Protagoras
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.