                                     380 BC

                                   PROTAGORAS

                                    by Plato

                         translated by Benjamin Jowett

PROTAGORAS

  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! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but

aggravate a disorder which I am seeking to cure.

  Such is the fact, he said.

  How so? I asked.

  The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say

that virtue, which in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all

things, can be easily retained.

  Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among

us, at the right moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as

I imagine, is more than human and of very ancient date, and may be

as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are in many

things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a

disciple of his. And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not

understand the word "hard" (chalepon) in the sense which Simonides

intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I use

the word "awful" (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that

Protagoras or any one else is an "awfully" wise man, he asks me if I

am not ashamed of calling that which is good "awful"; and then he

explains to me that the term "awful" is always taken in a bad sense,

and that no one speaks of being "awfully" healthy or wealthy, or

"awful" peace, but of "awful" disease, "awful" war, "awful" poverty,

meaning by the term "awful," evil. And I think that Simonides and

his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of "hard" meant "evil," or

something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he

ought to be able to answer questions about the dialect of Simonides.

What did he mean, Prodicus, by the term "hard?"

  Evil, said Prodicus.

  And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying,

"Hard is the good," just as if that were equivalent to saying, Evil is

the good.

  Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting

Pittacus with ignorance of the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who

has been accustomed to speak a barbarous language, is natural.

  Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is

saying? And have you an answer for him?

  You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know

very well that Simonides in using the word "hard" meant what all of us

mean, not evil, but that which is not easy-that which takes a great

deal of trouble: of this I am positive.

  I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the

meaning of Simonides, of which our friend Prodicus was very well

aware, but he thought that he would make fun, and try if you could

maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the

other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only

has this gift. Now he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is

evil, when he afterwards proceeds to say that God only has this

gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if

this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of

recklessness which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to

tell you, I said, what I imagine to be the real meaning of Simonides

in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of speaking, would be

called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the

listener.

  To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;-and Hippias,

Prodicus, and the others told me by all means to do as I proposed.

  Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion

about this poem of Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which

is more cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon than in any other part of

Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those countries than

anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the

Lacedaemonians deny; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because

they do not wish to have it thought that they rule the world by

wisdom, like the Sophists of whom Protagoras was speaking, and not

by valour of arms; considering that if the reason of their superiority

were disclosed, all men would be practising their wisdom. And this

secret of theirs has never been discovered by the imitators of

Lacedaemonian fashions in other cities, who go about with their ears

bruised in imitation of them, and have the caestus bound on their

arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks; for they

imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the

Lacedaemonians to conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the

Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold free conversation with their

wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret intercourse,

they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who

may happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical

seance unknown to strangers; and they themselves forbid their young

men to go out into other cities-in this they are like the Cretans-in

order that they may not unlearn the lessons which they have taught

them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women have a

pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am

right in attributing to the Lacedaemonians this excellence in

philosophy and speculation: If a man converses with the most

ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for much in

general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be

darting out some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with

unerring aim; and the person with whom he is talking seems to be

like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and of former

ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has

the love of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they

are conscious that only a perfectly educated man is capable of

uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus

of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus

the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of

wise men was the Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and

emulators and disciples of the culture of the Lacedaemonians, and

any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this character;

consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally uttered.

And they met together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi,

as the first-fruits of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which

are in all men's mouths-"Know thyself," and "Nothing too much."

  Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian

brevity was the style of primitive philosophy. Now there was a

saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated and received the

approbation of the wise, "Hard is it to be good." And Simonides, who

was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could

overthrow this saying, then, as if he had won a victory over some

famous athlete, he would carry off the palm among his

contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire

poem with the secret intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying.

  Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am

speaking the truth. Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the

very first words of the poem, wanting to say only that to become

good is hard, he inserted (men) "on the one hand" ["on the one hand to

become good is hard"]; there would be no reason for the introduction

of (men), unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference

to the words of Pittacus. Pittacus is saying "Hard is it to be

good," and he, in refutation of this thesis, rejoins that the truly

hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good, not joining "truly" with

"good," but with "hard." Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good,

as though there were some truly good men, and there were others who

were good but not truly good (this would be a very simple observation,

and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must suppose him to make a

trajection of the word "truly," construing the saying of Pittacus thus

(and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering

him): "O my friends," says Pittacus, "hard is it to be good," and

Simonides answers, "In that, Pittacus, you are mistaken; the

difficulty is not to be good, but on the one hand, to become good,

four-square in hands and feet and mind, without a flaw-that is hard

truly." This way of reading the passage accounts for the insertion

of (men) "on the one hand," and for the position at the end of the

clause of the word "truly," and all that follows shows this to be

the meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details of

the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished,

but such minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point

out the general intention of the poem, which is certainly designed

in every part to be a refutation of the saying of Pittacus. For he

speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to argue

that although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is

possible for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to

remain in a good state and be good, as you, Pittacus, affirm, is not

possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this blessing;

"but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances

overpowers him." Now whom does the force of circumstance overpower

in the command of a vessel?-not the private individual, for he is

always overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate cannot be

overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he who is

prostrate can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can

only overpower him who, at some time or other, has resources, and

not him who is at all times helpless. The descent of a great storm may

make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season the

husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another

poet witnesses:



   The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.



But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the

force of circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and

virtue, then he cannot help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are

saying, "Hard is it to be good." Now there is a difficulty in becoming

good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility-



  For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the

bad.



But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing

makes a man good in letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what

sort of well-doing makes a man a good physician? Clearly the knowledge

of the art of healing the sick. "But he who does ill is the bad."

Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first

place a physician, and in the second place a good physician; for he

may become a bad one also: but none of us unskilled individuals can by

any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more than we can become

carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot

become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In

like manner the good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or

disease, or other accident (the only real doing ill is to be

deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad, for

he is always bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously

have been good. Thus the words of the poem tend to show that on the

one hand a man cannot be continuously good, but that he may become

good and may also become bad; and again that



  They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.



  All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel.

For he adds:



  Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in

searching after the impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly

faultless man among those who partake of the fruit of the

broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.



(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus

throughout the whole poem):



  But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;-not even

the gods war against necessity.



All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as

to say that he praised those who did no evil voluntarily, as though

there were some who did evil voluntarily. For no wise man, as I

believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or

voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very

well aware that all who do evil and dishonourable things do them

against their will. And Simonides never says that he praises him who

does no evil voluntarily; the word "voluntarily" applies to himself.

For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel

himself to love and praise another, and to be the friend and

approver of another; and that there might be an involuntary love, such

as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother, or country, or

the like. Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects,

look on them with malignant joy, and find fault with them and expose

and denounce them to others, under the idea that the rest of mankind

will be less likely to take themselves to task and accuse them of

neglect; and they blame their defects far more than they deserve, in

order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be

increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains

himself to praise them; and if they have wronged him and he is

angry, he pacifies his anger and is reconciled, and compels himself to

love and praise his own flesh and blood. And Simonides, as is

probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and

magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also

wishes to imply to Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is

censorious.



  For I am satisfied [he says] when a man is neither bad nor very

stupid; and when he knows justice (which is the health of states), and

is of sound mind, I will find no fault with him, for I am not given to

finding fault, and there are innumerable fools



(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant

opportunity of finding fault).



  All things are good with which evil is unmingled.



In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good

which have no evil in them, as you might say "All things are white

which have no black in them," for that would be ridiculous; but he

means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the moderate or

intermediate state. He says:



  I do not hope to find a perfectly blameless man among those who

partake of the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I

will send you word); in this sense I praise no man. But he who is

moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for me, who love and

approve every one.



(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi [approve],

because he is addressing Pittacus,



  Who love and approve every one voluntarily, who does no evil:



and that the stop should be put after "voluntarily"); "but there are

some whom I involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I

would never have blamed, if you had spoken what was moderately good

and true; but I do blame you because, putting on the appearance of

truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters. And this, I

said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides

in this poem.

  Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good

explanation of the poem; but I have also an excellent interpretation

of my own which I will propound to you, if you will allow me.

  Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At

present we must abide by the compact which was made between Socrates

and Protagoras, to the effect that as long as Protagoras is willing to

ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would rather answer, then

that Socrates should ask.

  I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined;

but I would rather have done with poems and odes, if he does not

object, and come back to the question about which I was asking you

at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The talk

about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to

which a vulgar company have recourse; who, because they are not able

to converse or amuse one another, while they are drinking, with the

sound of their own voices and conversation, by reason of their

stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for

a great sum the voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be

the medium of intercourse among them: but where the company are real

gentlemen and men of education, you will see no flute-girls, nor

dancing-girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or games, but

are contented with one another's conversation, of which their own

voices are the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in an

orderly manner, even though they are very liberal in their

potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as we profess

to be, do not require the help of another's voice, or of the poets

whom you cannot interrogate about meaning of what they are saying;

people who cite them declaring, some that the poet has meaning, and

others that he has another, and the point which is in dispute can

never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline, and

prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in

conversation. And these are the models which I desire that you and I

should imitate. Leaving the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us

try the mettle of one another and make proof of the truth in

conversation. If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if

you would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity of

resuming and completing our unfinished argument.

  I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not

distinctly say which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to

Callias, and said:-Do you think, Callias, that Protagoras is fair in

refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I certainly

think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument,

or distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and

then Socrates will be able to discourse with some one else, and the

rest of the company will be free to talk with one another.

  I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of

Alcibiades and when the prayers of Callias and the company were

superadded, he was at last induced to argue, and said that I might ask

and he would answer.

  So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other

interest in asking questions of you but that of clearing up my own

difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right in saying that



      When two go together, one sees before the other,



for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or

thought; but if a man



          Sees a thing when he is alone,



he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he

may show his discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would

rather hold discourse with you than with any one, because I think that

no man has a better understanding of most things which a good man

may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For who is

there, but you?-who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman,

for many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good

whereas you are not only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness

in others. Moreover such confidence have you in yourself, that

although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in

the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and

education, and are the first who demanded pay in return. How then

can I do otherwise than invite you to the examination of these

subjects, and ask questions and consult with you? I must, indeed.

And I should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you about

the questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have your

help in considering them. If I am not mistaken the question was

this: Are wisdom and temperance and courage and justice and holiness

five names of the same thing? or has each of the names a separate

underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar function,

no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that

the five names were not the names of the same thing, but that each

of them had a separate object, and that all these objects were parts

of virtue, not in the same way that the parts of gold are like each

other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the

face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and

have each of them a distinct function. I should like to know whether

this is still your opinion; or if not, I will ask you to define your

meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a

different statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you

did only in order to make trial of me.

  I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of

virtue, and that four out of the five are to some extent similar,

and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very different from

the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many

men are utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are

nevertheless remarkable for their courage.

  Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of

brave men, do you mean the confident, or another sort of nature?

  Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others

are afraid to approach.

  In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of

which good thing you assert yourself to be a teacher.

  Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my

right mind.

  And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?

  Wholly good, and in the highest degree.

  Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a

well?

  I should say, the divers.

  And the reason of this is that they have knowledge?

  Yes, that is the reason.

  And who have confidence when fighting on horseback-the skilled

horseman or the unskilled?

  The skilled.

  And who when fighting with light shields-the peltasts or the

nonpeltasts?

  The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that

is your point: those who have knowledge are more confident than

those who have no knowledge, and they are more confident after they

have learned than before.

  And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these

things, and yet confident about them?

  Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident.

  And are not these confident persons also courageous?

  In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men

of whom we are speaking are surely madmen.

  Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident?

  Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere.

  And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are

really not courageous, but mad; and in that case the wisest are also

the most confident, and being the most confident are also the bravest,

and upon that view again wisdom will be courage.

  Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of

what was said by me. When you asked me, I certainly did say that the

courageous are the confident; but I was never asked whether the

confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I should have

answered "Not all of them": and what I did answer you have not

proved to be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have

knowledge are more courageous than they were before they had

knowledge, and more courageous than others who have no knowledge,

and were then led on to think that courage is the same as wisdom.

But in this way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength

is wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong are able,

and I should say "Yes"; and then whether those who know how to wrestle

are not more able to wrestle than those who do not know how to

wrestle, and more able after than before they had learned, and I

should assent. And when I had admitted this, you might use my

admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is

strength; whereas in that case I should not have admitted, any more

than in the other, that the able are strong, although I have

admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference between

ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by

madness or rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of

the body. And in like manner I say of confidence and courage, that

they are not the same; and I argue that the courageous are

confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may be

given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness and rage;

but courage comes to them from nature and the healthy state of the

soul.

  I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and

others ill?

  He assented.

  And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief?

  He does not.

  But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in

that case have lived well?

  He will.

  Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil?

  Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable.

  And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some

pleasant things evil and some painful things good?-for I am rather

disposed to say that things are good in as far as they are pleasant,

if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far as they

are painful they are bad.

  I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in

that unqualified manner that the pleasant is the good and the

painful the evil. Having regard not only to my present answer, but

also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not

mistaken, in saying that there are some pleasant things which are

not good, and that there are some painful things which are good, and

some which are not good, and that there are some which are neither

good nor evil.

  And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in

pleasure or create pleasure?

  Certainly, he said.

  Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are

good; and my question would imply that pleasure is a good in itself.

  According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, "Let us

reflect about this," he said; and if the reflection is to the point,

and the result proves that pleasure and good are really the same, then

we will agree; but if not, then we will argue.

  And would you wish to begin the enquiry?

  I said; or shall I begin?

  You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the

discussion.

  May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is

enquiring into the health or some other bodily quality of

another:-he looks at his face and at the tips of his fingers, and then

he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better

view:-that is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation.

Having seen what your opinion is about good and pleasure, I am

minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to me, Protagoras, and

reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you agree

with the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion

that knowledge is a principle not of strength, or of rule, or of

command: their notion is that a man may have knowledge, and yet that

the knowledge which is in him may be overmastered by anger, or

pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,-just as if knowledge

were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your

view? or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding

thing, which cannot be overcome, and will not allow a man, if he

only knows the difference of good and evil, to do anything which is

contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help him?

  I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I,

above all other men, am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the

highest of human things.

  Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the

world are of another mind; and that men are commonly supposed to

know the things which are best, and not to do them when they might?

And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this have said that

when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or

pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just now mentioning.

  Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about

which mankind are in error.

  Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform

them what is the nature of this affection which they call "being

overcome by pleasure," and which they affirm to be the reason why they

do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends, you are

mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably

reply: Socrates and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not

to be called "being overcome by pleasure," pray, what is it, and by

what name would you describe it?

  But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion

of the many, who just say anything that happens to occur to them?

  I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover

how courage is related to the other parts of virtue. If you are

disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should show the way in

which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be

cleared up, do you follow; but if not, never mind.

  You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you

have begun.

  Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question,

What account do you give of that which, in our way of speaking, is

termed being overcome by pleasure? I should answer thus: Listen, and

Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men are overcome

by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant,

and they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would

you not say that they were overcome by pleasure? They will not deny

this. And suppose that you and I were to go on and ask them again: "In

what way do you say that they are evil-in that they are pleasant and

give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and poverty

and other like evils in the future? Would they still be evil, if

they had no attendant evil consequences, simply because they give

the consciousness of pleasure of whatever nature?"-Would they not

answer that they are not evil on account of the pleasure which is

immediately given by them, but on account of the after

consequences-diseases and the like?

  I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer

as you do.

  And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing

poverty do they not cause pain;-they would agree to that also, if I am

not mistaken?

  Protagoras assented.

  Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them

evil for any other reason, except because they end in pain and rob

us of other pleasures:-there again they would agree?

  We both of us thought that they would.

  And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view,

and say: "Friends, when you speak of goods being painful, do you not

mean remedial goods, such as gymnastic exercises, and military

service, and the physician's use of burning, cutting, drugging, and

starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?"-they would

assent to me?

  He agreed.

  "And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest

immediate suffering and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring

health and improvement of the bodily condition and the salvation of

states and power over others and wealth?"-they would agree to the

latter alternative, if I am not mistaken?

  He assented.

  "Are these things good for any other reason except that they end

in pleasure, and get rid of and avert pain? Are you looking to any

other standard but pleasure and pain when you call them good?"-they

would acknowledge that they were not?

  I think so, said Protagoras.

  "And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as

an evil?"

  He assented.

  "Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and

even pleasure you deem an evil, when it robs you of greater

pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than the pleasure.

If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end

or standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have

none to show."

  I do not think that they have, said Protagoras.

  "And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call

pain a good when it takes away greater pains than those which it

has, or gives pleasures greater than the pains: then if you have

some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer when you

call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you cannot."

  True, said Protagoras.

  Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: "Why do you

spend many words and speak in many ways on this subject?" Excuse me,

friends, I should reply; but in the first place there is a

difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression "overcome by

pleasure"; and the whole argument turns upon this. And even now, if

you see any possible way in which evil can be explained as other

than pain, or good as other than pleasure, you may still retract.

Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of pleasure which is without

pain? If you are, and if you are unable to show any good or evil which

does not end in pleasure and pain, hear the consequences:-If what

you say is true, then the argument is absurd which affirms that a

man often does evil knowingly, when he might abstain, because he is

seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again, when you say that a man

knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome at the

moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will be evident if

only we give up the use of various names, such as pleasant and

painful, and good and evil. As there are two things, let us call

them by two names-first, good and evil, and then pleasant and painful.

Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that

he does evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is

the first answer. And by what is he overcome? the enquirer will

proceed to ask. And we shall not be able to reply "By pleasure," for

the name of pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our

answer, then, we shall only say that he is overcome. "By what?" he

will reiterate. By the good, we shall have to reply; indeed we

shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a laugh, if he be

one of the swaggering sort, "That is too ridiculous, that a man should

do what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is

overcome by good. Is that, he will ask, because the good was worthy or

not worthy of conquering the evil?" And in answer to that we shall

clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had been worthy,

then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not have

been wrong. "But how," he will reply, "can the good be unworthy of the

evil, or the evil of the good?" Is not the real explanation that

they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater and

smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of

being overcome-"what do you mean," he will say, "but that you choose

the greater evil in exchange for the lesser good?" Admitted. And now

substitute the names of pleasure and pain for good and evil, and

say, not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly, but that

he does what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by

pleasure, which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of

the relations of pleasure to pain other than excess and defect,

which means that they become greater and smaller, and more and

fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one says: "Yes, Socrates,

but immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and

pain"-To that I should reply: And do they differ in anything but in

pleasure and pain? There can be no other measure of them. And do

you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance the pleasures and

the pains, and their nearness and distance, and weigh them, and then

say which outweighs the other. If you weigh pleasures against

pleasures, you of course take the more and greater; or if you weigh

pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less; or if

pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in

which the painful is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant

by the near or the near by the distant; and you avoid that course of

action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful. Would you not

admit, my friends, that this is true? I am confident that they

cannot deny this.

  He agreed with me.

  Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer

me a question: Do not the same magnitudes appear larger to your

sight when near, and smaller when at a distance? They will acknowledge

that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also sounds, which

are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a

distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to

consist in doing or choosing the greater, and in not doing or in

avoiding the less, what would be the saving principle of human life?

Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle; or would the

power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving art which

makes us wander up and down and take the things at one time of which

we repent at another, both in our actions and in our choice of

things great and small? But the art of measurement would do away

with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth, would fain

teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and would thus

save our life. Would not mankind generally acknowledge that the art

which accomplishes this result is the art of measurement?

  Yes, he said, the art of measurement.

  Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the

choice of odd and even, and on the knowledge of when a man ought to

choose the greater or less, either in reference to themselves or to

each other, and whether near or at a distance; what would be the

saving principle of our lives? Would not knowledge?-a knowledge of

measuring, when the question is one of excess and defect, and a

knowledge of number, when the question is of odd and even? The world

will assent, will they not?

  Protagoras himself thought that they would.

  Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of

human life has been found to consist in the right choice of

pleasures and pains,-in the choice of the more and the fewer, and

the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this

measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality

in relation to each other?

  This is undeniably true.

  And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art

and science?

  They will agree, he said.

  The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future

consideration; but the existence of such a science furnishes a

demonstrative answer to the question which you asked of me and

Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you

remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier

than knowledge, and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have

the advantage over pleasure and all other things; and then you said

that pleasure often got the advantage even over a man who has

knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O

Protagoras and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by

pleasure if not this?-tell us what you call such a state:-if we had

immediately and at the time answered "Ignorance," you would have

laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be laughing at

yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of

pleasures and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from

defect of knowledge; and you admitted further, that they err, not only

from defect of knowledge in general, but of that particular

knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the

erring act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This,

therefore, is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure;-ignorance,

and that the greatest. And our friends Protagoras and Prodicus and

Hippias declare that they are the physicians of ignorance; but you,

who are under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the cause,

and that the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go

yourselves, nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the

teachers of these things-you take care of your money and give them

none; and the result is, that you are the worse off both in public and

private life:-Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in

general: And now I should like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus,

as well as Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as well as

ours), whether you think that I am speaking the truth or not?

  They all thought that what I said was entirely true.

  Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the

painful evil. And here I would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce

his distinction of names, whether he is disposed to say pleasurable,

delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to call them,

I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of

the words.

  Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.

  Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions

honourable and useful, of which the tendency is to make life

painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also useful and good?

  This was admitted.

  Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything

under the idea or conviction that some other thing would be better and

is also attainable, when he might do the better. And this

inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the

superiority of a man to himself is wisdom.

  They all assented.

  And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived

about important matters?

  To this also they unanimously assented.

  Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he

thinks to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human nature;

and when a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will

choose the greater when he may have the less.

  All of us agreed to every word of this.

  Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and

here, Prodicus, I should particularly like to know whether you would

agree with me in defining this fear or terror as expectation of evil.

  Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was

fear and not terror.

  Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our

former assertions are true, a man will pursue that which he fears when

he is not compelled? Would not this be in flat contradiction to the

admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things which

he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that

which he thinks to be evil?

  That also was universally admitted.

  Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and

I would beg Protagoras to explain to us how he can be right in what he

said at first. I do not mean in what he said quite at first, for his

first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there were five

parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of

them had a separate function. To this, however, I am not referring,

but to the assertion which he afterwards made that of the five virtues

four were nearly akin to each other, but that the fifth, which was

courage, differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me

the following proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of

the most impious, and unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of

men are among the most courageous; which proves that courage is very

different from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised at his

saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that I have

discussed the matter with you. So I asked him whether by the brave

he meant the confident. Yes, he replied, and the impetuous or goers.

(You may remember, Protagoras, that this was your answer.)

  He assented.

  Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready

to go-against the same dangers as the cowards?

  No, he answered.

  Then against something different?

  Yes, he said.

  Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where

there is danger?

  Yes, Socrates, so men say.

  Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that

the courageous are ready to go-against dangers, believing them to be

dangers, or not against dangers?

  No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the

previous argument to be impossible.

  That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been

rightly proven, then no one goes to meet what he thinks to be dangers,

since the want of self-control, which makes men rush into dangers, has

been shown to be ignorance.

  He assented.

  And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that

about which they are confident; so that, in this point of view, the

cowardly and the courageous go to meet the same things.

  And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is

the opposite of that to which the courageous goes; the one, for

example, is ready to go to battle, and the other is not ready.

  And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.

  Honourable, he replied.

  And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all

honourable actions we have admitted to be good.

  That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.

  True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are

unwilling to go to war, which is a good and honourable thing?

  The cowards, he replied.

  And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?

  It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.

  And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and

pleasanter, and better?

  The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former

admissions.

  But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and

pleasanter, and nobler?

  That must be admitted.

  And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?

  True, he replied.

  And if not base, then honourable?

  He admitted this.

  And if honourable, then good?

  Yes.

  But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on

the contrary, are base?

  He assented.

  And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and

uninstructedness?

  True, he said.

  Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it

cowardice or courage?

  I should say cowardice, he replied.

  And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance

of dangers?

  Assuredly, he said.

  And because of that ignorance they are cowards?

  He assented.

  And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be

cowardice?

  He again assented.

  Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice?

  He nodded assent.

  But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice?

  Yes.

  Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is

opposed to the ignorance of them?

  To that again he nodded assent.

  And the ignorance of them is cowardice?

  To that he very reluctantly nodded assent.

  And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is

courage, and is opposed to the ignorance of these things?

  At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.

  And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras?

  Finish the argument by yourself, he said.

  I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether

you still think that there are men who are most ignorant and yet

most courageous?

  You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and

therefore I will gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be

impossible consistently with the argument.

  My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the

desire to ascertain the nature and relations of virtue; for if this

were clear, I am very sure that the other controversy which has been

carried on at great length by both of us-you affirming and I denying

that virtue can be taught-would also become clear. The result of our

discussion appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a

human voice, that voice would be heard laughing at us and saying:

"Protagoras and Socrates, you are strange beings; there are you,

Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot be taught,

contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that all things

are knowledge, including justice, and temperance, and courage,-which

tends to show that virtue can certainly be taught; for if virtue

were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to prove, then

clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is entirely

knowledge, as you are seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose

that virtue is capable of being taught. Protagoras, on the other hand,

who started by saying that it might be taught, is now eager to prove

it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this is true, it

must be quite incapable of being taught." Now I, Protagoras,

perceiving this terrible confusion of our ideas, have a great desire

that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry on the

discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether capable of being

taught or not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us up and deceive

us in the argument, as he forgot us in the story; I prefer your

Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make use, whenever I am

busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my own life. And

if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should like to have

your help in the enquiry.

  Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am

the last man in the world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your

energy and your conduct of an argument. As I have often said, I admire

you above all men whom I know, and far above all men of your age;

and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy. Let

us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we had

better turn to something else.

  By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long

since to have kept the engagement of which I spoke before, and only

tarried because I could not refuse the request of the noble Callias.

So the conversation ended, and we went our way.





                             -THE END-

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