Protagoras

Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

COMPANION: Where have you come from, Socrates? Or is it obvious — from hunting after Alcibiades and his youthful bloom? And yet, when I saw him the other day, he still looked handsome, but a man now, Socrates — just between us — and his beard is already coming in thick. SOCRATES: And so what? Aren't you the one who praises Homer, who said the most charming time of youth is when the beard first appears — which is exactly the stage Alcibiades is at now? COMPANION: Well, what about it now? Are you coming from him? And how does the young man feel about you these days? SOCRATES: Well — very well, I thought, and especially so today. In fact he said a great deal on my behalf, coming to my defense, and it's from him that I've just come. But there's something odd I want to tell you: with him right there, I paid him no attention, and kept forgetting he was even present. COMPANION: What could possibly have happened between the two of you to cause that? Surely you haven't met anyone more beautiful, at least not in this city. SOCRATES: Much more beautiful. COMPANION: What are you saying? A citizen or a foreigner? SOCRATES: A foreigner. COMPANION: From where? SOCRATES: Abdera. COMPANION: And this foreigner seemed so beautiful to you that he appeared more beautiful than the son of Cleinias? SOCRATES: And why shouldn't the wisest appear more beautiful, my good man? COMPANION: But Socrates, have you really been in the company of some wise man? SOCRATES: The wisest, I'd say, of anyone alive today — if you consider Protagoras the wisest. COMPANION: What are you saying? Protagoras is in town? SOCRATES: This is already his third day here. COMPANION: And you've just now come from being with him?

SOCRATES: Yes indeed, and I said a great deal and heard a great deal in return. COMPANION: Then why not tell us about the conversation, if nothing prevents you — sit down here, and send this boy off his stool. SOCRATES: Of course — and I'll be grateful if you listen. COMPANION: And we'll be grateful to you, if you tell it. SOCRATES: Then the gratitude will be double. But listen. Last night, still deep in the dark before dawn, Hippocrates — son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason — came pounding on my door with his walking stick, very hard, and when someone opened it for him he rushed straight in, urgent, and said in a loud voice: Socrates, are you awake or asleep? And I, recognizing his voice, said: Hippocrates, is that you? You're not bringing bad news, are you? Nothing but good, he said. Good to hear, I said. But what is it, and why have you come at this hour? Protagoras has arrived, he said, standing right beside me. He came the day before yesterday, I said — are you only just now finding out? By the gods, he said, only this evening. And at the same time he felt around for the couch and sat down by my feet, and said: Yes, this evening — very late, in fact, on my way back from Oenoe. My slave Satyrus ran off from me, you see, and I was going to tell you I meant to go after him, but something else made me forget about it. Then when I got home and we'd had dinner and were about to go to bed, my brother told me Protagoras had arrived. I thought about coming straight to you right then, but then it seemed to me too far into the night; but as soon as sleep let go of me after all that exhaustion, I got up at once and came straight here. And I, recognizing his courage and his agitation, said: What's this to you, then? Is Protagoras doing you some wrong? And he laughed and said: Yes, by the gods, Socrates — that he alone is wise, and doesn't make me so. But by Zeus, I said, if you give him money and win him over, he'll make you wise too. If only, he said — oh Zeus and the gods — if only that were all it took! I wouldn't spare a thing of my own or my friends'. But that's exactly why I've come to you now — so you can speak to him on my behalf. I'm younger than you, for one thing, and besides, I've never once seen Protagoras or heard him speak; I was still a child the last time he visited.

SOCRATES: Well, Socrates, everyone praises the man and says he's the most skilled speaker there is. But why aren't we walking over to him, so we can catch him at home? He's staying, I hear, with Callias son of Hipponicus. Let's go. And I said: Not yet, my friend — let's not go there yet, it's early — but let's get up and go out into the courtyard here, and pass the time walking around until it gets light; then we'll go. Protagoras spends most of his time indoors anyway, so don't worry, we're sure to catch him in. After that we got up and walked around in the courtyard, and I, testing Hippocrates' resolve, examined him and asked: Tell me, Hippocrates, now that you're setting out to go to Protagoras and pay him money as a fee on your own behalf — who exactly is it you're going to, and what are you going to become? It's as if you were planning to go to your namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, of the family of Asclepius, and pay him a fee on your behalf, and someone asked you: tell me, Hippocrates, you're about to pay Hippocrates a fee as being what sort of man? What would you answer? — I'd say, he said, as a doctor. — And what would you yourself become? — A doctor, he said. — And if you were planning to go to Polyclitus of Argos or Phidias of Athens and pay them a fee on your own behalf, and someone asked you: you intend to pay this money to Polyclitus and Phidias as being what sort of men? What would you answer? — I'd say, as sculptors. — And what would you yourself become? — Clearly, a sculptor. — Very well, I said; now, when you and I go to Protagoras, ready to pay him money as a fee on your behalf — if our own money is enough to persuade him, and if not, spending our friends' money too — if someone asked us, so intent on this business: tell me, Socrates and Hippocrates, as being what sort of man do you intend to pay Protagoras money? What would we answer him? What name do we hear applied to Protagoras, the way we hear 'sculptor' applied to Phidias and 'poet' to Homer — what such name do we hear for Protagoras? — They call the man a sophist, Socrates, he said. — So it's as a sophist that we're going to pay him the money? — Certainly.

SOCRATES: And if someone were to ask you this too — as what do you yourself intend to become by going to Protagoras? — And he answered, blushing (for it was already growing light enough to see him clearly): If it's anything like the previous cases, clearly a sophist. — And you, I said, by the gods, wouldn't you be ashamed to present yourself to the Greeks as a sophist? — By Zeus, Socrates, I would, if I have to say what I really think. — But then, Hippocrates, is it perhaps not that kind of instruction you expect to get from Protagoras, but rather the kind you got from your writing-teacher, your music-teacher, and your gymnastics-trainer? For you didn't learn any of those as a craft, meaning to become a professional at it, but for education, as befits a private citizen and a free man. — Yes, he said, that seems to me much more like what instruction from Protagoras would be. — Do you know, then, what you're about to do, or does it escape you? I said. — About what? — That you're about to hand over your soul to be cared for by a man who is, as you say, a sophist; but as for what a sophist actually is, I'd be surprised if you know. And yet if you're ignorant of that, you don't even know to whom you're entrusting your soul, or whether it's to something good or something bad. — I think I do know, he said. — Tell me, then, what do you take a sophist to be? — I think, he said, as the name itself says, one who has knowledge of wise things. — Well, I said, one could say the same of painters and carpenters, that they're knowledgeable in wise things. But if someone asked us, wise in what, are painters knowledgeable? we'd say, in producing likenesses, and so on for the rest. But if someone asked that other question — the sophist is wise in what? — what would we answer him? What sort of work is he in charge of? — What would we say he is, Socrates, except one in charge of making a person skilled at speaking? — Perhaps, I said, that would be true, but not adequate enough; for our answer still calls for a further question — about what does the sophist make one skilled at speaking? A lyre-player, for instance, makes one skilled at speaking about the very thing he himself has knowledge of, namely lyre-playing, doesn't he? — Yes. — Very well; and about what does the sophist make one skilled at speaking? — Clearly about whatever he himself has knowledge of. — Likely enough. So what is this thing, about which the sophist himself is knowledgeable and makes his student so as well? — By Zeus, he said, I can no longer tell you.

SOCRATES: And I said after this: Well then — do you realize into what sort of danger you're about to put your soul? If you had to entrust your body to someone, at risk of it becoming either good or ruined, you'd think hard about whether to entrust it or not, and you'd call in your friends and family for advice, deliberating for days on end. But when it comes to something you value more than your body — your soul, on whose being good or bad your whole life's faring well or badly depends — about this you've consulted neither your father nor your brother nor any one of us your companions, as to whether you should entrust your soul to this foreigner who's just arrived; instead, having heard about him yesterday evening, as you say, you come here at dawn, and about this matter you make no argument and take no counsel at all as to whether you ought to entrust yourself to him or not — you're ready to spend your own money and your friends' money, as though you'd already decided you absolutely must study with Protagoras, whom, as you say, you neither know nor have ever conversed with, yet you call a sophist, while you appear ignorant of what a sophist even is — this man to whom you're about to entrust yourself! And when he heard this he said: It does seem so, Socrates, from what you say. — Well then, Hippocrates, is the sophist perhaps a kind of merchant or trader in the goods by which the soul is nourished? For that's how he strikes me, at any rate. — But Socrates, what is the soul nourished by? — By lessons, surely, I said. And take care, my friend, that the sophist, in praising what he sells, doesn't deceive us — the way those dealing in the body's nourishment do, the merchant and the trader. For these people, too, don't themselves know which of the goods they carry is good or bad for the body, but praise everything they sell all the same, and neither do those who buy from them know, unless one happens to be a trainer or a doctor. In the same way, those who carry their lessons around from city to city, selling and peddling them to whoever desires them at the time, praise everything they sell, but it may be, my excellent friend, that some of them too are ignorant of whether what they're selling is good or bad for the soul — and likewise those who buy from them, unless one happens, in turn, to be a doctor of the soul. So if you yourself happen to have knowledge of what is good and bad in these matters, it's safe for you to buy lessons from Protagoras or from anyone else at all; but if not, take care, my dear fellow, that you're not gambling with what is dearest to you, and taking the greatest of risks.

SOCRATES: And in fact there is far greater danger in buying up teachings than in buying food. When you buy food and drink from the grocer or merchant, you can carry it away in separate containers, and before you take it into your body by eating or drinking it, you can set it down at home and call in someone knowledgeable to advise you what to eat or drink and what not to, and how much and when. So there isn't much risk in that purchase. But teachings can't be carried off in a separate container — you have no choice but to hand over the price, take the teaching directly into your soul by learning it, and go your way either harmed or helped. So this is something we should look into, and with the help of our elders too, since we're still young enough that a matter this large is beyond us to sort out on our own. Still, for now, since we already set out to do it, let's go and hear the man, and once we've heard him, let's share it with others too — Protagoras isn't the only one there; there's also Hippias of Elis, and I believe Prodicus of Ceos, and many other clever men besides. Having decided this, we went on our way. When we reached the front door, we stopped to finish a discussion we'd fallen into on the road, so as not to leave it hanging; we stood there in the doorway talking until we'd reached agreement. Now it seems that the doorkeeper, some eunuch, was listening in on us, and I suppose, given how many sophists come through, he's grown tired of the people who show up at the house. In any case, when we knocked, he opened up, saw us, and said, 'Ugh, sophists,' and added that the master had no time for visitors — and with that he slammed the door shut with both hands, as forcefully as he could manage. We knocked again, and with the door still bolted he answered, 'Didn't you people hear me? He has no time.' 'But my good man,' I said, 'we haven't come to see Callias, and we aren't sophists. Don't worry — we came wanting to see Protagoras. So go announce us.' Only then, reluctantly, did the fellow finally open the door for us.

SOCRATES: Once we'd gone in, we found Protagoras walking about in the covered porch, and walking alongside him in a row, on one side, were Callias son of Hipponicus and his half-brother on his mother's side, Paralus son of Pericles, and Charmides son of Glaucon; and on the other side, Pericles' other son, Xanthippus, and Philippides son of Philomelus, and Antimoerus of Mende, the most highly regarded of Protagoras's students, who is studying to become a professional sophist himself. Following behind, listening to what was said, were mostly foreigners, whom Protagoras draws along from each of the cities he passes through, charming them with his voice like Orpheus, and they follow, spellbound by that voice — though there were also a few locals mixed into the chorus. I especially enjoyed watching that chorus, how carefully they took care never to get in Protagoras's way; whenever he turned around, along with those with him, these listeners would neatly and orderly split apart to either side, circle around, and reassemble behind him in perfect formation every time. 'And next I noticed,' as Homer would say, Hippias of Elis, seated on a chair in the porch across the way. Around him, on benches, sat Eryximachus son of Acumenus, Phaedrus of Myrrhinus, Andron son of Androtion, and some of the foreigners — fellow citizens of his and others. They seemed to be questioning Hippias about nature and the heavens, matters of astronomy, and he, seated on his chair, was sorting out each question and going through the answers point by point. And indeed I also caught sight of Tantalus — for Prodicus of Ceos happened to be visiting too. He was in a certain room which Hipponicus used to use as a storeroom, but which Callias has now emptied out and turned into guest lodging, given how many visitors are staying there. Prodicus was still lying in bed, wrapped up in some fleeces and a great many blankets, by the look of it. Sitting near him on the neighboring couches were Pausanias of Cerameis, and with Pausanias a young fellow still quite a boy — fine in nature, I'd guess, and certainly very handsome in appearance. I thought I heard his name was Agathon, and I wouldn't be surprised if he turns out to be Pausanias's beloved.

SOCRATES: That boy was there, and both of the Adeimantuses — the one son of Cepis and the one son of Leucolophides — and some others as well. As for what they were discussing, I couldn't make it out from outside, much as I longed to hear Prodicus — the man strikes me as immensely wise, practically divine — but the deep resonance of his voice set up a kind of booming in the room that blurred the words. We had only just come in when, right behind us, in walked Alcibiades — the handsome one, as you call him and I'm inclined to agree — and Critias son of Callaeschrus. So once we were inside, we lingered a bit taking all this in, and then went up to Protagoras, and I said, 'Protagoras, it's you we've come for — myself and Hippocrates here.' 'Do you want,' he said, 'to talk with me alone, or with the others present too?' 'It makes no difference to us,' I said. 'Once you've heard why we've come, you can judge for yourself.' 'Well, what is it, then,' he said, 'that brings you here?' 'This is Hippocrates, a local, son of Apollodorus, of a great and prosperous house; in his own nature he seems a match for anyone his age. He wants, I think, to become someone of note in the city, and he believes the surest way to that is by spending time with you. So now it's for you to decide whether you think it best to discuss this alone, just the two of us, or with the others too.' 'You do well, Socrates,' he said, 'to look out for me this way. For a foreigner who goes into great cities and there persuades the best of the young men to leave the company of others — kin and strangers, older and younger alike — and join him instead, on the promise that they'll be better for his company, needs to be careful in doing so. Such things stir up no small envy, ill will, and scheming. Now, I myself say that the sophist's art is an ancient one, but that the men of old who practiced it, fearing the resentment it provokes, used other things as a screen and a disguise — some used poetry, like Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides; others used rites and prophecies, the circle around Orpheus and Musaeus; and I've noticed some who used athletic training, like Iccus of Tarentum and, still active today, a sophist second to none, Herodicus of Selymbria, originally of Megara. Others used music as their screen, like your own Agathocles, who was truly a great sophist, and Pythoclides of Ceos, and many others. All of these men, as I say, out of fear of that envy, used these arts as their veils.'

SOCRATES: But I don't agree with any of them on this point. I think they accomplished nothing of what they intended — they didn't manage to fool the people in each city who actually hold power, the very ones these disguises are meant for; the ordinary crowd notices nothing to speak of, and simply repeats whatever these leading men pass along. So for someone trying to run away to fail at running away, and instead to stand out in plain sight, is sheer folly, and it's bound to make people far more hostile — since they come to think such a man is, on top of everything else, a schemer. As for me, I've taken the entirely opposite path: I openly admit to being a sophist and to educating people, and I think this kind of caution is better than the other — admitting it outright rather than denying it. I've taken other precautions too, so that, god willing, I suffer no harm from admitting I'm a sophist. And indeed I've been many years now in this profession — my years altogether add up to a great many; there's not one of you I couldn't be old enough to have fathered. So nothing would please me more, if you're willing, than to discuss all this in front of everyone here inside.' And I — suspecting he wanted to show off in front of Prodicus and Hippias and preen a bit, since we'd come as his admirers — said, 'Well then, why don't we call Prodicus and Hippias and those with them in, so they can listen to us?' 'By all means,' said Protagoras. 'Shall we,' said Callias, 'set up a proper sitting so you can all talk seated?' We agreed we should; and all of us, delighted at the prospect of hearing wise men speak, took hold of the benches and couches ourselves and arranged them by Hippias, since the benches were already there. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades arrived bringing Prodicus, having gotten him up from his couch, along with those who were with him. Once we were all seated together, Protagoras said, 'Now then, Socrates, you may speak, since these men are present too, about the matter you mentioned to me a little while ago concerning the young man.'

SOCRATES: And I said that my starting point was the same as before, Protagoras, the very thing I'd come about: Hippocrates here happens to be eager for your company, and he says he'd be glad to learn what will come of it for him if he spends time with you. That's the whole of what we have to say. Protagoras answered, taking this up: 'Young man, if you keep company with me, here is what will happen: on the very day you join me, you'll go home a better man, and the same the next day, and every single day you'll keep improving further still.' Hearing this, I said, 'Protagoras, there's nothing surprising in what you say — it's only natural, since even you, wise and accomplished as you already are, would become better if someone taught you something you didn't happen to know. But don't put it that way — suppose instead that Hippocrates here suddenly changed his mind and wanted to study with that young man who has just arrived in town, Zeuxippus of Heraclea, and went to him, as he's now come to you, and heard the very same thing from him that he heard from you — that each day spent in his company would make him better and he'd keep improving — and then asked him, 'Better at what, and improving toward what?' Zeuxippus would tell him: painting. Or suppose he'd studied with Orthagoras the Theban, and heard the same words from him, and asked what he'd be improving toward day by day in his company — he'd say: flute-playing. So you, too, tell the young man and me, since I'm asking on his behalf: if Hippocrates here keeps company with Protagoras, on whatever day he does so he'll go away improved, and likewise each following day he'll keep improving — but toward what, Protagoras, and in regard to what?' And Protagoras, hearing this from me, said, 'You ask well, Socrates, and I'm glad to answer those who ask well. Hippocrates, in coming to me, will not suffer what he would have suffered from studying with any other sophist. The others mistreat the young: fleeing as they do from technical subjects, these men drag them back against their will into more technical subjects — arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music' — here he glanced toward Hippias — 'whereas anyone who comes to me will learn about nothing but the very thing he came for. And that subject is sound judgment in one's own affairs — how best to manage one's own household — and in the city's affairs, how to be most capable both in acting and in speaking on the city's behalf.'

SOCRATES: Am I following your argument? I said. You seem to be describing the political art, and promising to make men into good citizens. That's exactly it, he said, Socrates -- that's the profession I profess. Well, I said, that's a fine skill you've acquired, if you've really acquired it. I'll say nothing to you but what I think. I myself, Protagoras, didn't believe this thing could be taught, but when you say it can, I don't see how to disbelieve you. I ought to explain why I think it isn't teachable, or something no human being can arrange for another. I say the Athenians, like the rest of the Greeks, are wise people. Now I notice that when we're gathered in the assembly, if the city has some business to do about building, we send for builders to advise about buildings, and if it's about shipbuilding, we send for shipwrights, and so on for everything else that's considered learnable and teachable. And if anyone else tries to advise them who isn't thought to be a craftsman in that field -- however handsome, wealthy, or well-born he may be -- they pay him no more attention for it. Instead they laugh him down and shout him out, until either the speaker gives up and steps back, shouted into silence, or the archers drag him off or have him removed at the presiding officers' order. That's how they behave about matters they consider technical. But when it comes to deliberating about running the city, anyone stands up to advise them -- a carpenter just as much as a smith or a cobbler, a merchant or a ship's captain, rich or poor, well-born or not -- and no one attacks him the way they attacked the others, for not having learned anywhere, having had no teacher, and yet daring to give advice. Clearly they don't think this can be taught. And it isn't just true of the city as a whole -- privately too, the wisest and best of our citizens are unable to pass on to others the virtue they themselves possess.

SOCRATES: Take Pericles, the father of these young men here. He gave them a fine education in everything that depended on teachers, but in the area where he himself is wise, he neither teaches them himself nor hands them over to anyone else -- they just wander around grazing like sacred cattle set loose, in case they happen to stumble onto virtue on their own. Or take Clinias, the younger brother of this Alcibiades here -- this same Pericles, as his guardian, afraid he'd be corrupted by Alcibiades, took him away and placed him in Ariphron's household to be educated. But before six months were up, he gave him back, at a loss for what to do with him. I could give you countless other examples of men who are good themselves but have never made anyone else better, neither their own kin nor anyone else's. So, Protagoras, looking at these facts, I don't believe virtue can be taught. But then I hear you saying it can, and I waver -- I think you must be onto something, because I take you to have had wide experience, learned a great deal, and worked out some things for yourself. So if you can show us more clearly that virtue is teachable, please don't hold back -- show us. Well, Socrates, he said, I won't hold back. But should I show you this by telling a story, as an older man to younger ones, or by working it out step by step in argument? Many of those sitting nearby told him to proceed however he preferred. In that case, he said, I think it will be more pleasant to tell you a story. There was once a time when there were gods, but no mortal creatures yet existed. When the destined time came for these too to be born, the gods shaped them inside the earth, mixing earth and fire together with whatever combines with fire and earth. When it was time to bring them out into the light, the gods assigned Prometheus and Epimetheus to equip them and distribute abilities to each kind as was fitting. Epimetheus begged Prometheus to let him do the distributing himself -- 'and once I've distributed them,' he said, 'you can inspect the results' -- and having persuaded him, he set to work. In his distribution, he gave some creatures strength without speed, while equipping the weaker ones with speed. Some he armed, and to others, giving them no weapons, he devised some other capacity for their preservation.

SOCRATES: To those he clothed in smallness, he gave winged flight or an underground dwelling; those he built up in size he preserved by that very size, and so on, evening things out as he distributed. He arranged all this with an eye to preventing any species from being wiped out entirely. And once he had provided them means of escaping mutual destruction, he devised protection against the seasons that come from Zeus, clothing them in thick fur and tough hides, sufficient to ward off winter and capable of resisting heat as well, and so that when they went to rest each creature would have its own natural bedding built in; and he shod some with hooves, others with tough, bloodless hide and fur. After that he arranged different foods for different creatures -- for some, grass from the ground, for others the fruits of trees, for others roots; and to some he gave the flesh of other animals as food. To these he gave low fertility, while to the ones being eaten by them he gave high fertility, securing the survival of the species. But since Epimetheus wasn't especially wise, he didn't notice that he had used up all the capacities on the irrational animals; the human race was left completely unequipped, and he was at a loss what to do. While he was still stuck, Prometheus came to inspect the distribution, and saw that while the other animals were suitably furnished in every way, man was naked, unshod, without bedding, and unarmed -- and already the appointed day was at hand when man too was to come forth from the earth into the light. So Prometheus, at a loss for any means of saving man, stole the skilled wisdom of Hephaestus and Athena, together with fire -- since without fire it was impossible for anyone to acquire or use that wisdom -- and so he gave it as a gift to man. In this way man came to possess the wisdom needed for life, but he did not have the political kind, for that was in the keeping of Zeus. Prometheus no longer had the chance to enter the citadel where Zeus dwelt -- and besides, the guards of Zeus were terrifying -- but he slipped unnoticed into the workshop shared by Athena and Hephaestus, where they practiced their crafts together, and stealing Hephaestus's art of fire along with Athena's art as well, he gave them to man. From this came man's resourcefulness in life -- but Prometheus, because of Epimetheus, was later, so the story goes, brought to justice for the theft.

SOCRATES: Once man had a share of the divine portion, first, because of his kinship with god, he alone among the animals believed in gods, and set about establishing altars and images of them. Then he quickly worked out, through his skill, articulate speech and names, and he invented houses, clothing, sandals, bedding, and food from the earth. Equipped in this way, humans at first lived scattered about; there were no cities. So they were destroyed by wild animals, since they were weaker than the beasts in every way, and their skill in crafts, while adequate help for feeding themselves, was insufficient for the war against the animals -- for they did not yet have the political art, of which the art of war is a part. So they sought to gather together and save themselves by founding cities. But whenever they gathered together, they wronged one another, since they had no political art, and so they scattered again and kept being destroyed. Zeus, then, fearing that our whole race would be wiped out, sent Hermes to bring men a sense of shame and a sense of justice, so that there might be order in cities and bonds of friendship to bring people together. Hermes then asked Zeus in what way he should give justice and shame to men. Should I distribute them the way the arts have been distributed? They have been distributed like this: one person with medical knowledge is enough for many laymen, and so with the other craftsmen. Should I place justice and shame among men in this same way, or distribute them to everyone? To everyone, said Zeus, and let all have a share. For cities could never come to be if only a few shared in them, as with the other arts. And make this a law from me: whoever cannot share in shame and justice is to be put to death as a sickness upon the city. That, Socrates, is the reason why the Athenians and everyone else, when the discussion concerns skill in carpentry or any other craft, think that only a few should have a say, and if someone outside that few tries to advise them, they won't stand for it, as you say -- and reasonably so, I would add --

SOCRATES: but when they turn to deliberating about political virtue, which must proceed entirely through justice and moderation, they reasonably tolerate advice from every man, since it's fitting that everyone share in this virtue, or else there would be no cities at all. That, Socrates, is the reason for this. And to keep you from thinking you're being deceived, that people really do believe every man shares in justice and the rest of political virtue, take this further proof: in the other virtues, as you say, if someone claims to be a good flute-player, or claims any other skill he doesn't have, people either laugh at him or grow angry, and his own family comes and scolds him as if he were out of his mind. But when it comes to justice and the rest of political virtue, even if they know a man is unjust, if he himself admits the truth about himself in front of everyone, what would count as sanity in the other case -- telling the truth -- here they count as madness. They say everyone must claim to be just, whether he is or not, and that anyone who doesn't pretend to justice is out of his mind, on the grounds that it's necessary for every single person to share in it somehow, or else not be counted among human beings at all. So much for why they reasonably accept every man as an adviser about this virtue, since they believe everyone has a share in it. I'll try to show you next that they don't consider it something that comes by nature or by chance, but something taught, and that it comes about, wherever it does, through deliberate effort. Whatever evils people believe others have by nature or by chance, no one gets angry at them for it, or scolds them, or teaches them, or punishes them, hoping to change them -- people simply pity them. Take the ugly, the short, or the weak -- who is foolish enough to try to do anything about those? People know, I think, that such things come to human beings by nature and chance, both the good ones and their opposites. But whatever good things people believe come about through care, practice, and teaching -- if someone lacks these and instead has the opposite, bad qualities -- it's for these that anger arises, and punishment, and reproof.

SOCRATES: Among these failings are injustice and impiety, and in short everything opposed to political virtue. In this domain everyone gets angry at everyone else and reproves them, clearly on the assumption that virtue is something to be acquired through care and learning. If you're willing to think through what punishing wrongdoers actually accomplishes, Socrates, that alone will show you that people believe virtue can be instilled. No one punishes wrongdoers focusing simply on the fact that they did wrong -- not unless he's acting like a mindless beast taking blind revenge. Someone who sets about punishing with reason in view doesn't take revenge for the sake of the past wrong -- since he couldn't make what's done undone -- but for the sake of the future, so that neither this person himself nor anyone else who sees him punished will do wrong again. Someone who thinks this way believes virtue can be taught -- at any rate, he punishes for the sake of deterrence. This is the view held by everyone who exacts punishment, whether privately or publicly. And other people punish and take vengeance on those they believe have wronged them -- the Athenians, your own fellow citizens, not least of all. So by this reasoning the Athenians too are among those who believe virtue can be instilled and taught. So I've shown you well enough, Socrates, it seems to me, both that your fellow citizens are right to accept advice on political matters from a smith or a cobbler, and that they believe virtue is teachable and can be instilled. There remains still the difficulty you raised about good men -- why it is that good men teach their sons everything that depends on teachers, and make them wise in that, but do not make them any better than anyone else in the very virtue they themselves possess. About this, Socrates, I'll no longer tell you a story but reason it through. Consider this: is there some one thing, or is there not, that all citizens must necessarily share in, if there is to be a city at all? It's here, and nowhere else, that the difficulty you raise will be resolved.

SOCRATES: If it exists, and if that single thing is not carpentry, or bronze-working, or pottery, but justice and self-control and holiness -- if, in short, I call it a single thing and name it a man's virtue -- if this is the thing that all must share in, and every man must act with this as his guide in whatever else he wishes to learn or do, and act in nothing without it, and if the man who does not share in it must be taught and punished, whether child or man or woman, until punishment makes him better, and if the one who will not listen to punishment and teaching must be cast out of the city or put to death as incurable -- if this is how things stand, and if, given that this is its nature, good men teach their sons everything else but not this, then consider how remarkably good men turn out to be. That they consider it teachable, both privately and publicly, we have shown. Given that it is teachable and can be cultivated, do they really teach their sons all the other things, for which there is no death penalty if a boy fails to learn them, but this one thing, for which the penalty is death for the boy himself and exile if he isn't taught and cultivated toward virtue, and beyond death the confiscation of property and, in a word, the overthrow of whole households -- this, do they not teach, and not take every care over it? You must believe they do, Socrates. Starting from when the children are very small, for as long as they live, they teach them and admonish them. As soon as a child understands what is said to him, the nurse, the mother, the tutor, and the father himself all struggle over this very point, that the boy should become as good as possible, teaching him and showing him, in connection with every deed and every word, that this is just and that is unjust, this is admirable and that is shameful, this is holy and that is unholy, do this and don't do that. And if he obeys willingly, well; if not, they straighten him like a warped and bent piece of wood, with threats and blows. After that they send him to schoolmasters, and give far more instructions about his good behavior than about his letters and his music.

SOCRATES: The teachers take care of these things, and when the boys have learned their letters and are ready to understand what is written as they once understood the spoken word, the teachers set before them, on their benches, the poems of good poets to read, and make them learn them by heart -- poems full of much admonition, and many accounts and praises and eulogies of good men of old, so that the boy, admiring them, will imitate them and long to become such a man himself. The music teachers, for their part, do similar things: they take care of self-control, and see that the young do nothing wrong; and further, once the boys have learned to play the lyre, they teach them the poems of yet other good poets, the composers of songs, setting them to the music of the lyre, and they make the rhythms and harmonies become part of the children's souls, so that they become gentler, and more graceful in rhythm and harmony, and thus fit for speech and action -- for the whole of human life stands in need of good rhythm and harmony. Beyond this, they also send the boy to a physical trainer, so that having a better body he may serve a mind that is good, and not be forced into cowardice through bodily weakness, whether in war or in other affairs. And this is done above all by those most able to do it -- and those most able are the wealthiest -- and their sons, beginning to attend school earliest, in age, leave off latest. And when they are done with their schoolmasters, the city in turn compels them to learn the laws and to live according to them as a pattern, so that they will not act on their own at random, but exactly as writing-teachers, for children not yet skilled at writing, first trace letters lightly with the stylus and then give them the tablet and make them write following the guide-lines -- so too the city, having sketched out the laws, discoveries of good lawgivers of old, compels people to rule and be ruled according to them; and whoever steps outside them, the city punishes. And this punishment, among you and in many other places, is called correction, since the penalty corrects. Given, then, how great a care is taken over virtue, both privately and publicly, do you still wonder, Socrates, and puzzle over whether virtue is teachable? You should not wonder at that -- you should wonder far more if it were not teachable.

SOCRATES: Why, then, do many sons of good fathers turn out worthless? Learn this too: it is nothing to wonder at, if what I was saying earlier is true, that in this matter -- virtue -- if there is to be a city at all, no one may be a private amateur in it. For if what I say is so -- and it is so more than anything -- consider some other pursuit or study, choosing whichever you like, as a comparison. Suppose it were impossible for there to be a city unless we were all flute-players, each as good as he could manage, and everyone taught everyone else this skill both privately and publicly, and rebuked the one who played badly, and did not begrudge this teaching, just as now no one begrudges or hides his knowledge of justice and lawfulness, as people do with other skills -- for I think each other's justice and virtue benefits us, which is why everyone eagerly tells and teaches everyone else about just and lawful things -- well, if we had that same eagerness and generosity toward teaching one another flute-playing, do you think, Socrates, he said, that the sons of good flute-players would turn out any more to be good flute-players than the sons of bad ones? I think not; rather, whichever boy happened to be born with the greatest natural gift for flute-playing would become renowned, and whichever was ungifted would remain obscure; and often a good flute-player's son would turn out worthless, and often a bad one's son would turn out good. But in any case all of them would be competent flute-players compared with ordinary people who have no knowledge of flute-playing at all. In the same way you should think, now, that whoever among you seems the most unjust of those raised among laws and among men would be just, and a master craftsman of justice, if he had to be judged next to men who have neither education nor courts nor laws nor any compulsion at all constantly forcing them to care for virtue -- men who were savage, like those Pherecrates the poet put on stage last year at the Lenaia. Truly, if you found yourself among people like that, like the man-haters in that chorus, you would be glad to run into an Eurybatus or a Phrynondas, and you would wail with longing for the wickedness of the people here. As it is, you are spoiled, Socrates, because everyone is a teacher of virtue, each to the extent he is able, and so none of them seems to you to be one at all.

SOCRATES: It's as if you were looking for who teaches Greek -- no one at all would turn up; and I don't think, either, if you looked for who could teach the sons of craftsmen this very craft which they have in fact learned from their fathers -- to whatever extent the father was skilled, and the father's friends who shared the same craft -- who could teach them further, it would not be easy, Socrates, I think, to point to a teacher for these boys, though for the utterly untrained it is perfectly easy; and so it is with virtue and with everything else. But even if there is someone who has even a slight edge over us in advancing people toward virtue, that is something to be grateful for. And I believe I am one of those, and that I can benefit a person, more than other men can, toward becoming admirable and good, and that I am worth the fee I charge, and even more, so much so that the student himself agrees. That is why I have arranged the manner of collecting my fee as follows: whenever someone has learned from me, if he wishes, he pays the sum I charge; but if not, he goes to a temple, swears an oath as to how much he judges the lessons to be worth, and deposits that amount. That, Socrates, he said, is the story and the argument I have offered you, to show that virtue is teachable, and that the Athenians hold this view, and that it is no wonder that worthless sons come from good fathers and good sons from worthless ones, since even the sons of Polycleitus, contemporaries of Paralus and this Xanthippus here, are nothing next to their father, and the same is true of other craftsmen's sons. But it is not yet fair to accuse these two of that; there is still hope in them, for they are young. With this, and much more besides, Protagoras finished his display and stopped speaking. And I, for a long while, still spellbound, kept looking at him as though he were going to say more, eager to hear it; but when I realized that he had truly finished, I gathered myself together, somehow, with an effort, and looking at Hippocrates, said: Son of Apollodorus, how grateful I am to you for urging me to come here. I count it a great thing to have heard what I have heard from Protagoras. Before now I used to think there was no human effort by which good men become good; but now I am persuaded there is. Except for one small thing standing in my way, which Protagoras will surely clear up easily, since he has already cleared up so much.

SOCRATES: For if someone were to talk with any public speaker about these very matters, he might well hear speeches just as fine, from Pericles or some other capable speaker; but if you ask any of them a further question, they can no more answer than a book can, nor ask a question themselves; and if you question even slightly on some small point of what they said, they are like bronze vessels, which when struck ring on and on and drag out the sound unless someone stops them -- and the orators are just the same: asked something small, they draw out a whole marathon of speech. But Protagoras here is capable both of making long, fine speeches, as his own words show, and also, when asked, of answering briefly, and when he asks a question, of waiting for and accepting the answer -- something few are equipped to do. So now, Protagoras, I need only one small thing to have everything, if you would answer me this. You say virtue is teachable, and I, if I would trust any man on earth, trust you. But there is something you said that puzzled me, and I would like you to fill in that gap for me. You said that Zeus sent justice and reverence to mankind, and again, in many places in your speech, you spoke of justice, self-control, and holiness, and all these together, as though they were one single thing -- virtue. Go through this for me carefully and precisely: is virtue one thing, of which justice, self-control, and holiness are parts, or are these all names for one and the same thing? That is what I still long to know. Well, that is easy to answer, Socrates, he said: virtue is one thing, and these are parts of it, which you ask about. Are they parts, I said, in the way that the parts of a face are parts -- mouth, nose, eyes, and ears -- or are they like the parts of a lump of gold, which do not differ from one another, or from the whole, except in being larger or smaller? It seems to me, Socrates, the former way, as the parts of a face relate to the whole face. Then do people, I asked, partake of these parts of virtue differently, one man having one and another having another, or must a man, once he has one, have all of them? Not at all, he said, since many are brave but unjust, and again many are just but not wise.

SOCRATES: So these too are parts of virtue, I said — wisdom and courage? — Most certainly, he said, and wisdom is the greatest of the parts. — And each of them is distinct, I said, one thing and another? — Yes. — And does each of them have its own particular power? Just as with the parts of a face — the eye is not like the ears, nor is its power the same, and none of the other parts is like any other, either in power or in anything else. Isn't it the same, then, with the parts of virtue — that one is not like another, neither itself nor its power? Isn't that clearly how it is, if it resembles the example? — Yes, that's how it is, Socrates, he said. — And I said: then none of the parts of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or like moderation, or like piety? — No, he said. — Come then, I said, let's examine together what sort of thing each of them is. First this: is justice a real thing, or not a thing at all? To me it seems real — what about you? — To me too, he said. — Well then: if someone asked you and me, 'Protagoras and Socrates, tell me — this thing you just named, justice, is it itself just or unjust?' I would answer that it is just. What verdict would you give — the same as mine, or a different one? — The same, he said. — So justice is such as to be just — that's how I'd answer if someone asked, and you too? — Yes, he said. — And if after that he asked us, 'Don't you also say there's such a thing as piety?' We'd say yes, I imagine. — Yes, he said. — And you say this too is a thing? — We'd say so — or not? — He agreed to this as well. — 'And do you say this thing itself is such as to be unholy, or such as to be holy?' For my part, I said, I'd be indignant at the question and say, 'Watch your words, friend — it would hardly be easy for anything else to be holy, if piety itself isn't holy.' And you — wouldn't you answer the same way? — Certainly, he said. Then if after that he asked us, 'So what were you saying a little earlier? Did I hear you right? You seemed to me to say that the parts of virtue stand to one another in such a way that one is not like another —'

SOCRATES: I would say that you heard the rest correctly, but if you think I said that, you misheard — it was Protagoras here who gave that answer; I was only asking. So if he asked, 'Is what this man says true, Protagoras? Do you claim that one part of virtue is not like another? Is that your position?' — What would you answer him? — I'd have no choice, he said, Socrates, but to admit it. Well then, Protagoras, having admitted that, what shall we answer him if he presses further: 'Then piety is not such as to be a just thing, nor justice such as to be holy, but such as to be not holy; and piety is such as to be not just, but unjust, and the other, unholy'? What shall we answer him? For my own part I would say that justice is holy and piety is just, and on your behalf too, if you'd let me, I would give the same answer — that justice and piety are either the same thing, or as alike as anything could be, and that justice is above all like piety, and piety like justice. But see whether you object to my answering that way, or whether you agree. — It doesn't seem to me, Socrates, he said, quite so simple that I should concede that justice is holy and piety is just — rather, there seems to me to be some difference in it. But still, what difference does that make? he said. If you like, let's grant that justice is holy and piety is just. — Not for my sake, I said — I have no need of that 'if you like' or 'if it seems so to you' being tested, but of you and me; I mean that phrase 'you and me' because I think the argument would be tested best if one took the 'if' out of it. — Well, but justice certainly does resemble piety in some way, he said — anything resembles anything else in some respect. White resembles black in a way, and hard resembles soft, and all the other things that seem most opposite to one another; and the things we said earlier had different powers and were not alike, the parts of the face, resemble one another in some way and one is like the other. So by that method you could prove even these things are all alike to one another, if you wanted. But it isn't right to call things alike just because they share something in common, nor unalike because they share something different, even if what they share is very small. — And I said to him in astonishment: is that really how justice and piety stand to each other in your view — that they share only some small point of resemblance?

SOCRATES: Not quite that, he said, but not what you seem to think either. — Well then, I said, since you seem uneasy about this, let's set it aside and look at something else you said. Do you call something folly? — He agreed. — Isn't wisdom the complete opposite of this thing? — It seems so to me, he said. — And when people act rightly and beneficially, do you think they're being moderate when they act that way, or if they acted the opposite? — Moderate, he said. — So they're moderate by moderation? — Necessarily. — And those who don't act rightly act foolishly, and are not being moderate when they act that way? — I agree, he said. — So acting foolishly is the opposite of acting moderately? — He agreed. — And what's done foolishly is done by folly, and what's done moderately, by moderation? — He conceded this. — And if something is done by strength, it's done strongly, and if by weakness, weakly? — He agreed. — And if with speed, quickly, and if with slowness, slowly? — He agreed. — And if something is done in the same way, it's done by the same thing, and if in an opposite way, by its opposite? — He agreed. — Come now, I said, is there such a thing as beauty? — He granted it. — Is there anything opposite to this except ugliness? — There is not. — Well then — is there such a thing as good? — There is. — Is there anything opposite to it except bad? — There is not. — And is there such a thing as a high note in sound? — He agreed. — Is there anything opposite to it except the low note? — He said no. — So, I said, for each single opposite there is only one opposite, not many? — He agreed. Come then, I said, let's total up what we've agreed. We've agreed that one thing has only one opposite, and not more? — We have. — And that what is done oppositely is done by opposite things? — He agreed. — And we agreed that what is done foolishly is done oppositely to what is done moderately? — He agreed. — And that what is done moderately is done by moderation, and what is done foolishly, by folly? — He granted this. — So if it's done oppositely, it would be done by an opposite thing? — Yes. — And one thing is done by moderation, the other by folly? — Yes. — Oppositely? — Quite so. — By opposite things, then? — Yes. — So folly is the opposite of moderation? — So it appears. — Do you remember, then, that earlier we agreed that folly is the opposite of wisdom? — He agreed.

SOCRATES: And that one thing has only one opposite? — I say so. — So which of our statements shall we give up, Protagoras — that one thing has only one opposite, or the earlier one, where we said wisdom is distinct from moderation, each being a part of virtue, and that besides being distinct, they and their powers are unalike, like the parts of a face? Which shall we give up? For neither statement sits well together — they don't harmonize or fit with one another. How could they, if it's necessary that one thing has only one opposite and no more, and yet folly, being one thing, appears to have both wisdom and moderation as its opposite? Isn't that so, Protagoras, I said, or is it otherwise? — He agreed, and very reluctantly. — So moderation and wisdom would be one thing? And earlier it appeared to us that justice and piety were nearly the same thing too. Come now, Protagoras, I said, let's not grow weary but examine what remains as well. Does it seem to you that an unjust man is being moderate, in that he acts unjustly? — I would be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to admit that, though many people do say so. — Shall I direct my argument to them, then, I said, or to you? — If you like, he said, argue first against that popular view. — It makes no difference to me, so long as you're the one answering, whether or not you actually believe it — for it's the argument itself I'm chiefly examining, though it may turn out that both I who ask and the one who answers are being examined too. At first Protagoras put on airs about this, claiming the question was awkward, but then he agreed to answer. — Come then, I said, answer me from the start. Does it seem to you that some people are moderate while acting unjustly? — Granted, he said. — And you mean by being moderate, thinking well? — He agreed. — And thinking well means planning well, in that they act unjustly? — Granted, he said. — Is that, I asked, if they fare well by acting unjustly, or if they fare badly? — If well. — Do you mean, then, that there are certain good things? — I do. — Are these, I said, the things that are beneficial to people? — And by Zeus, he said, even if they're not beneficial to people, I still call them good. — And it seemed to me that Protagoras was already growing irritated and anxious, and had braced himself against answering. Seeing him in that state, I proceeded carefully and asked gently.

SOCRATES: Do you mean, I said, Protagoras, things that are beneficial to no one at all, or things not beneficial in any way whatsoever? And do you call such things good? — Not at all, he said. But I know of many things that are of no benefit to people — foods, drinks, medicines, and countless others — while some are beneficial; and some are neither good nor bad for people, but are for horses; and some only for cattle, others for dogs; and some are good for none of these, but for trees; and some things are good for a tree's roots but bad for its shoots — for instance manure, which is good for the roots of every plant when spread there, but if you tried applying it to the young shoots and fresh branches, it destroys everything. Or take olive oil — it's thoroughly bad for all plants, and the worst enemy of the hair of every creature except a human being's, though for human hair and for the rest of the human body it's a help. So good is such a varied and multiform thing that here too what's good for the outside of a person's body is, for the inside, the very worst thing there is — which is why doctors all forbid the sick from using oil except in the smallest amount, just enough in the dishes they're about to eat to quench the unpleasantness that comes from the smells through the nostrils, in the food and the side dishes. When he'd said this, those present burst into applause at how well he'd spoken, and I said: Protagoras, I happen to be a rather forgetful sort of person, and if someone speaks to me at length, I lose track of what the argument was about. So just as, if I happened to be a bit deaf, you'd think you ought to speak louder to me than to others if you meant to converse with me, so now too, since you've run into a forgetful man, cut your answers shorter and make them briefer, if I'm to keep up with you. — How short do you want me to make my answers, then? Shorter than they need to be? — By no means, I said. — As long as they need to be? he said. — Yes, I said. — Then shall I answer with as much as seems to me needed, or with as much as seems needed to you?

SOCRATES: I've heard, I said, that you're able both to teach someone else and to speak yourself at length on the same subjects, going on as long as you like without ever running out of things to say, and also, on the other hand, so briefly that no one could out-do you in fewer words. So if you're going to discuss things with me, use the other method on me — the short one. Socrates, he said, I've entered into contests of speech with many people before now, and if I did what you're asking — discussed things the way my opponent told me to — I wouldn't have come out looking better than anyone else, and Protagoras would never have made a name for himself among the Greeks. And I — for I could see that he wasn't happy with his earlier answers, and that he wouldn't willingly go on discussing things by way of answering questions — thought it was no longer my business to stay for these conversations, and said: Well, Protagoras, I myself am not eager to force our discussion to run against your wishes. Once you're willing to discuss things in a way I can keep up with, I'll discuss them with you. You, after all, as people say of you and as you say yourself, are capable of carrying on a conversation both at length and briefly — you're a wise man — but I'm no good at these long stretches, though I wish I were capable of it. It should really have been you who gave way to us, since you can do both, so that our discussion might actually happen. But as it is, since you're not willing, and I have some business to attend to and couldn't stay with you while you stretch out long speeches — I have to go somewhere — I'm off; though I daresay I wouldn't have minded listening to that too. And with these words I got up to leave, and as I was rising Callias caught hold of my hand with his right hand, and with his left took hold of this cloak of mine, and said: We won't let you go, Socrates. If you leave, our discussions won't be the same. So I beg you to stay with us — there's no one I'd rather listen to than you and Protagoras talking together. Do us all this favor. And I said — I was already on my feet, on my way out — Son of Hipponicus, I've always admired your love of wisdom, and I do so now too, and I'm fond of you, so that I'd like to do you this favor, if what you're asking of me were possible.

SOCRATES: But as it stands, it's just as if you were asking me to keep pace with Crison of Himera, the runner in his prime, or to run alongside one of the long-distance runners or the day-runners and keep up with them — I'd tell you that I need far more than you do to keep up with runners like that, but I simply can't; and if you want to watch Crison and me running the same race, ask him to slow down to my pace, since I can't run fast, though he can run slow. So if you're eager to hear both me and Protagoras, ask him to answer now the way he answered at first — briefly, and to the point of the questions. Otherwise, what will become of our conversations? I always thought that talking things over together with one another was one thing, and making speeches to a crowd was something else. But — you see? — he said, Socrates, Protagoras seems to me to be making a fair claim, that he should be allowed to discuss things his way, and you yours. Then Alcibiades broke in: That's not well said, Callias. Socrates here admits he has no share of the long-speech style and yields the point to Protagoras, but as for being able to hold a discussion and knowing how to give and take an argument, I'd be amazed if he yielded that to anyone alive. Now if Protagoras admits he's worse than Socrates at discussion, that's enough for Socrates; but if he claims otherwise, let him discuss by asking and answering, not stretching a long speech out over each question, dodging the arguments and refusing to give an account, but drawing things out until most of the listeners have forgotten what the question was even about — though I can vouch that Socrates won't forget, whatever jokes he makes about being forgetful. So it seems to me Socrates has the more reasonable position — everyone ought to state his own view. After Alcibiades, I think it was Critias who spoke: Prodicus, Hippias, Callias here seems to me very much on Protagoras' side, while Alcibiades is always eager to win at whatever he takes up. But there's no need for us to take sides eagerly with either Socrates or Protagoras — let's rather ask them both together not to break up our gathering.

SOCRATES: When he had said this, Prodicus said: I think you're right, Critias. Those of us present at discussions like these ought to be common listeners to both parties in the discussion, but not give them equal shares — that's not the same thing. We should listen to both together, but not divide our attention equally, giving more to the wiser one and less to the less learned. For my part, Protagoras and Socrates, I ask you both to allow each other to dispute your positions, but not to quarrel — for friends dispute with friends out of goodwill, while it's rivals and enemies who quarrel with one another — and this way our gathering would turn out at its best. You, the speakers, would in this way earn genuine regard from us, the listeners, rather than mere praise — for genuine regard exists in the minds of listeners without deception, while praise is often spoken in words that belie one's real judgment, out of pretense — and we, the listeners, would in this way take the greatest delight, rather than mere pleasure — for delight comes from learning something and having a share in understanding, through the mind itself, while pleasure comes from eating something or experiencing some other bodily gratification. When Prodicus said this, a good many of those present showed strong approval. After Prodicus, Hippias the wise spoke: Gentlemen here present, he said, I consider all of you kinsmen, relations, and fellow-citizens — by nature, not by custom. For like is akin to like by nature, while custom, a tyrant over mankind, forces much that goes against nature. It would be shameful, then, for us, who know the nature of things, and who are the wisest of the Greeks, and who have gathered for just this purpose here in the very council-hall of wisdom in Greece, and in this city's greatest and most splendid house, to show nothing worthy of that reputation, but instead to squabble with one another like the most common of men.

SOCRATES: I too ask you, Protagoras and Socrates, and I advise you, to come to an agreement, as though we here were arbitrators bringing you to a middle ground — that you, Socrates, should not insist on this overly exact, clipped style of discussion, if it isn't to Protagoras' liking, but should let the reins out and slacken them for the arguments, so that they may appear to us grander and more graceful; and that you, Protagoras, in turn, should not let out every sail and run before a following wind, fleeing into the open sea of speeches until land is out of sight, but that both of you should cut a middle course. So do this, and let me persuade you to choose a referee, an overseer, a chairman, who will keep watch over the proper length of each of your speeches. This pleased those present, and everyone approved, and Callias said he wouldn't let me go, and they asked us to choose a chairman. I said, though, that it would be shameful to choose a judge over our arguments. For if the one chosen turns out to be worse than we are, it wouldn't be right for the worse to oversee the better; and if he's our equal, that's no better either — being our equal, he'll do just as we would, so the choice would be pointless. Well then, you'll choose someone better than us. But in truth, I think, it's impossible for you to choose anyone wiser than Protagoras here; and if you choose someone no better, yet claim that he is, that too is shameful to him, as though you were setting a chairman over some ordinary fellow — though for my own part it makes no difference to me. But here's what I'm willing to do, so that the gathering and our discussions may proceed as you're eager for: if Protagoras doesn't want to answer, let him ask the questions and I'll answer, and at the same time I'll try to show him how I say the one answering ought to answer. And once I've answered as many questions as he wants to ask, let him in turn give me an account in the same way. And if he doesn't seem willing to answer the very question asked, then both you and I together will beg him, just as you've begged me, not to spoil our gathering — and there's no need for a single chairman for this; all of you together can oversee it. Everyone agreed this should be done, and though Protagoras was quite unwilling, still he was compelled to agree to ask questions, and once he had asked enough, to give an account in turn, answering briefly, point by point.

SOCRATES: So he began questioning me something like this: I think, Socrates, he said, that the greatest part of a man's education is being skilled about poetry — that is, being able to understand what the poets say, what's composed correctly and what isn't, and to know how to analyze it and give an account when asked. And in fact my question now will be about the very thing you and I are now discussing, virtue, only transposed into poetry — that will be the only difference. Simonides, you see, says somewhere to Scopas, the son of Creon of Thessaly, that — 'It's truly hard for a man to become good, foursquare in hands and feet and mind, made without blame.' Do you know this poem, or shall I go through the whole of it for you? And I said there was no need — I knew it, and in fact I'd given it a good deal of attention. Good, he said. Then does it seem to you well and correctly composed, or not? Quite, I said, both well and correctly. And does it seem to you well composed if the poet contradicts himself? Not well, I said. Look more closely then, he said. But, my good man, I've considered it enough. Then you know, he said, that further along in the poem he says — 'nor does Pittacus' saying ring true to me, though spoken by a wise man: he said it's hard to be noble.' Do you notice that this is the same person saying both this and what came before? I know it, I said. Does it seem to you, then, he said, that this agrees with that? It seems so to me, at least (though at the same time I was afraid he might be onto something) — but, I said, doesn't it seem so to you? How could it seem that the same man agrees with himself, when he's the one who says both things — who first assumed himself that it's hard for a man to become truly good, and then a little further on in the poem forgets this and finds fault with Pittacus for saying the very same thing he himself said, that it's hard to be noble, and refuses to accept it from him, though Pittacus is saying the same thing as he is? Yet whenever he finds fault with a man for saying the same thing he himself says, clearly he's finding fault with himself too, so that either his first or his second statement must be wrong. When he'd said this, he caused a great stir and drew praise from many of the listeners; and I, at first, as though struck by a skilled boxer, went dark and dizzy at his words and the others' clamor of approval. Then — to tell you the truth — so as to gain myself some time to think over what the poet meant, I turned to Prodicus, and calling out to him said: Prodicus, Simonides is after all your fellow-citizen; it's only right that you come to the man's defense.

SOCRATES: So I think I ought to call on you, the way Homer says the river Scamander, under siege from Achilles, called on the Simois, saying: 'Dear brother, let the two of us together hold back this man's strength.' And so I'm calling on you too, so that Protagoras doesn't sack Simonides on us. Because setting Simonides right really does need your special skill in words -- the one that separates wanting from desiring, as if they weren't the same thing, along with all those fine points you just made. So think it over now and see whether you agree with me about this: it doesn't look to me as though Simonides contradicts himself at all. But first, Prodicus, tell us your own view -- do you think 'coming to be' and 'being' are the same thing, or different?" "Different, by Zeus," said Prodicus. "Well then," I said, "in the opening lines Simonides declared his own opinion, that it's hard for a man to truly come to be good." "True," said Prodicus. "And he criticizes Pittacus," I went on, "not, as Protagoras thinks, for saying the same thing he himself says, but for saying something different. Pittacus wasn't claiming that this hard thing was to come to be good, the way Simonides does, but to remain so. And being and coming-to-be, Protagoras, are not the same thing, as our friend Prodicus here says. And if being isn't the same as coming-to-be, then Simonides doesn't contradict himself. Prodicus here, and plenty of others, would probably say, following Hesiod, that coming to be good is hard -- since the gods set sweat in front of virtue -- but that once a man reaches its peak, then it becomes easy to hold, hard as it was to gain." When Prodicus heard this he praised me for it, but Protagoras said, "Your correction, Socrates, contains a bigger mistake than the one you're correcting." And I said, "Then it seems I've done real harm, Protagoras, and I'm some kind of ridiculous doctor -- treating the disease only makes it worse." "That's exactly how it is," he said. "How so?" I asked. "It would show great ignorance on the poet's part," he said, "if he really thought possessing virtue was such a trivial thing, when it's the hardest thing of all, as everyone agrees."

SOCRATES: And I said, "By Zeus, how well-timed it is that Prodicus here has joined our conversation. His wisdom, Protagoras, is very likely something ancient and divine, going back to Simonides or even further. You, though experienced in so many things, seem to be inexperienced in this one -- unlike me, who has some experience, being a student of Prodicus here. And now it seems to me you're missing the point that Simonides may not have meant 'hard' the way you take it, but rather the way Prodicus here is always correcting me about the word 'terrible' -- whenever I praise you or someone else by calling them 'terribly wise,' he asks whether I'm not ashamed to call good things terrible. Because 'terrible,' he says, means bad -- after all, no one ever speaks of 'terrible wealth' or 'terrible peace' or 'terrible health,' but of 'terrible sickness' and 'terrible war' and 'terrible poverty,' since the terrible is something bad. Perhaps, then, the Ceans and Simonides also take 'hard' to mean something bad, or something else you're missing. Let's ask Prodicus -- it's only right to consult him about Simonides' own language. Prodicus, what did Simonides mean by 'hard'?" "Bad," he said. "So that's why he criticizes Pittacus," I said, "for saying it's hard to be good -- as if he'd heard him say it's bad to be good." "What else do you suppose Simonides meant, Socrates," he said, "except to rebuke Pittacus for not knowing how to properly distinguish words, being a Lesbian raised speaking a foreign dialect?" "You hear that, Protagoras?" I said. "Do you have anything to say to it?" And Protagoras said, "That's far from how it is, Prodicus. I'm quite certain Simonides meant by 'hard' just what the rest of us mean -- not 'bad,' but whatever isn't easy, whatever takes a great deal of effort to achieve." "And I think so too, Protagoras," I said, "and that Prodicus here knows it as well, but is joking and testing whether you can defend your own reading. Because the very next line is strong proof that Simonides doesn't mean 'hard' as 'bad.' He says: 'only a god could hold that privilege' -- surely he isn't saying it's bad to be good, and then that only a god could have this, granting that privilege to a god alone. That would make Simonides out to be some kind of reckless fool, and no Cean at all."

SOCRATES: But let me tell you what I think Simonides really has in mind in this poem, if you'd like to test how well I handle this business of verses -- or if you prefer, I'll listen to you instead." Protagoras, hearing this, said, "As you like, Socrates." And Prodicus and Hippias both urged me on eagerly, and so did the rest. "Very well," I said, "let me try to go through with you what I think about this poem. Philosophy among the Greeks is oldest and most widespread in Crete and Sparta, and that's also where you find the greatest number of sophists on earth -- but they deny it and put on a show of ignorance, so that it won't be obvious they surpass the rest of Greece in wisdom, the very sort Protagoras described as sophists; instead they want to seem to surpass others through fighting and courage, thinking that if their real advantage were known, everyone would train in that instead -- namely, wisdom. As it is, by concealing that, they've fooled the Spartan-imitators in the various cities, who bruise their ears trying to look like them, wrap their hands in straps, take up hard exercise, and wear short cloaks, as if it were by these means that the Spartans dominate Greece. But the Spartans themselves, whenever they want to mix freely with their own sophists and grow tired of meeting them in secret, expel all these Spartan-imitators along with any other foreigner staying in the city -- a purge of foreigners -- and then meet with their sophists without the foreigners knowing; and they themselves let none of their young men travel to other cities, just as the Cretans don't either, so they won't unlearn what they've been taught at home. And in these cities it isn't only the men who take great pride in their education, but the women too. You can tell I'm speaking the truth, and that the Spartans are extremely well trained in philosophy and argument, this way: if anyone cares to engage even the most ordinary Spartan in conversation, he'll find him, for much of the exchange, seeming rather plain -- but then, at some point in the discussion, he'll throw in a remark worth hearing, brief and tightly wound, like a skilled javelin-thrower, so that whoever's talking with him looks no better than a child.

SOCRATES: This is exactly what some people today, and some in the past, have grasped -- that being Spartan is far more a matter of loving wisdom than of loving exercise, knowing that the ability to utter such sayings belongs to a fully educated man. Among these were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cleobulus of Lindos, and Myson of Chen, and a seventh was counted among them, the Spartan Chilon. All of these were admirers, lovers, and students of the Spartan education, and one can recognize their wisdom by its character -- brief, memorable sayings, each attributed to one of them. Meeting together, they dedicated the first fruits of their wisdom to Apollo, at his temple in Delphi, inscribing there what everyone now repeats: 'know yourself' and 'nothing in excess.' Why am I telling you all this? Because this was the ancient style of philosophy, a kind of Spartan brevity of speech; and one saying of Pittacus's in particular circulated privately, praised by the wise, that 'it is hard to be good.' Now Simonides, being ambitious for a reputation in wisdom, realized that if he could bring down this saying, like taking down a celebrated athlete, and get the better of it, he himself would gain fame among the people of his time. So it was against this very saying, and for this very purpose, that -- setting a trap for it -- he composed this whole poem, or so it seems to me. Let's examine it together, all of us, and see if what I say is true. Right at the start of the poem it would look like madness if, wanting to say that becoming a good man is hard, he then threw in the word 'men' -- this doesn't seem to fit into the sentence at all for any purpose, unless one takes Simonides to be speaking as though disputing with Pittacus's saying: with Pittacus saying it's hard to be good, Simonides answers, disputing him, 'no -- rather, to come to be a truly good man is hard, Pittacus' -- not 'good in truth,' as if he meant that some men are truly good while others are good but not truly so -- that would seem a silly thing to say, and not worthy of Simonides --

SOCRATES: Rather, we need to place the word 'truly' out of its normal order in the poem, treating Pittacus's saying as something said first, with Simonides answering it -- as if we set it up with Pittacus speaking and Simonides replying: 'Men, it is hard to be good,' and the reply: 'Pittacus, that isn't true -- for it isn't being, but coming to be, a man good in hands and feet and mind, formed foursquare, without a flaw -- this is truly hard.' In this way it's clear both that the word 'men' fits the sentence, and that 'truly' is correctly placed at the end. And everything that follows bears this out, that it was meant this way. There's much that could be shown about how well each part of the poem is composed -- it really is crafted with great care and skill -- but it would take too long to go through it all that way. Let's go through its overall shape and intent instead, since it is, more than anything else, a refutation of Pittacus's saying throughout the whole poem. He says, a little further on, as though continuing the argument: that to truly become a good man is hard, though possible, for a certain time; but having become so, to remain in that state and be a good man, as you claim, Pittacus, is impossible and beyond human reach -- only a god could hold that privilege -- 'a man cannot help but be bad, when ruinous misfortune brings him down.' Now who does ruinous misfortune bring down when it comes to steering a ship? Clearly not the ordinary man -- he's already down. Just as one couldn't knock down someone already lying flat, but could knock down someone standing to make him fall, while someone already down cannot be made to fall further, so too ruinous misfortune could bring down a resourceful man, but not one who is always without resource; a great storm striking a helmsman could leave him helpless, and a harsh season striking a farmer could leave him helpless, and the same for a doctor. For it's possible for the good man to become bad, as another poet also testifies, saying: 'a good man is sometimes bad, sometimes good.' But it isn't possible for the bad man to become bad -- he must always be so. So that when ruinous misfortune brings down the resourceful, wise, and good man, he cannot help but be bad; but you, Pittacus, say it's hard to be good -- when really, to become good is hard, though possible, while to remain so is impossible. 'For every man is good who fares well, bad if he fares badly.'

SOCRATES: So what activity is good with respect to letters, and what makes a man good at letters? Clearly, learning them. And what good performance makes a good doctor? Clearly, learning the treatment of the sick. But bad performance makes a bad one. Who, then, could become a bad doctor? Clearly, someone who is first a doctor at all, and then a good doctor -- since he could also become a bad one -- while we who have no knowledge of medicine could never, however badly we perform, become doctors, or carpenters, or anything else of that sort, by our bad performance. And whoever could not become a doctor by performing badly clearly could not become a bad doctor either. In just the same way a good man might at some point also become bad, whether through time, or hardship, or illness, or some other misfortune -- for this is the only bad performance there is, to be stripped of knowledge -- but a bad man could never become bad, since he already is bad; rather, if he is going to become bad, he must first have become good. So this part of the poem, too, points to the same thing: that it is not possible to be a good man, remaining good all the way through, but it is possible to become good -- and likewise to become bad, this very same man -- and that those are best for the longest time whom the gods love. All this, then, is said with Pittacus in mind, and what follows in the poem makes it even clearer. For he says -- 'therefore I will never, in search of what cannot be, cast away my portion of life on an empty, unattainable hope -- a man entirely blameless, among all of us who harvest the fruit of the wide earth; if I find him, I will report it to you' -- so he says. This is how vehemently, and throughout the whole poem, he keeps pressing against Pittacus's saying -- 'but I praise and love all who do nothing shameful, willingly; against necessity not even the gods make war.' And this too is said with the same point in mind. For Simonides was not so uneducated as to say that he praises those who do no wrong willingly, as though there were some people who do wrong on purpose. I am fairly sure of this much: that none of the wise men thinks any human being errs willingly, or willingly does shameful and bad things -- rather, they know well that all who do shameful and bad things do so unwillingly. And Simonides too does not say he is a praiser of whoever does no wrong willingly -- he is speaking about himself when he uses the word 'willingly.'

SOCRATES: For he thought that a fine and good man often forces himself to become someone's friend and to love and praise a friend -- as, for instance, a man often finds himself with a strange mother or father, or a homeland, or something else of that kind. Now when something like this happens to base men, they seem almost glad of it, and point it out, blaming and denouncing the baseness of their parents or their homeland, so that people will not reproach them or blame them for neglecting these, and will not reproach them for neglecting them -- so that they end up blaming them even more, and adding voluntary hostilities on top of the ones necessity imposed. But good men cover the matter up and force themselves to praise it, and if they are angered at their parents or homeland for some wrong done to them, they console themselves and reconcile, forcing themselves to love and praise their own. And I think Simonides himself often thought it right to praise and extol some tyrant or other such person, not willingly, but under compulsion. This, then, is what he says to Pittacus as well: 'Pittacus, it is not for this that I blame you, that I am fond of blame' -- since, he says, 'it is enough for me if a man is not bad, nor overly helpless, and knows justice that benefits the city, being a sound man; I will not find fault with him -- for I am not fond of fault-finding -- since the tribe of fools is endless. All things, indeed, are fine in which nothing shameful is mixed.' He does not mean this the way one might mean it by saying 'all things are white in which no black is mixed' -- that would be absurd in many ways -- but that he himself accepts what is middling too, so as not to find fault. 'And I do not seek,' he says, 'a man entirely blameless, among all of us who harvest the fruit of the wide earth; if I find him, I will report it to you.' So on that score I will praise no one -- but it is enough for me if a man is middling and does nothing bad; I love and praise all such men' -- and here he uses the dialect of the Mytilenaeans, since he is speaking to Pittacus, saying 'but all I praise and love, willingly, whoever does nothing shameful' -- here one must divide the sentence at the word 'willingly' when reading it -- 'but there are some I praise and love unwillingly.'

SOCRATES: 'You, then, Pittacus, even if you had spoken things that were only moderately fair and true, I would never have found fault with you; but as it is, you speak great falsehoods about the most important matters while seeming to speak the truth, and for this I do find fault with you.' This, Prodicus and Protagoras, is what I take it Simonides had in mind in composing this poem. And Hippias said, 'You too, Socrates, seem to me to have gone through the poem well; but I also have an account of it that I think is good, which I will show you, if you wish.' And Alcibiades said, 'Yes, Hippias, another time. For now it is only fair that Protagoras and Socrates keep to what they agreed between themselves -- that if Protagoras still wants to ask questions, Socrates should answer, but if he wants to answer Socrates, then he should let the other one ask.' And I said, 'I leave it to Protagoras to choose whichever he prefers. But if he's willing, let's set aside poems and verses, and let me gladly go on with you, Protagoras, to the end of the question I first asked you. For discussing poetry seems to me altogether too much like the drinking parties of ordinary, common people. Such people, because they are uneducated and cannot keep each other company over their wine through their own voices and their own words, put a high price on flute-girls, hiring the borrowed voice of the flutes at great expense, and keep each other company through their voices. But where the drinkers are fine, good, and educated men, you would see neither flute-girls nor dancing-girls nor harp-girls, but people content to keep each other company by themselves, through their own voices, speaking and listening to one another in turn and in good order, even if they drink a great deal of wine. In just this way, gatherings like ours, if they happen to involve men such as most of us claim to be, have no need of a borrowed voice, nor of poets, whom one cannot even question about what they mean -- and when people bring them into their arguments, some say the poet meant this, others that, arguing about a matter they are unable to settle.'

SOCRATES: 'But such gatherings as those, let them go their way; and let us keep each other's company ourselves, through our own words, putting one another to the test in our own arguments and being tested in turn. It seems to me you and I ought rather to imitate men of that sort, setting the poets aside and conducting our discussion through ourselves, with ourselves, testing the truth and testing each other. If you still want to ask questions, I am ready to offer myself to you and answer; or if you prefer, you can offer yourself to me, and let us bring to a conclusion what we broke off discussing partway through.' When I said this, and other things of the kind, Protagoras still would not make clear which of the two he would do. So Alcibiades, looking toward Callias, said, 'Callias, do you think Protagoras is behaving well right now, refusing to make clear whether he will engage in discussion or not? I don't think so -- either let him converse, or say that he does not wish to converse, so that we may all understand this about him, and Socrates can converse with someone else, or whoever else wants to, with someone else.' And Protagoras, apparently ashamed at Alcibiades saying this, and at Callias's pleading, and at nearly everyone else present, was reluctantly persuaded to engage in discussion, and told me to ask him questions, since he would answer. So I said: 'Protagoras, do not think that in conversing with you I want anything other than to examine closely the very things I myself am regularly at a loss about. For I think Homer says something quite true: When two go together, one notices before the other. Somehow all of us human beings are more resourceful for every deed and word and thought when we work together; but if a man notices something alone, he goes about at once looking for someone to show it to and confirm it with, until he finds someone. That is why I, for this very reason, would rather talk with you than with anyone else, since I think you would examine best, along with the other things a reasonable person is likely to consider, the matter of virtue as well. For who else, if not you? -- since you not only think yourself a fine and good man, as some others do who are decent themselves but cannot make others so,

SOCRATES: but you yourself are good, and are able to make others good as well, and you have such confidence in yourself that, while others hide this skill, you openly proclaim yourself before all the Greeks, calling yourself a sophist, and have declared yourself a teacher of education and virtue, the first to think it right to charge a fee for this. How then could I not call on you to examine these matters, and question you, and share my thoughts with you? There is no way I could not. And now I want again, from the beginning, to recall some of what I first asked you about these matters, and to examine the rest together with you. The question was, as I recall, this: wisdom and self-control and courage and justice and piety -- are these five names for one and the same thing, or does each of these names have its own distinct reality and thing underlying it, each having its own power, one not being like the other? You said, then, that they are not names for one thing, but that each of these names applies to its own distinct thing, and that all of these are parts of virtue -- not the way the parts of gold are alike to one another and to the whole of which they are parts, but the way the parts of a face are unlike the whole of which they are parts, and unlike one another, each having its own particular power. If this is still how it seems to you, as it did then, say so; but if you now hold some other view, define it, since I will not hold you to anything, in case you now say something different -- for I would not be surprised if you were only testing me when you said that before.' 'But I tell you, Socrates,' he said, 'that all these are parts of virtue, and that four of them are fairly close to one another, but courage is very different from all the rest. You will know that I speak the truth this way: you will find many men who are extremely unjust, and impious, and intemperate, and ignorant, yet outstandingly courageous.' 'Hold on,' I said, 'it's worth examining what you're saying. Do you mean by the courageous those who are bold, or something else?' 'Yes,' he said, 'and ready to go where most people are afraid to go.' 'Well then, you say virtue is a fine thing, and it is as something fine that you offer yourself as its teacher?' 'The finest thing there is,' he said, 'unless I'm mad.' 'Then is part of it shameful and part fine,' I said, 'or is it fine as a whole?' 'Fine as a whole, as much as anything could be,' he said.

SOCRATES: Do you know who dives into wells without fear? — I do: divers. — Because they know how, or for some other reason? — Because they know how. — And who are bold about fighting from horseback — riders or people who can't ride? — Riders. — And who about fighting with a light shield — men trained with shields, or those without? — The trained ones. And in fact, if that's what you're after, all the rest follows the same way: those who know are bolder than those who don't, and are bolder than they themselves were before they learned. — But have you ever seen people with no knowledge of any of these things who were nonetheless bold in the face of them? — I have, he said, extremely bold. — Well then, are these bold people also brave? — That would make courage a shameful thing, he said, since these people are simply mad. — Then what do you mean by the brave? Aren't they the bold ones? — Yes, even now, he said. — Then aren't these people, bold as they are, clearly not brave but mad? And over there, the wisest are also the boldest, and being boldest, the bravest — and by this reasoning wisdom would be courage? — You're not remembering correctly, Socrates, what I said and answered. When you asked me whether the brave are bold, I agreed. But whether the bold are brave, you never asked me — if you had asked me then, I would have said, not all of them. And you haven't shown anywhere that my admission that the brave are bold was wrong. Next, you point out that those who know are bolder than they were themselves and bolder than others who don't know, and from this you think courage and wisdom are the same thing. Going about it that way, you might as well conclude that strength is wisdom. First, if you questioned me this way — whether the strong are capable — I would say yes; then, whether those who know how to wrestle are more capable than those who don't, both compared to others and to themselves before and after learning, I would say yes. And once I'd agreed to that, you could use the very same evidence to claim that, by my own admission, wisdom is strength.

SOCRATES: But I never anywhere, not even there, admitted that the capable are strong — only that the strong are capable. For being capable and being strong are not the same: the one, capability, can come from knowledge, but also from madness and passion, while strength comes from nature and the proper nourishment of the body. In the same way, boldness and courage are not the same either. So it follows that the brave are bold, but not all the bold are brave — since boldness can come to people from skill, but also from passion and from madness, just like capability, whereas courage comes from nature and the proper nourishment of the soul. Now, Protagoras, I said, you say some people live well and others badly? — He agreed. — Do you think a person would live well if he lived in distress and pain? — He said no. — And what if someone lived his life pleasantly and then died? Wouldn't you say he had lived well in that case? — I would, he said. — So living pleasantly is good, and living unpleasantly is bad. — Only, he said, if one takes pleasure in honorable things. — What do you mean, Protagoras? Surely you're not, like most people, calling certain pleasant things bad and certain painful things good? I mean this: aren't things good, insofar as they are pleasant, precisely on that account — apart from whatever else may come of them? And likewise, aren't painful things bad simply insofar as they are painful? — I don't know, Socrates, he said, whether I should answer as simply as you put it — that all pleasant things are good and all painful things bad. It seems safer to me, not only for my answer today but for my whole life, to say that some pleasant things are not good, and some painful things are not bad, while others are as you say, and there's a third class that is neither, neither bad nor good. — And by pleasant, I said, you mean things that share in pleasure or produce pleasure? — Exactly, he said. — Then this is what I'm asking: insofar as they are pleasant, are they not good — that is, is pleasure itself not good? — As you always put it, Socrates, he said, let's examine the matter itself, and if the inquiry seems reasonable and the same thing turns out to be both pleasant and good, we'll agree; if not, then we'll dispute it. — Well then, I said, do you want to lead the inquiry, or shall I? — You should lead, he said, since you're the one who started the argument.

SOCRATES: Might it become clear to us this way, I said — as if someone, examining a man for his health or for some other bodily function, having seen only his face and hands, said: come, uncover your chest and back too and show me, so I can look more closely — that's the sort of thing I want for our inquiry. Having seen how you stand regarding the good and the pleasant, as you say, I need you to reveal something further of your thinking: how do you stand regarding knowledge? Do you think about it the way most people do, or differently? Most people think something like this about knowledge — that it isn't strong, or fit to lead or rule; they don't even conceive of it as being that kind of thing at all. Instead, though knowledge is often present in a person, they think it's not knowledge that rules him but something else — sometimes passion, sometimes pleasure, sometimes pain, sometimes love, often fear — treating knowledge quite literally as if it were a slave, dragged around by all these other things. Is that how it seems to you too, or do you think knowledge is a fine thing, capable of ruling a person, so that if someone knows what's good and bad, nothing could overpower him into acting otherwise than knowledge commands, but that understanding is sufficient to come to a person's aid? — It does seem that way to me, Socrates, he said, just as you put it — and besides, if it would be shameful for anyone to deny that wisdom and knowledge are the strongest of human things, it would be especially shameful for me. — Well said, and truly said, I replied. But you know that most people don't believe you and me — they say that many who know the best course won't act on it, even though they could, but do something else instead; and whenever I've asked people what accounts for this, they say that those who act this way are overcome by pleasure or pain, or ruled by one of the things I just mentioned. — Yes, he said, Socrates, and I think people are wrong about a good many other things too.

SOCRATES: Come then, join me in trying to persuade people and teach them what this experience actually is that they call being overcome by pleasures, on account of which they fail to do what is best even though they know it. Perhaps, if we told them: you're not speaking correctly, friends, you're mistaken — they might ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this isn't being overcome by pleasure, then what is it, and what do you two say it is? Tell us. — Why must we consider the opinion of the many, Socrates, who say whatever comes into their heads? — I think, I said, this will help us discover something about courage, and how it relates to the other parts of virtue. So if you're willing to stick with what we just agreed, let me lead in the direction I think will make things clearest — follow me; but if you'd rather not, and it suits you, I'll let it go. — No, he said, you're right — carry on as you began. — Well then, I said, suppose they asked us again: what do you claim this thing is, then, that we called being weaker than pleasures? I would answer them like this: Listen — Protagoras and I will try to explain it to you. Isn't this what you mean, friends, when you say this happens to you: often, overpowered by food or drink or sex, pleasant as they are, you do these things even while knowing they're bad? — They would say yes. — Then wouldn't you and I ask them again: In what way do you say these things are bad? Because they give this pleasure right now, in the moment, and each of them is pleasant — or because later on they cause diseases and poverty and bring about many other such troubles? Or even if none of that followed later, and all they did was give pleasure, would they still be bad simply because they make one feel pleasure, in whatever way? Don't we suppose, Protagoras, they would answer anything other than that these things are bad not on account of the pleasure they produce in the moment, but because of what comes later — the diseases and the rest? — I think, said Protagoras, that most people would answer that way. — And doesn't causing disease cause pain, and doesn't causing poverty cause pain? They would agree, I think. — Protagoras agreed.

SOCRATES: So it appears, friends, as Protagoras and I would say, that these things are bad for no other reason than that they end in pain and deprive you of other pleasures. Would they agree? — We both thought so. — And then, in turn, if we asked them the opposite question: friends, you who say that painful things can be good — don't you mean things like this: physical training, and military campaigns, and medical treatments involving cauterizing and cutting and drugs and starvation diets — that these are good, yet painful? They would say yes. — Do you call these things good because in the moment they cause the most extreme pains and sufferings, or because afterward health results from them, and physical fitness, and the safety of cities, and power and wealth for others? They would say the latter, I think. — We both thought so. — And are these things good for any reason other than that they end in pleasures and in the relief and avoidance of pain? Or can you name some other end you have in view when you call them good, besides pleasures and pains? — I don't think they could, Protagoras said. — So then you pursue pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as an evil? — We both thought so. — So this, then, is what you consider bad — pain — and this, pleasure, good, since you even call the very experience of enjoying something bad, whenever it deprives you of greater pleasures than it contains, or brings about greater pains than the pleasures within it. For if you called enjoyment itself bad on some other ground, looking to some other end, you could tell us — but you won't be able to. — Nor do I think they could, said Protagoras. — Isn't the same true, in turn, of feeling pain? You call the experience of pain itself good whenever it removes greater pains than it contains, or brings about greater pleasures than the pains involve. For if you're looking to some other end when you call the experience of pain itself good, other than what I've described, you could tell us — but you won't be able to. — That's true, said Protagoras. — Well then, I said, if you asked me in turn, friends, why do you go on about this at such length and in so many ways — forgive me, I would say. First, it isn't easy to show what this thing is that you call being overcome by pleasures; and second, the whole argument depends on it.

SOCRATES: But you can still take it back, even now, if you have some other way of saying what the good is besides pleasure, or what the bad is besides pain. Or is it enough for you that a life be lived pleasantly, without pains? If that's enough, and you have nothing else to call good or bad that doesn't come down to this in the end, then hear what follows. I say that, given this, your account becomes absurd whenever you claim that a person, knowing that certain things are bad, does them anyway, when he need not, because he's driven and overwhelmed by pleasures; and then again you say that a person, knowing the good things, isn't willing to do them because of the immediate pleasures, being overpowered by them. How absurd this is will become obvious if we stop using so many names at once—pleasant and painful, good and bad—and, since these turned out to be really two things, call them by two names only: first good and bad, and then, separately, pleasant and painful. Having settled that, let's say: a person, knowing that bad things are bad, does them anyway. If someone then asks us why, we'll say: because he's overcome. Overcome by what, he'll ask us in turn. We can no longer say 'by pleasure'—since good has taken over the name that pleasure used to have. So we answer him and say: overcome. By what, he'll say. By the good, we'll say, by Zeus. Now if the one questioning us happens to be a rude sort, he'll laugh and say: what an absurd thing you're saying, if someone does bad things, knowing they're bad, when he needn't do them, because he's overcome by good things! Is it, he'll ask, because the good things in you aren't worth beating the bad ones, or because they are worth it? We'll obviously answer that they aren't worth it—otherwise the man we say is weaker than his pleasures wouldn't have gone wrong. And in what respect, he'll perhaps ask, are the good things not worth as much as the bad, or the bad not worth as much as the good? Is it anything other than this: that one set is bigger and the other smaller, or one more numerous and the other less? We won't be able to say anything else. So clearly, he'll say, what you mean by 'being overcome' is taking greater bad things in exchange for lesser good ones. So much for that.

SOCRATES: Let's take the names back again—pleasant and painful applied to these same things—and say: a person does what we before called the bad things, but now let's call them the painful things, knowing they're painful, overcome by the pleasant things, which clearly aren't worth prevailing. And what other lack of worth could pleasure have against pain, except an excess or a deficiency relative to each other? These come down to being bigger and smaller than each other, more and less, greater and lesser. For if someone says: but Socrates, the pleasure right now is very different from the pleasant or painful that comes later in time—I would say, different in what other respect than pleasure and pain? There's nothing else it could be. Rather, like a good man weighing things, put the pleasant things together, and the painful things together, and set the near and the far on the scale, and tell me which are more. If you weigh pleasant things against pleasant things, always take the bigger and more numerous; if painful against painful, take the fewer and smaller. If you weigh pleasant against painful, and the painful is exceeded by the pleasant—whether the near by the far or the far by the near—then that's the action to perform; but if the pleasant is exceeded by the painful, it's not to be performed. Isn't that how it is, my friends, I would say—could things be otherwise? I know they couldn't say anything else. And Protagoras agreed too. Since this is so, I'll say, answer me this: do the same sizes appear to your eyes bigger from up close and smaller from far away, or not? They'll say yes. And the same for thickness and number? And do equal sounds seem louder up close and fainter from far off? They'd agree. Now if our doing well in life depended on this—on taking and doing the things of great length and size, and avoiding and not doing the small ones—what would we find as our life's salvation? Would it be the art of measurement, or the power of appearance? Wouldn't the latter make us wander and flip back and forth, often changing our minds about the same things and regretting our actions and choices among the large and small, while measurement would strip that appearance of its power, and by revealing the truth would let the soul rest quietly on what's true, and so save our life? Would people agree, faced with this, that it's the art of measurement that would save us, or some other art? They agreed: the art of measurement.

SOCRATES: And what if our life's salvation lay in the choice between odd and even—knowing correctly when to choose the greater and when the lesser, whether comparing a quantity to itself or one to another, whether near or far? What would save our life then? Wouldn't it be knowledge? And wouldn't it be some kind of measurement, since the art concerns excess and deficiency? And since it concerns odd and even, would it be anything other than arithmetic? Would people agree with us, or not? They seemed to think Protagoras would agree too. Very well, my friends: since it turned out that our life's salvation lies in the correct choice between pleasure and pain—the more and the less, the greater and the smaller, the farther and the nearer—doesn't this appear, first of all, to be a matter of measurement, since it's an examination of excess, deficiency, and equality relative to one another? Necessarily so. And since it's measurement, it must surely be some art and some knowledge. They'll agree to that. What sort of art and knowledge this is, we'll examine another time; but that it is knowledge is enough for the proof that I and Protagoras need to give concerning the question you asked us. You asked—if you remember—back when we were agreeing with one another that nothing is stronger than knowledge, and that knowledge always rules wherever it's present, over pleasure and everything else; but you said that pleasure often rules even the person who knows. Since we didn't agree with you, you then asked us: Protagoras, and you, Socrates, if this experience isn't being overcome by pleasure, then what is it, and what do you claim it is? Tell us. Now if we had told you right then that it was ignorance, you would have laughed at us; but as it is, if you laugh at us, you'll be laughing at yourselves. For you yourselves have agreed that people who go wrong in choosing pleasures and pains—which are, after all, the good and the bad—do so from a lack of knowledge, and not just knowledge in general, but, as you agreed earlier still, a lack of the art of measurement. And an action gone wrong without knowledge, you yourselves know, is done out of ignorance. So this is what being overcome by pleasure amounts to: the greatest ignorance, which Protagoras here claims to cure, and Prodicus, and Hippias. But you, because you think it's something other than ignorance, don't send yourselves or your children to these sophists, their teachers, as though it weren't teachable—instead, hoarding your money and not paying them, you do badly, both privately and publicly.

SOCRATES: That would be our answer to the crowd. But you, Hippias and Prodicus, along with Protagoras, I ask—let the argument be shared among you—whether you think I'm speaking the truth or lying. It seemed to all of them, remarkably, that what had been said was true. So you agree, I said, that the pleasant is good and the painful is bad. As for Prodicus's distinctions between names, I'll set those aside—whether you call it pleasant or delightful or joyous, or however and wherever you like to name such things, my excellent Prodicus, just answer me with respect to what I'm asking. Prodicus laughed and agreed, and so did the others. Well then, gentlemen, I said, what about this: aren't all the actions aimed at living painlessly and pleasantly fine and beneficial? And isn't a fine deed both good and beneficial? They agreed. So if the pleasant is good, I said, then no one who knows or believes that other things available to him are better than what he's doing, and possible to do, goes on to do the worse instead, when the better is available. And being weaker than oneself is nothing other than ignorance, just as being stronger than oneself is nothing other than wisdom. They all agreed. Well then—do you call this ignorance: holding a false belief and being deceived about matters of great importance? They all agreed to that too. So then, I said, no one willingly goes toward bad things, or toward what he believes to be bad; it isn't, it seems, in human nature to want to go toward what one believes to be bad instead of toward the good. And when forced to choose between two bad things, no one will choose the greater when the lesser is available. All of us agreed to all of this. Well then, I said—do you have some word for dread and fear? And is it what I mean by it (I say this to you, Prodicus)? I mean by it some expectation of something bad, whether you call it fear or dread. Protagoras and Hippias thought this was dread and fear; Prodicus thought it was dread, but not fear. It makes no difference, Prodicus, I said—here's the point: if what's been said so far is true, will anyone be willing to go toward the things he dreads, when he could go toward other things instead? Or is that impossible, given what we've agreed? For it has been agreed that what a person dreads, he believes to be bad; and what he believes to be bad, no one willingly goes toward or takes up. They all agreed to this as well.

SOCRATES: Given these things settled, I said, Prodicus and Hippias, let Protagoras here defend how his first answer was correct—not his very first answer of all: back then, with virtue having five parts, he said none of them was like any other, each having its own distinct power. That's not what I mean, but what he said afterward. For afterward he said that four of them were fairly close to one another, but one differed greatly from the rest—courage—and he said I'd recognize this by the following mark: you'll find, Socrates, he said, people who are utterly unholy, unjust, undisciplined, and ignorant, and yet extremely courageous; from this you'll see that courage differs greatly from the other parts of virtue. And I was quite amazed by this answer right from the start, and even more so once we'd gone through it together with you. So I asked him whether he meant that the courageous are bold. And he said: yes, and impetuous too. Do you remember, Protagoras, I said, giving that answer? He admitted he did. Come then, I said, tell us—toward what do you say the courageous are impetuous? Toward the same things the cowardly go toward? He said no. Toward other things, then. Yes, he said. Do the cowardly go toward what's reassuring, while the courageous go toward what's terrible? That's what people say, Socrates. That's true, I said, what you're saying—but that's not what I'm asking. I'm asking what you say the courageous are impetuous toward. Is it toward the things they believe to be terrible, or toward the things that aren't? But that, he said, has just been shown impossible in the argument you were making. That's also true, I said—so if that was shown correctly, then no one goes toward what he believes to be terrible, since being weaker than oneself was found to be ignorance. He agreed. But surely everyone alike goes toward what they're confident about—both cowards and the courageous—and in that respect the cowardly and the courageous go toward the same things. But still, Socrates, he said, it's exactly the opposite of what the cowardly and the courageous go toward. Take war, for instance: some are willing to go, others aren't. And is going to war, I said, a fine thing or a shameful one? Fine, he said. And if it's fine, then we already agreed earlier that it's good too—for we agreed that all fine actions are good. That's true, and it always seems so to me.

SOCRATES: Quite right, I said. But which people do you say are unwilling to go to war, when war is a fine and good thing? — The cowards, he said. — Then, I said, if it's fine and good, it's also pleasant? — That much has been agreed, he said. — So do the cowards, knowing this, refuse to go toward what is finer, better, and more pleasant? — But if we agree to that too, he said, we'll be wrecking our earlier agreements. — And what about the courageous man? Doesn't he go toward what is finer, better, and more pleasant? — He has to agree to that, he said. — So on the whole the courageous don't feel shameful fears when they feel fear, nor take shameful confidence when they're confident? — True, he said. — And if not shameful, then fine? — He agreed. — And if fine, then also good? — Yes. — So the cowardly, the rash, and the mad, on the other hand, feel shameful fears and take shameful confidence? — He agreed. — And do they take confidence in shameful, bad things for any reason other than ignorance and lack of understanding? — That's how it is, he said. — Well then, this thing that makes cowards cowardly — do you call it cowardice or courage? — Cowardice, for my part, he said. — And weren't they shown to be cowardly on account of their ignorance of what is to be feared? — Quite so, he said. — So it's because of this ignorance that they're cowardly? — He agreed. — And you agree that whatever makes them cowardly is cowardice? — He assented. — So ignorance of what is to be feared and what is not would be cowardice? — He nodded. — But surely, I said, courage is the opposite of cowardice. — He agreed. — So wisdom about what is to be feared and what is not is the opposite of ignorance about these things? — Here too he still nodded. — And ignorance of these things is cowardice? — Here he nodded only very reluctantly. — Then wisdom about what is to be feared and what is not is courage, being the opposite of ignorance about these things? — At this point he was no longer willing even to nod, and fell silent. — And I said: Why is it, Protagoras, that you neither affirm nor deny what I'm asking? — Finish it yourself, he said. — Just one thing more, I said, let me ask you — whether it still seems to you, as it did at first, that there are some people who are most ignorant and yet most courageous. — You seem to me, Socrates, he said, to be bent on making me the one who answers. Well, I'll indulge you, and I say that on the basis of what we've agreed, it seems to me impossible. — I'm not asking all this, I said, for any reason but to examine how things stand regarding virtue, and what virtue itself actually is.

SOCRATES: I know that once that's made clear, it would above all bring to light that other matter, about which you and I each delivered a long speech — I arguing that virtue isn't teachable, you that it is. And it seems to me that our recent exit from the argument, like some person, is accusing us and laughing at us, and if it took on a voice it would say: You two are strange, Socrates and Protagoras. You, saying earlier that virtue isn't teachable, are now straining to argue the opposite of yourself, trying to show that everything is knowledge — justice, self-control, and courage too — which is exactly the way virtue would most appear to be teachable. For if virtue were something other than knowledge, as Protagoras tried to argue, it clearly wouldn't be teachable; but as it is, if it turns out to be entirely knowledge, as you are straining to show, Socrates, it would be strange if it weren't teachable. Protagoras, on the other hand, having assumed at the start that it's teachable, now seems to be straining toward the opposite, that it would turn out to be almost anything rather than knowledge — and so it would least of all be teachable. So I, Protagoras, seeing all this thrown into terrible confusion, top to bottom, am thoroughly eager to see it made clear, and I would like us to go through all this and arrive at what virtue is, and then examine again whether it is teachable or not — in case that Epimetheus of yours trips us up and deceives us yet again in our inquiry, just as he neglected us in the distribution, by your own account. I liked Prometheus better than Epimetheus in the story too — following his example, and taking forethought on behalf of my whole life, I busy myself with all this. And if you're willing, as I said at the start, I'd be very glad to examine these things together with you. And Protagoras said: For my part, Socrates, I praise your eagerness and the way you've conducted the argument. I don't think I'm a bad man in other respects, and I'm the least envious of men — indeed I've told many people about you, that of everyone I meet I admire you by far the most, among men of your age especially, and I say I wouldn't be surprised if you became one of the men renowned for wisdom. As for these matters, we'll go through them another time, whenever you like — but for now it's time to turn to something else.

SOCRATES: Well, I said, that's what we should do, if it seems best to you. I too have long been due to go where I said I was going — but I stayed to do a favor for the handsome Callias. Having said this and heard this, we went our ways.

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