ariphron sent
him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I could mention numberless
other instances of persons who were good themselves, and never yet made any
one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras, having these
examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But
then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think
that there must be something in what you say, because I know that you have
great experience, and learning, and invention. And I wish that you would,
if possible, show me a little more clearly that virtue can be taught. Will
you be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as
an elder, speak to you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I
argue out the question?
To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself.
Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.
Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when
the time came that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them
out of earth and fire and various mixtures of both elements in the interior
of the earth; and when they were about to bring them into the light of day,
they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to equip them, and to distribute to
them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said to Prometheus:
'Let me distribute, and do you inspect.' This was agreed, and Epimetheus
made the distribution. There were some to whom he gave strength without
swiftness, while he equipped the weaker with swiftness; some he armed, and
others he left unarmed; and devised for the latter some other means of
preservation, making some large, and having their size as a protection, and
others small, whose nature was to fly in the air or burrow in the ground;
this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he compensate them with the
view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And when he had
provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also a
means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them with
close hair and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter
cold and able to resist the summer heat, so that they might have a natural
bed of their own when they wanted to rest; also he furnished them with
hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins under their feet. Then he gave
them varieties of food,--herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of
trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as
food. And some he made to have few young ones, while those who were their
prey were very prolific; and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus
did Epimetheus, who, not being very wise, forgot that he had distributed
among the brute animals all the qualities which he had to give,--and when
he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly perplexed. Now
while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the
distribution, and he found that the other animals were suitably furnished,
but that man alone was naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of
defence. The appointed hour was approaching when man in his turn was to go
forth into the light of day; and Prometheus, not knowing how he could
devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of Hephaestus and Athene,
and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired nor used without
fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the
support of life, but political wisdom he had not; for that was in the
keeping of Zeus, and the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering
into the citadel of heaven, where Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible
sentinels; but he did enter by stealth into the common workshop of Athene
and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their favourite arts, and
carried off Hephaestus' art of working by fire, and also the art of Athene,
and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of
life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft,
owing to the blunder of Epimetheus.
Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one
of the animals who had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and
he would raise altars and images of them. He was not long in inventing
articulate speech and names; and he also constructed houses and clothes and
shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the earth. Thus provided, mankind
at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the consequence
was that they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly weak
in comparison of them, and their art was only sufficient to provide them
with the means of life, and did not enable them to carry on war against the
animals: food they had, but not as yet the art of government, of which the
art of war is a part. After a while the desire of self-preservation
gathered them into cities; but when they were gathered together, having no
art of government, they evil intreated one another, and were again in
process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the entire race
would be exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and
justice to be the ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship
and conciliation. Hermes asked Zeus how he should impart justice and
reverence among men:--Should he distribute them as the arts are
distributed; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled individual
having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled ones?
'Shall this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence
among men, or shall I give them to all?' 'To all,' said Zeus; 'I should
like them all to have a share; for cities cannot exist, if a few only share
in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a law by my order, that
he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put to death, for he
is a plague of the state.'
And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general,
when the question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art,
allow but a few to share in their deliberations; and when any one else
interferes, then, as you say, they object, if he be not of the favoured
few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet to deliberate
about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom,
they are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural,
because they think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue,
and that states could not exist if this were otherwise. I have explained
to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon.
And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all
men regard every man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every
other political virtue, let me give you a further proof, which is this. In
other cases, as you are aware, if a man says that he is a good flute-
player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill, people either
laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad
and go and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other
political virtue, even if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man
comes publicly forward and tells the truth about his dishonesty, then, what
in the other case was held by them to be good sense, they now deem to be
madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty whether they are
honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything else.
Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if
he has none at all he ought not to be in the world.
I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a
counsellor about this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man
is a partaker of it. And I will now endeavour to show further that they do
not conceive this virtue to be given by nature, or to grow spontaneously,
but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes to a man by taking
pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with those
whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not
try to punish or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity
them. Who is so foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the
diminutive, or the feeble? And for this reason. Because he knows that
good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of chance; whereas if
a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study and
exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men
are angry with him, and punish and reprove him--of these evil qualities one
is impiety, another injustice, and they may be described generally as the
very opposite of political virtue. In such cases any man will be angry
with another, and reprimand him,--clearly because he thinks that by study
and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be acquired.
If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at
once that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes
the evil-doer under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong,
--only the unreasonable fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who
desires to inflict rational punishment does not retaliate for a past wrong
which cannot be undone; he has regard to the future, and is desirous that
the man who is punished, and he who sees him punished, may be deterred from
doing wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention, thereby clearly
implying that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all
who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians,
too, your own citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all
whom they regard as evil doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the
number of those who think that virtue may be acquired and taught. Thus
far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly enough, if I am not mistaken, that
your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to advise
about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being
taught and acquired.
There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the
sons of good men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the
knowledge which is gained from teachers, and make them wise in that, but do
nothing towards improving them in the virtues which distinguish themselves?
And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue and resume the argument.
Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality of which all
the citizens must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the
answer to this question is contained the only solution of your difficulty;
there is no other. For if there be any such quality, and this quality or
unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the smith, or the potter, but
justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly virtue--if this
is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very
condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is
wanting in this, whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman,
must be taught and punished, until by punishment he becomes better, and he
who rebels against instruction and punishment is either exiled or condemned
to death under the idea that he is incurable--if what I am saying be true,
good men have their sons taught other things and not this, do consider how
extraordinary their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown that
they think virtue capable of being taught and cultivated both in private
and public; and, notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser
matters, ignorance of which does not involve the punishment of death: but
greater things, of which the ignorance may cause death and exile to those
who have no training or knowledge of them--aye, and confiscation as well as
death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of families--those things, I say,
they are supposed not to teach them,--not to take the utmost care that they
should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates!
Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last
to the very end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying
with one another about the improvement of the child as soon as ever he is
able to understand what is being said to him: he cannot say or do anything
without their setting forth to him that this is just and that is unjust;
this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do
this and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is
straightened by threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At
a later stage they send him to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his
manners even more than to his reading and music; and the teachers do as
they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters and is
beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what
was spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he
reads sitting on a bench at school; in these are contained many
admonitions, and many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient famous
men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he may imitate
or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the teachers
of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and
gets into no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre,
they introduce him to the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric
poets; and these they set to music, and make their harmonies and rhythms
quite familiar to the children's souls, in order that they may learn to be
more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fitted for speech
and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and
rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that
their bodies may better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may
not be compelled through bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on
any other occasion. This is what is done by those who have the means, and
those who have the means are the rich; their children begin to go to school
soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters, the state
again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they
furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write,
the writing-master first draws lines with a style for the use of the young
beginner, and gives him the tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the
city draws the laws, which were the invention of good lawgivers living in
the olden time; these are given to the young man, in order to guide him in
his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who transgresses
them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a
term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that
justice calls men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue
private and public, why, Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether
virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder, for the opposite would be far more
surprising.
But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is
nothing very wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence
of a state implies that virtue is not any man's private possession. If so
--and nothing can be truer--then I will further ask you to imagine, as an
illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which may be
assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose
that there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as
each had the capacity, and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art,
both in private and public, and reproving the bad player as freely and
openly as every man now teaches justice and the laws, not concealing them
as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them--for all of us have
a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the
reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;--suppose, I
say, that there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching
one another flute-playing, do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good
flute-players would be more likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I
think not. Would not their sons grow up to be distinguished or
undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as flute-players,
and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and the
son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good
enough in comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the
art of flute-playing? In like manner I would have you consider that he who
appears to you to be the worst of those who have been brought up in laws
and humanities, would appear to be a just man and a master of justice if he
were to be compared with men who had no education, or courts of justice, or
laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise virtue--
with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the
stage at the last year's Lenaean festival. If you were living among men
such as the man-haters in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet
with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit
the rascality of this part of the world. You, Socrates, are discontented,
and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue, each one according to his
ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as well ask, Who
teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or
you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which
they have learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught
them to the best of their ability,--but who will carry them further in
their arts? And you would certainly have a difficulty, Socrates, in
finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in finding a
teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of
anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever
so little, we must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I
believe myself to be, and above all other men to have the knowledge which
makes a man noble and good; and I give my pupils their money's-worth, and
even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I have introduced the
following mode of payment:--When a man has been my pupil, if he likes he
pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has
only to go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions,
and he pays no more than he declares to be their value.
Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I
endeavour to show that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion
of the Athenians. And I have also attempted to show that you are not to
wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at good sons having bad fathers,
of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who are the companions
of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in comparison
with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As
yet I ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for
they are young and there is still hope of them.
Protagoras ended, and in my ear
'So charming left his voice, that I the while
Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear (Borrowed by Milton,
"Paradise Lost".).'
At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not
without difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I
said to him: O son of Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for
having brought me hither; I would not have missed the speech of Protagoras
for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no human care could make men
good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small difficulty
which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already
explained so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our
great speakers about these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a
discourse; but then when one has a question to ask of any of them, like
books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any one challenges the least
particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long harangue, like
brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some one
puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a
good speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he
can answer briefly; and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and
this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, want to ask of you a little
question, which if you will only answer, I shall be quite satisfied. You
were saying that virtue can be taught;--that I will take upon your
authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I
marvel at one thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest.
You were speaking of Zeus sending justice and reverence to men; and several
times while you were speaking, justice, and temperance, and holiness, and
all these qualities, were described by you as if together they made up
virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one whole, of
which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these
are only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which
still lingers in my mind.
There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which
you are speaking are the parts of virtue which is one.
And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and
eyes, and ears, are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of
gold, which differ from the whole and from one another only in being larger
or smaller?
I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are
related to one another as the parts of a face are related to the whole
face.
And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man
has one part, must he also have all the others?
By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not
wise.
You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?
Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the
parts.
And they are all different from one another? I said.
Yes.
And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;--the
eye, for example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and
the other parts are none of them like one another, either in their
functions, or in any other way? I want to know whether the comparison
holds