Protagoras
And what will he make of you?
A physician, he said.
And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias
the Athenian, and were intending to give them money, and some one had
asked you: What are Polycleitus and Pheidias? and why do you give them
this money?--how would you have answered?
I should have answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they make of you?
A statuary, of course.
Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready
to pay him money on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we
can gain him with these, we shall be only too glad; but if not, then we
are to spend the money of your friends as well. Now suppose, that while
we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one were to say to
us: Tell me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and
why are you going to pay him money,--how should we answer? I know that
Pheidias is a sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation
is given to Protagoras? how is he designated?
They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?
Certainly.
But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about
yourself? What will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?
He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning
to dawn, so that I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from
the former instances, I suppose that he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before
the Hellenes in the character of a Sophist?
Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of
Protagoras is of this nature: may you not learn of him in the same way
that you learned the arts of the grammarian, or musician, or trainer,
not with the view of making any of them a profession, but only as a part
of education, and because a private gentleman and freeman ought to know
them?
Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the
teaching of Protagoras.
I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?
And what am I doing?
You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a
Sophist. And yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if
not, then you do not even know to whom you are committing your soul and
whether the thing to which you commit yourself be good or evil.
I certainly think that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?
I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name
implies.
And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the
carpenter also: Do not they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person
were to ask us: In what are the painters wise? We should answer: In what
relates to the making of likenesses, and similarly of other things. And
if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the Sophist, and what
is the manufacture over which he presides?--how should we answer him?
How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but
that he presides over the art which makes men eloquent?
Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the
answer a further question is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a
man talk eloquently? The player on the lyre may be supposed to make a
man talk eloquently about that which he makes him understand, that is
about playing the lyre. Is not that true?
Yes.
Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him
eloquent in that which he understands?
Yes, that may be assumed.
And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?
Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you
are incurring? If you were going to commit your body to some one, who
might do good or harm to it, would you not carefully consider and ask
the opinion of your friends and kindred, and deliberate many days as to
whether you should give him the care of your body? But when the soul is
in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body,
and upon the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your
all,--about this you never consulted either with your father or with
your brother or with any one of us who are your companions. But no
sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly commit your soul
to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the
morning you go to him, never deliberating or taking the opinion of any
one as to whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;--you
have quite made up your mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of
Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all the property of yourself
and of your friends in carrying out at any price this determination,
although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never spoken with
him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what a
Sophist is; and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping.
When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can
be drawn from your words.
I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or
retail in the food of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?
Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take
care, my friend, that the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises
what he sells, like the dealers wholesale or retail who sell the food
of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their goods, without
knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their
customers know, with the exception of any trainer or physician who may
happen to buy of them. In like manner those who carry about the wares of
knowledge, and make the round of the cities, and sell or retail them
to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all alike; though I
should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of
their effect upon the soul; and their customers equally ignorant,
unless he who buys of them happens to be a physician of the soul. If,
therefore, you have understanding of what is good and evil, you may
safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if not, then, O
my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game
of chance. For there is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in
buying meat and drink: the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail
dealer, and carry them away in other vessels, and before you receive
them into the body as food, you may deposit them at home and call in any
experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or drunken, and
what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of purchasing them
is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry
them away in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must
receive them into the soul and go your way, either greatly harmed or
greatly benefited; and therefore we should deliberate and take counsel
with our elders; for we are still young--too young to determine such a
matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras;
and when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of
others; for not only is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there
is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and
several other wise men.
To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the
vestibule of the house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a
discussion which had arisen between us as we were going along; and we
stood talking in the vestibule until we had finished and come to an
understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a eunuch, and
who was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must
have heard us talking. At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he
opened and saw us, he grumbled: They are Sophists--he is not at home;
and instantly gave the door a hearty bang with both his hands. Again we
knocked, and he answered without opening: Did you not hear me say that
he is not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need not be
alarmed; for we are not Sophists, and we are not come to see Callias,
but we want to see Protagoras; and I must request you to announce us. At
last, after a good deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded to open the
door.
When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and
next to him, on one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus,
and Paralus, the son of Pericles, who, by the mother's side, is his
half-brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On the other side of
him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son
of Philomelus; also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples
of Protagoras is the most famous, and intends to make sophistry his
profession. A train of listeners followed him; the greater part of them
appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with him out of
the various cities visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus,
attracting them his voice, and they following (Compare Rep.). I should
mention also that there were some Athenians in the company. Nothing
delighted me more than the precision of their movements: they never
got into his way at all; but when he and those who were with him turned
back, then the band of listeners parted regularly on either side; he was
always in front, and they wheeled round and took their places behind him
in perfect order.
After him, as Homer says (Od.), 'I lifted up my eyes and saw' Hippias
the Elean sitting in the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and
around him were seated on benches Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and
Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son of Androtion, and there
were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native city of
Elis, and some others: they were putting to Hippias certain physical
and astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra, was determining their
several questions to them, and discoursing of them.
Also, 'my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);' for Prodicus the Cean was at
Athens: he had been lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus,
was a storehouse; but, as the house was full, Callias had cleared this
out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now Prodicus was still in
bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there seemed
to be a great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near,
Pausanias of the deme of Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite
young, who is certainly remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not
mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle nature. I thought that I heard
him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the beloved
of Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two
Adeimantuses, one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and
some others. I was very anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for
he seems to me to be an all-wise and inspired man; but I was not able to
get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice made an echo in the
room which rendered his words inaudible.
No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the
beautiful, as you say, and I believe you; and also Critias the son of
Callaeschrus.
On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then
walked up to Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates
and I have come to see you.
Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the
company?
Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard