Introduction

The Protagoras, like several of the Dialogues of Plato, is put into the mouth of Socrates, who describes a conversation which had taken place between himself and the great Sophist at the house of Callias—'the man who had spent more upon the Sophists than all the rest of the world'—and in which the learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus had also shared, as well as Alcibiades and Critias, both of whom said a few words—in the presence of a distinguished company consisting of disciples of Protagoras and of leading Athenians belonging to the Socratic circle. The dialogue commences with a request on the part of Hippocrates that Socrates would introduce him to the celebrated teacher. He has come before the dawn had risen—so fervid is his zeal. Socrates moderates his excitement and advises him to find out 'what Protagoras will make of him,' before he becomes his pupil.

Like several of Plato’s Dialogues, the Protagoras is narrated by Socrates. He describes a conversation he had with the great Sophist at the house of Callias. Callias was 'the man who had spent more upon the Sophists than all the rest of the world'. The learned Hippias and the grammarian Prodicus also took part, along with Alcibiades and Critias, who each spoke briefly. A distinguished group witnessed the conversation, including Protagoras’s students and leading Athenians from the Socratic circle. The dialogue begins with Hippocrates asking Socrates to introduce him to the famous teacher. Hippocrates is so eager that he has arrived before dawn. Socrates calms his excitement and advises him to discover 'what Protagoras will make of him' before becoming his student.

They go together to the house of Callias; and Socrates, after explaining the purpose of their visit to Protagoras, asks the question, 'What he will make of Hippocrates.' Protagoras answers, 'That he will make him a better and a wiser man.' 'But in what will he be better?'—Socrates desires to have a more precise answer. Protagoras replies, 'That he will teach him prudence in affairs private and public; in short, the science or knowledge of human life.'

They go together to the house of Callias. Socrates explains the purpose of their visit to Protagoras, then asks, 'What will you make of Hippocrates?' Protagoras answers, 'I will make him a better and wiser man.' 'But in what way will he be better?' Socrates wants a more precise answer. Protagoras replies, 'I will teach him good judgment in private and public affairs. In short, I will teach him the science or knowledge of human life.'

This, as Socrates admits, is a noble profession; but he is or rather would have been doubtful, whether such knowledge can be taught, if Protagoras had not assured him of the fact, for two reasons: (1) Because the Athenian people, who recognize in their assemblies the distinction between the skilled and the unskilled in the arts, do not distinguish between the trained politician and the untrained; (2) Because the wisest and best Athenian citizens do not teach their sons political virtue. Will Protagoras answer these objections?

Socrates admits that this is a noble profession. But he doubts whether such knowledge can be taught. Or rather, he would have doubted it if Protagoras had not assured him that it could. His doubts have two reasons: (1) In their assemblies, the Athenian people distinguish between those skilled in the arts and those without such skills. But they do not distinguish between trained and untrained politicians. (2) The wisest and best Athenian citizens do not teach their sons political virtue. Will Protagoras answer these objections?

Protagoras explains his views in the form of an apologue, in which, after Prometheus had given men the arts, Zeus is represented as sending Hermes to them, bearing with him Justice and Reverence. These are not, like the arts, to be imparted to a few only, but all men are to be partakers of them. Therefore the Athenian people are right in distinguishing between the skilled and unskilled in the arts, and not between skilled and unskilled politicians. (1) For all men have the political virtues to a certain degree, and are obliged to say that they have them, whether they have them or not. A man would be thought a madman who professed an art which he did not know; but he would be equally thought a madman if he did not profess a virtue which he had not. (2) And that the political virtues can be taught and acquired, in the opinion of the Athenians, is proved by the fact that they punish evil-doers, with a view to prevention, of course—mere retribution is for beasts, and not for men. (3) Again, would parents who teach her sons lesser matters leave them ignorant of the common duty of citizens? To the doubt of Socrates the best answer is the fact, that the education of youth in virtue begins almost as soon as they can speak, and is continued by the state when they pass out of the parental control. (4) Nor need we wonder that wise and good fathers sometimes have foolish and worthless sons. Virtue, as we were saying, is not the private possession of any man, but is shared by all, only however to the extent of which each individual is by nature capable. And, as a matter of fact, even the worst of civilized mankind will appear virtuous and just, if we compare them with savages. (5) The error of Socrates lies in supposing that there are no teachers of virtue, whereas all men are teachers in a degree. Some, like Protagoras, are better than others, and with this result we ought to be satisfied.

Protagoras explains his views through a fable. After Prometheus gives humans the arts, Zeus sends Hermes to them with Justice and Reverence. Unlike the arts, these gifts are not meant for only a few. Everyone must share in them. So the Athenian people are right to distinguish between skilled and unskilled people in the arts, but not in politics. (1) For everyone has the virtues needed for public life to some degree. Everyone must claim to have these virtues, whether they have them or not. A man would be considered mad if he claimed to practice an art he did not know. But he would also be considered mad if he lacked a virtue and did not claim to have it. (2) The Athenians believe that the virtues needed for public life can be taught and acquired. Their punishment of wrongdoers proves this belief. Of course, they punish to prevent wrongdoing. Mere revenge is for beasts, not humans. (3) Again, would parents who teach their sons less important things leave them ignorant of citizens’ shared duties? The best answer to Socrates’ doubt is the fact that children’s education in virtue begins almost as soon as they can speak. The state continues this education when young people leave their parents’ control. (4) Nor should we be surprised that wise and good fathers sometimes have foolish and worthless sons. As we were saying, virtue is not anyone’s private possession. Everyone shares in virtue, but only to the extent that each person’s nature allows. In fact, even the worst people in civilized societies will seem virtuous and just if we compare them with savages. (5) Socrates’ mistake is to suppose that there are no teachers of virtue. In fact, everyone teaches virtue to some degree. Some, like Protagoras, are better teachers than others, and we should be satisfied with that result.

Socrates is highly delighted with the explanation of Protagoras. But he has still a doubt lingering in his mind. Protagoras has spoken of the virtues: are they many, or one? are they parts of a whole, or different names of the same thing? Protagoras replies that they are parts, like the parts of a face, which have their several functions, and no one part is like any other part. This admission, which has been somewhat hastily made, is now taken up and cross-examined by Socrates:—

Socrates is delighted with Protagoras’s explanation. But a doubt still lingers in his mind. Protagoras has spoken of the virtues. Are they many, or one? Are they parts of a whole, or different names for the same thing? Protagoras replies that the virtues are parts, like the parts of a face. Each part has its own function, and no part is like any other. Protagoras has made this admission somewhat hastily. Socrates now takes up the admission and examines it closely through questioning:

'Is justice just, and is holiness holy? And are justice and holiness opposed to one another?'—'Then justice is unholy.' Protagoras would rather say that justice is different from holiness, and yet in a certain point of view nearly the same. He does not, however, escape in this way from the cunning of Socrates, who inveigles him into an admission that everything has but one opposite. Folly, for example, is opposed to wisdom; and folly is also opposed to temperance; and therefore temperance and wisdom are the same. And holiness has been already admitted to be nearly the same as justice. Temperance, therefore, has now to be compared with justice.

'Is justice just, and is holiness holy? And are justice and holiness opposites?' 'Then justice is unholy.' Protagoras would rather say that justice differs from holiness, yet from a certain viewpoint the two are nearly the same. But this distinction does not let him escape Socrates’ cunning. Socrates tricks him into admitting that everything has only one opposite. Folly, for example, is the opposite of wisdom. Folly is also the opposite of temperance, so temperance and wisdom are the same. And holiness has already been accepted as nearly the same as justice. Temperance must therefore now be compared with justice.

Protagoras, whose temper begins to get a little ruffled at the process to which he has been subjected, is aware that he will soon be compelled by the dialectics of Socrates to admit that the temperate is the just. He therefore defends himself with his favourite weapon; that is to say, he makes a long speech not much to the point, which elicits the applause of the audience.

Protagoras is beginning to get a little irritated by the questioning he has faced. He knows Socrates’ reasoning will soon force him to admit that being self-controlled is the same as being just. So he defends himself with his favorite weapon: a long speech that largely misses the point but wins the audience’s applause.

Here occurs a sort of interlude, which commences with a declaration on the part of Socrates that he cannot follow a long speech, and therefore he must beg Protagoras to speak shorter. As Protagoras declines to accommodate him, he rises to depart, but is detained by Callias, who thinks him unreasonable in not allowing Protagoras the liberty which he takes himself of speaking as he likes. But Alcibiades answers that the two cases are not parallel. For Socrates admits his inability to speak long; will Protagoras in like manner acknowledge his inability to speak short?

A kind of interlude begins here. Socrates declares that he cannot follow a long speech, so he must ask Protagoras to speak more briefly. Protagoras refuses to accommodate him, so Socrates gets up to leave. But Callias stops him, arguing that Socrates is being unreasonable. Socrates allows himself to speak as he likes, yet denies Protagoras the same freedom. But Alcibiades replies that the two cases are not alike. Socrates admits that he cannot give long speeches. Will Protagoras likewise admit that he cannot speak briefly?

Counsels of moderation are urged first in a few words by Critias, and then by Prodicus in balanced and sententious language: and Hippias proposes an umpire. But who is to be the umpire? rejoins Socrates; he would rather suggest as a compromise that Protagoras shall ask and he will answer, and that when Protagoras is tired of asking he himself will ask and Protagoras shall answer. To this the latter yields a reluctant assent.

Critias first urges moderation in a few words. Then Prodicus does the same in carefully balanced phrases full of wise sayings. Hippias proposes an umpire. But who will be the umpire, Socrates asks? Instead, Socrates suggests a compromise: Protagoras will ask questions, and Socrates will answer. When Protagoras gets tired of asking, Socrates will ask questions, and Protagoras will answer. Protagoras reluctantly agrees.

Protagoras selects as his thesis a poem of Simonides of Ceos, in which he professes to find a contradiction. First the poet says,

Protagoras chooses a poem by Simonides of Ceos for discussion. He claims to find a contradiction in the poem. First the poet says,

and then reproaches Pittacus for having said, 'Hard is it to be good.' How is this to be reconciled? Socrates, who is familiar with the poem, is embarrassed at first, and invokes the aid of Prodicus, the countryman of Simonides, but apparently only with the intention of flattering him into absurdities. First a distinction is drawn between (Greek) to be, and (Greek) to become: to become good is difficult; to be good is easy. Then the word difficult or hard is explained to mean 'evil' in the Cean dialect. To all this Prodicus assents; but when Protagoras reclaims, Socrates slily withdraws Prodicus from the fray, under the pretence that his assent was only intended to test the wits of his adversary. He then proceeds to give another and more elaborate explanation of the whole passage. The explanation is as follows:—

and then criticizes Pittacus for saying, 'It is hard to be good.' How can these statements be reconciled? Socrates knows the poem but is at first puzzled. He calls on Prodicus, a fellow countryman of Simonides, for help. But apparently, Socrates only means to flatter Prodicus into saying absurd things. First, a distinction is made between (Greek) to be and (Greek) to become. Becoming good is difficult, but being good is easy. Then the word difficult or hard is explained as meaning 'evil' in the Cean dialect. Prodicus agrees with all these points. But when Protagoras objects, Socrates slyly draws Prodicus out of the debate. Socrates claims that Prodicus agreed only to test his opponent's wits. Socrates then offers another, more detailed explanation of the whole passage. The explanation is as follows:

The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers (although this is a fact which is not generally known); and the soul of their philosophy is brevity, which was also the style of primitive antiquity and of the seven sages. Now Pittacus had a saying, 'Hard is it to be good:' and Simonides, who was jealous of the fame of this saying, wrote a poem which was designed to controvert it. No, says he, Pittacus; not 'hard to be good,' but 'hard to become good.' Socrates proceeds to argue in a highly impressive manner that the whole composition is intended as an attack upon Pittacus. This, though manifestly absurd, is accepted by the company, and meets with the special approval of Hippias, who has however a favourite interpretation of his own, which he is requested by Alcibiades to defer.

The Lacedaemonians are great philosophers, although few people know this. Brevity is the heart of their philosophy, as it was in early antiquity and among the seven sages. Now Pittacus had a saying, 'It is hard to be good.' Simonides, jealous of the saying’s fame, wrote a poem intended to challenge it. No, he says, Pittacus, not 'hard to be good,' but 'hard to become good.' Socrates goes on to argue very impressively that the entire poem is an attack on Pittacus. Although this interpretation is clearly absurd, the group accepts it. Hippias especially approves, though he has a favorite interpretation of his own. Alcibiades asks Hippias to save his interpretation for later.

The argument is now resumed, not without some disdainful remarks of Socrates on the practice of introducing the poets, who ought not to be allowed, any more than flute-girls, to come into good society. Men's own thoughts should supply them with the materials for discussion. A few soothing flatteries are addressed to Protagoras by Callias and Socrates, and then the old question is repeated, 'Whether the virtues are one or many?' To which Protagoras is now disposed to reply, that four out of the five virtues are in some degree similar; but he still contends that the fifth, courage, is unlike the rest. Socrates proceeds to undermine the last stronghold of the adversary, first obtaining from him the admission that all virtue is in the highest degree good:—

The argument now resumes, with some scornful remarks from Socrates about bringing poets into the discussion. Poets, like flute-girls, should not be allowed into respectable company. Men should draw on their own thoughts for discussion. Callias and Socrates offer Protagoras a few soothing words of flattery. Then the old question is asked again, 'Are the virtues one or many?' Protagoras is now inclined to answer that four of the five virtues are somewhat similar. But he still insists that the fifth, courage, is unlike the others. Socrates sets out to undermine his opponent's last stronghold. First, he gets Protagoras to admit that all virtue is good in the highest degree:

The courageous are the confident; and the confident are those who know their business or profession: those who have no such knowledge and are still confident are madmen. This is admitted. Then, says Socrates, courage is knowledge—an inference which Protagoras evades by drawing a futile distinction between the courageous and the confident in a fluent speech.

Courageous people are confident, and confident people know their trade or profession. People who lack that knowledge but are still confident are madmen. This is agreed. So, Socrates says, courage is knowledge. Protagoras dodges this conclusion with a smooth speech, drawing a pointless distinction between courageous people and confident people.

Socrates renews the attack from another side: he would like to know whether pleasure is not the only good, and pain the only evil? Protagoras seems to doubt the morality or propriety of assenting to this; he would rather say that 'some pleasures are good, some pains are evil,' which is also the opinion of the generality of mankind. What does he think of knowledge? Does he agree with the common opinion that knowledge is overcome by passion? or does he hold that knowledge is power? Protagoras agrees that knowledge is certainly a governing power.

Socrates renews his challenge from another angle: is pleasure the only good, and pain the only evil? Protagoras seems unsure whether agreeing would be morally right or proper. He would rather say that 'some pleasures are good, some pains are evil,' as most people also believe. What does Protagoras think about knowledge? Does he share the common view that passion overcomes knowledge? Or does he believe that knowledge is power? Protagoras agrees that knowledge certainly has the power to govern.

This, however, is not the doctrine of men in general, who maintain that many who know what is best, act contrary to their knowledge under the influence of pleasure. But this opposition of good and evil is really the opposition of a greater or lesser amount of pleasure. Pleasures are evils because they end in pain, and pains are goods because they end in pleasures. Thus pleasure is seen to be the only good; and the only evil is the preference of the lesser pleasure to the greater. But then comes in the illusion of distance. Some art of mensuration is required in order to show us pleasures and pains in their true proportion. This art of mensuration is a kind of knowledge, and knowledge is thus proved once more to be the governing principle of human life, and ignorance the origin of all evil: for no one prefers the less pleasure to the greater, or the greater pain to the less, except from ignorance. The argument is drawn out in an imaginary 'dialogue within a dialogue,' conducted by Socrates and Protagoras on the one part, and the rest of the world on the other. Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, admit the soundness of the conclusion.

Most people, however, do not accept this view. They maintain that many people know what is best but act against that knowledge under the influence of pleasure. But this conflict between good and evil is really a conflict between greater and lesser amounts of pleasure. Pleasures are evils because they end in pain, and pains are goods because they end in pleasure. Thus pleasure is shown to be the only good. The only evil is choosing a lesser pleasure over a greater one. But then the illusion of distance comes into play. We need some method of measurement to show us pleasures and pains in their true proportions. This method of measurement is a kind of knowledge. So knowledge is once again proved to be the guiding principle of human life, and ignorance the source of all evil. For no one chooses less pleasure over more, or greater pain over less, except through ignorance. The argument unfolds in an imaginary 'dialogue within a dialogue.' Socrates and Protagoras take one side, and the rest of the world takes the other. Hippias and Prodicus, along with Protagoras, accept the conclusion as sound.

Socrates then applies this new conclusion to the case of courage—the only virtue which still holds out against the assaults of the Socratic dialectic. No one chooses the evil or refuses the good except through ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to war:—because they form a wrong estimate of good, and honour, and pleasure. And why are the courageous willing to go to war?—because they form a right estimate of pleasures and pains, of things terrible and not terrible. Courage then is knowledge, and cowardice is ignorance. And the five virtues, which were originally maintained to have five different natures, after having been easily reduced to two only, at last coalesce in one. The assent of Protagoras to this last position is extracted with great difficulty.

Socrates then applies this new conclusion to courage, the only virtue still resisting his method of questioning. No one chooses evil or rejects good except through ignorance. This explains why cowards refuse to go to war: they misjudge what is good, honorable, and pleasant. And why are courageous people willing to go to war? Because they correctly judge pleasures and pains, and what should and should not be feared. Courage, then, is knowledge, and cowardice is ignorance. The five virtues were originally said to have five different natures. After being easily reduced to just two, the five virtues finally merge into one. Protagoras is persuaded to agree with this final conclusion only with great difficulty.

Socrates concludes by professing his disinterested love of the truth, and remarks on the singular manner in which he and his adversary had changed sides. Protagoras began by asserting, and Socrates by denying, the teachableness of virtue, and now the latter ends by affirming that virtue is knowledge, which is the most teachable of all things, while Protagoras has been striving to show that virtue is not knowledge, and this is almost equivalent to saying that virtue cannot be taught. He is not satisfied with the result, and would like to renew the enquiry with the help of Protagoras in a different order, asking (1) What virtue is, and (2) Whether virtue can be taught. Protagoras declines this offer, but commends Socrates' earnestness and his style of discussion.

Socrates concludes by declaring that he loves truth for its own sake. He notes how strangely he and his opponent have switched sides. Protagoras began by claiming that virtue could be taught, while Socrates denied it. Now Socrates ends by affirming that virtue is knowledge, and knowledge is the most teachable of all things. Meanwhile, Protagoras has been trying to show that virtue is not knowledge. His position comes close to saying that virtue cannot be taught. Socrates is not satisfied with the result. He would like to restart the inquiry with Protagoras' help, taking the questions in a different order: (1) What is virtue? (2) Can virtue be taught? Protagoras declines the offer but praises Socrates' seriousness and his way of conducting the discussion.

The Protagoras is often supposed to be full of difficulties. These are partly imaginary and partly real. The imaginary ones are (1) Chronological,—which were pointed out in ancient times by Athenaeus, and are noticed by Schleiermacher and others, and relate to the impossibility of all the persons in the Dialogue meeting at any one time, whether in the year 425 B.C., or in any other. But Plato, like all writers of fiction, aims only at the probable, and shows in many Dialogues (e.g. the Symposium and Republic, and already in the Laches) an extreme disregard of the historical accuracy which is sometimes demanded of him. (2) The exact place of the Protagoras among the Dialogues, and the date of composition, have also been much disputed. But there are no criteria which afford any real grounds for determining the date of composition; and the affinities of the Dialogues, when they are not indicated by Plato himself, must always to a great extent remain uncertain. (3) There is another class of difficulties, which may be ascribed to preconceived notions of commentators, who imagine that Protagoras the Sophist ought always to be in the wrong, and his adversary Socrates in the right; or that in this or that passage—e.g. in the explanation of good as pleasure—Plato is inconsistent with himself; or that the Dialogue fails in unity, and has not a proper beginning, middle, and ending. They seem to forget that Plato is a dramatic writer who throws his thoughts into both sides of the argument, and certainly does not aim at any unity which is inconsistent with freedom, and with a natural or even wild manner of treating his subject; also that his mode of revealing the truth is by lights and shadows, and far-off and opposing points of view, and not by dogmatic statements or definite results.

The Protagoras is often thought to be full of difficulties. Some are imaginary, and some are real. The imaginary difficulties are: (1) Problems with chronology. Athenaeus pointed these out in ancient times, and Schleiermacher and others have also noted them. They concern the impossibility of all the people in the Dialogue meeting at any one time. Such a meeting was impossible in 425 B.C. or any other year. But Plato, like all fiction writers, aims only to make his story plausible. In many Dialogues, he shows extreme disregard for the historical accuracy sometimes demanded of him. Examples include the Symposium and Republic, and already the Laches. (2) The exact place of the Protagoras among the Dialogues, and its date of composition, have also been much debated. But no criteria offer any real basis for determining when it was written. Unless Plato himself identifies the connections between the Dialogues, those connections must always remain largely uncertain. (3) Another class of difficulties may come from commentators’ preconceptions. These commentators imagine that Protagoras the Sophist should always be wrong, and his opponent Socrates right. Or they think Plato contradicts himself in particular passages, such as the explanation of good as pleasure. Or they think the Dialogue lacks unity and has no proper beginning, middle, and end. They seem to forget that Plato is a dramatic writer who puts his thoughts into both sides of the argument. He certainly does not seek a unity incompatible with freedom or a natural, even wild, treatment of his subject. They also seem to forget how he reveals truth: through light and shadow, and through distant and opposing viewpoints. He does not reveal truth through dogmatic statements or definite conclusions.

The real difficulties arise out of the extreme subtlety of the work, which, as Socrates says of the poem of Simonides, is a most perfect piece of art. There are dramatic contrasts and interests, threads of philosophy broken and resumed, satirical reflections on mankind, veils thrown over truths which are lightly suggested, and all woven together in a single design, and moving towards one end.

The real difficulties come from the work’s extreme subtlety. It is a perfect work of art, as Socrates says of the poem by Simonides. There are dramatic contrasts and points of interest, and philosophical threads that break off and resume. There are satirical reflections on humanity, and truths that are gently hinted at but kept partly hidden. All these elements are woven into a single design and move toward one goal.

In the introductory scene Plato raises the expectation that a 'great personage' is about to appear on the stage; perhaps with a further view of showing that he is destined to be overthrown by a greater still, who makes no pretensions. Before introducing Hippocrates to him, Socrates thinks proper to warn the youth against the dangers of 'influence,' of which the invidious nature is recognized by Protagoras himself. Hippocrates readily adopts the suggestion of Socrates that he shall learn of Protagoras only the accomplishments which befit an Athenian gentleman, and let alone his 'sophistry.' There is nothing however in the introduction which leads to the inference that Plato intended to blacken the character of the Sophists; he only makes a little merry at their expense.

In the opening scene, Plato builds the expectation that a 'great personage' is about to take the stage. Perhaps he also wants to suggest that this figure will be defeated by someone even greater, who makes no grand claims. Before introducing Hippocrates to Protagoras, Socrates thinks he should warn the young man about the dangers of 'influence.' Protagoras himself recognizes that such influence can stir resentment. Hippocrates readily accepts Socrates' suggestion to learn from Protagoras only the skills suitable for an Athenian gentleman. He agrees to leave Protagoras' 'sophistry' alone. Yet nothing in the introduction suggests that Plato meant to damage the Sophists' reputation. He is only having a little fun at their expense.

The 'great personage' is somewhat ostentatious, but frank and honest. He is introduced on a stage which is worthy of him—at the house of the rich Callias, in which are congregated the noblest and wisest of the Athenians. He considers openness to be the best policy, and particularly mentions his own liberal mode of dealing with his pupils, as if in answer to the favourite accusation of the Sophists that they received pay. He is remarkable for the good temper which he exhibits throughout the discussion under the trying and often sophistical cross-examination of Socrates. Although once or twice ruffled, and reluctant to continue the discussion, he parts company on perfectly good terms, and appears to be, as he says of himself, the 'least jealous of mankind.'

The 'great personage' is somewhat showy, but open and honest. He is introduced in a setting worthy of him, at the home of the wealthy Callias. The noblest and wisest Athenians are gathered there. He believes openness is the best policy. In particular, he mentions his own generous way of dealing with his pupils. He does so as if answering the common accusation against the Sophists that they accepted payment. His good temper throughout the discussion is remarkable, given Socrates’ trying and often misleading cross-examination. Although he becomes irritated once or twice and is reluctant to continue the discussion, he leaves on perfectly good terms. He seems to be, as he calls himself, the 'least jealous of mankind.'

Nor is there anything in the sentiments of Protagoras which impairs this pleasing impression of the grave and weighty old man. His real defect is that he is inferior to Socrates in dialectics. The opposition between him and Socrates is not the opposition of good and bad, true and false, but of the old art of rhetoric and the new science of interrogation and argument; also of the irony of Socrates and the self-assertion of the Sophists. There is quite as much truth on the side of Protagoras as of Socrates; but the truth of Protagoras is based on common sense and common maxims of morality, while that of Socrates is paradoxical or transcendental, and though full of meaning and insight, hardly intelligible to the rest of mankind. Here as elsewhere is the usual contrast between the Sophists representing average public opinion and Socrates seeking for increased clearness and unity of ideas. But to a great extent Protagoras has the best of the argument and represents the better mind of man.

Nothing in Protagoras’s views weakens this favorable impression of a serious and dignified old man. His real weakness is that he is less skilled than Socrates in reasoning through dialogue. Their disagreement is not a conflict between good and bad, or truth and falsehood. Rather, it pits the old art of rhetoric against the new science of questioning and argument. It also contrasts Socrates’s irony with the Sophists’ self-assertion. There is just as much truth on Protagoras’s side as on Socrates’s. But Protagoras’s truth rests on common sense and widely accepted moral principles. Socrates’s truth, by contrast, is paradoxical or goes beyond ordinary experience. Though full of meaning and insight, Socrates’s truth is hardly understandable to the rest of humanity. Here, as elsewhere, we see the familiar contrast between the Sophists and Socrates. The Sophists represent average public opinion, while Socrates seeks greater clarity and consistency in ideas. But to a great extent, Protagoras has the stronger argument and represents the better side of human thought.

For example: (1) one of the noblest statements to be found in antiquity about the preventive nature of punishment is put into his mouth; (2) he is clearly right also in maintaining that virtue can be taught (which Socrates himself, at the end of the Dialogue, is disposed to concede); and also (3) in his explanation of the phenomenon that good fathers have bad sons; (4) he is right also in observing that the virtues are not like the arts, gifts or attainments of special individuals, but the common property of all: this, which in all ages has been the strength and weakness of ethics and politics, is deeply seated in human nature; (5) there is a sort of half-truth in the notion that all civilized men are teachers of virtue; and more than a half-truth (6) in ascribing to man, who in his outward conditions is more helpless than the other animals, the power of self-improvement; (7) the religious allegory should be noticed, in which the arts are said to be given by Prometheus (who stole them), whereas justice and reverence and the political virtues could only be imparted by Zeus; (8) in the latter part of the Dialogue, when Socrates is arguing that 'pleasure is the only good,' Protagoras deems it more in accordance with his character to maintain that 'some pleasures only are good;' and admits that 'he, above all other men, is bound to say "that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things."'

For example: (1) he is given one of antiquity’s noblest statements about punishment’s role in preventing wrongdoing. (2) He is also clearly right to maintain that virtue can be taught. Socrates himself is inclined to concede this point at the end of the Dialogue. (3) He is also right in explaining why good fathers have bad sons. (4) He rightly observes that virtues, unlike the arts, are not gifts or achievements belonging to particular individuals. Instead, virtues belong to everyone. This shared ownership is deeply rooted in human nature. In every age, it has been both the strength and the weakness of ethics and politics. (5) There is a kind of half-truth in the idea that all civilized people teach virtue. (6) There is more than a half-truth in crediting humans with the ability to improve themselves. In their external circumstances, humans are more helpless than other animals. (7) The religious allegory also deserves attention. In it, Prometheus gives humans the arts, which he stole. Justice, reverence, and the political virtues, however, could only be given by Zeus. (8) Later in the Dialogue, Socrates argues that 'pleasure is the only good.' Protagoras thinks it more consistent with his character to maintain that 'only some pleasures are good.' He also admits that 'he, above all other men, is bound to say "that wisdom and knowledge are the highest human concerns."'

There is no reason to suppose that in all this Plato is depicting an imaginary Protagoras; he seems to be showing us the teaching of the Sophists under the milder aspect under which he once regarded them. Nor is there any reason to doubt that Socrates is equally an historical character, paradoxical, ironical, tiresome, but seeking for the unity of virtue and knowledge as for a precious treasure; willing to rest this even on a calculation of pleasure, and irresistible here, as everywhere in Plato, in his intellectual superiority.

There is no reason to think Plato is portraying an imaginary Protagoras in any of this. He seems to present the Sophists’ teaching in the more favorable light in which he once saw it. Nor is there any reason to doubt that Socrates, too, is a historical figure. Socrates is paradoxical, ironic, and tiresome, but seeks the unity of virtue and knowledge like a precious treasure. He is willing to base this unity even on a calculation of pleasure. And here, as everywhere in Plato, his intellectual superiority makes him impossible to resist.

The aim of Socrates, and of the Dialogue, is to show the unity of virtue. In the determination of this question the identity of virtue and knowledge is found to be involved. But if virtue and knowledge are one, then virtue can be taught; the end of the Dialogue returns to the beginning. Had Protagoras been allowed by Plato to make the Aristotelian distinction, and say that virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied with knowledge; or to point out with Aristotle that the same quality may have more than one opposite; or with Plato himself in the Phaedo to deny that good is a mere exchange of a greater pleasure for a less—the unity of virtue and the identity of virtue and knowledge would have required to be proved by other arguments.

Socrates and the Dialogue aim to show that virtue is a single whole. Examining this question also raises the question of whether virtue and knowledge are the same. But if virtue and knowledge are one, then virtue can be taught. The end of the Dialogue thus returns to the beginning. Suppose Plato had allowed Protagoras to make Aristotle’s distinction: virtue is not knowledge, but is accompanied by knowledge. Or suppose Protagoras had been allowed to argue, like Aristotle, that the same quality may have more than one opposite. Or he might have denied, like Plato himself in the Phaedo, that goodness merely means exchanging less pleasure for more. If Plato had allowed these arguments, other arguments would have been needed to prove that virtue is a single whole. Other arguments would also have been needed to prove that virtue and knowledge are the same.

The victory of Socrates over Protagoras is in every way complete when their minds are fairly brought together. Protagoras falls before him after two or three blows. Socrates partially gains his object in the first part of the Dialogue, and completely in the second. Nor does he appear at any disadvantage when subjected to 'the question' by Protagoras. He succeeds in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, ludicrous by the way; he also makes a long speech in defence of the poem of Simonides, after the manner of the Sophists, showing, as Alcibiades says, that he is only pretending to have a bad memory, and that he and not Protagoras is really a master in the two styles of speaking; and that he can undertake, not one side of the argument only, but both, when Protagoras begins to break down. Against the authority of the poets with whom Protagoras has ingeniously identified himself at the commencement of the Dialogue, Socrates sets up the proverbial philosophers and those masters of brevity the Lacedaemonians. The poets, the Laconizers, and Protagoras are satirized at the same time.

Socrates defeats Protagoras completely in every respect once their minds meet in a fair contest. Protagoras falls after two or three blows. Socrates partly achieves his aim in the first part of the Dialogue, and fully achieves it in the second. Nor does Socrates seem at any disadvantage when Protagoras subjects him to 'the question'. Along the way, Socrates also succeeds in making his two 'friends,' Prodicus and Hippias, look ridiculous. He also gives a long speech defending the poem by Simonides, in the style of the Sophists. As Alcibiades says, the speech shows that Socrates is only pretending to have a bad memory. It also shows that Socrates, not Protagoras, is truly a master of both styles of speaking. And when Protagoras begins to falter, Socrates shows that he can argue not just one side, but both. At the beginning of the Dialogue, Protagoras cleverly aligns himself with the authority of the poets. Against that authority, Socrates sets the philosophers known for their proverbial sayings and the Lacedaemonians, those masters of brevity. The poets, the Laconizers, and Protagoras are all satirized at once.

Not having the whole of this poem before us, it is impossible for us to answer certainly the question of Protagoras, how the two passages of Simonides are to be reconciled. We can only follow the indications given by Plato himself. But it seems likely that the reconcilement offered by Socrates is a caricature of the methods of interpretation which were practised by the Sophists—for the following reasons: (1) The transparent irony of the previous interpretations given by Socrates. (2) The ludicrous opening of the speech in which the Lacedaemonians are described as the true philosophers, and Laconic brevity as the true form of philosophy, evidently with an allusion to Protagoras' long speeches. (3) The manifest futility and absurdity of the explanation of (Greek), which is hardly consistent with the rational interpretation of the rest of the poem. The opposition of (Greek) and (Greek) seems also intended to express the rival doctrines of Socrates and Protagoras, and is a facetious commentary on their differences. (4) The general treatment in Plato both of the Poets and the Sophists, who are their interpreters, and whom he delights to identify with them. (5) The depreciating spirit in which Socrates speaks of the introduction of the poets as a substitute for original conversation, which is intended to contrast with Protagoras' exaltation of the study of them—this again is hardly consistent with the serious defence of Simonides. (6) the marked approval of Hippias, who is supposed at once to catch the familiar sound, just as in the previous conversation Prodicus is represented as ready to accept any distinctions of language however absurd. At the same time Hippias is desirous of substituting a new interpretation of his own; as if the words might really be made to mean anything, and were only to be regarded as affording a field for the ingenuity of the interpreter.

Without the whole poem before us, we cannot answer Protagoras' question with certainty: how can Simonides' two passages be reconciled? We can only follow the clues Plato himself gives. But Socrates' proposed reconciliation seems likely to parody the Sophists' methods of interpretation, for the following reasons: (1) Socrates' earlier interpretations are plainly ironic. (2) The speech has a ridiculous opening. It describes the Lacedaemonians as the true philosophers and Laconic brevity as the true form of philosophy. This is clearly a reference to Protagoras' long speeches. (3) The explanation of (Greek) is plainly pointless and absurd. It hardly fits with the reasonable interpretation of the rest of the poem. The contrast between (Greek) and (Greek) also seems intended to express the competing doctrines of Socrates and Protagoras. It offers a joking commentary on their differences. (4) Plato's general treatment of the Poets and the Sophists supports this reading. The Sophists interpret the Poets, and Plato delights in identifying the two groups with each other. (5) Socrates speaks dismissively of bringing in the poets as a substitute for original conversation. His attitude is intended to contrast with Protagoras' praise of studying them. Again, this hardly fits with a serious defence of Simonides. (6) Hippias' strong approval also supports this reading. He is presented as immediately recognizing the familiar approach. Similarly, in the earlier conversation, Prodicus is shown as ready to accept any distinctions in language, however absurd. At the same time, Hippias wants to replace the interpretation with a new one of his own. It is as if the words could really mean anything and served only as an opportunity for the interpreter's ingenuity.

This curious passage is, therefore, to be regarded as Plato's satire on the tedious and hypercritical arts of interpretation which prevailed in his own day, and may be compared with his condemnation of the same arts when applied to mythology in the Phaedrus, and with his other parodies, e.g. with the two first speeches in the Phaedrus and with the Menexenus. Several lesser touches of satire may be observed, such as the claim of philosophy advanced for the Lacedaemonians, which is a parody of the claims advanced for the Poets by Protagoras; the mistake of the Laconizing set in supposing that the Lacedaemonians are a great nation because they bruise their ears; the far-fetched notion, which is 'really too bad,' that Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, (Greek), because he is addressing a Lesbian. The whole may also be considered as a satire on those who spin pompous theories out of nothing. As in the arguments of the Euthydemus and of the Cratylus, the veil of irony is never withdrawn; and we are left in doubt at last how far in this interpretation of Simonides Socrates is 'fooling,' how far he is in earnest.

This curious passage should therefore be read as Plato's satire on the tedious, overly critical methods of interpretation of his day. It may be compared with his criticism of the same methods when applied to mythology in the Phaedrus. It may also be compared with his other parodies, such as the first two speeches in the Phaedrus and the Menexenus. Several smaller touches of satire may also be noticed. One is the claim that the Lacedaemonians are philosophers, parodying the claims Protagoras makes for the Poets. Another is the mistake made by admirers of Lacedaemonian ways. These admirers suppose that the Lacedaemonians are a great nation because they bruise their ears. Then there is the far-fetched notion that Simonides uses the Lesbian (?) word, (Greek), because he is addressing a Lesbian. This notion is 'really too bad.' The whole passage may also be read as a satire on people who spin pompous theories out of nothing. As in the arguments of the Euthydemus and the Cratylus, the veil of irony is never lifted. In the end, we remain unsure how far Socrates is 'fooling' in his interpretation of Simonides, and how far he is serious.

All the interests and contrasts of character in a great dramatic work like the Protagoras are not easily exhausted. The impressiveness of the scene should not be lost upon us, or the gradual substitution of Socrates in the second part for Protagoras in the first. The characters to whom we are introduced at the beginning of the Dialogue all play a part more or less conspicuous towards the end. There is Alcibiades, who is compelled by the necessity of his nature to be a partisan, lending effectual aid to Socrates; there is Critias assuming the tone of impartiality; Callias, here as always inclining to the Sophists, but eager for any intellectual repast; Prodicus, who finds an opportunity for displaying his distinctions of language, which are valueless and pedantic, because they are not based on dialectic; Hippias, who has previously exhibited his superficial knowledge of natural philosophy, to which, as in both the Dialogues called by his name, he now adds the profession of an interpreter of the Poets. The two latter personages have been already damaged by the mock heroic description of them in the introduction. It may be remarked that Protagoras is consistently presented to us throughout as the teacher of moral and political virtue; there is no allusion to the theories of sensation which are attributed to him in the Theaetetus and elsewhere, or to his denial of the existence of the gods in a well-known fragment ascribed to him; he is the religious rather than the irreligious teacher in this Dialogue. Also it may be observed that Socrates shows him as much respect as is consistent with his own ironical character; he admits that the dialectic which has overthrown Protagoras has carried himself round to a conclusion opposed to his first thesis. The force of argument, therefore, and not Socrates or Protagoras, has won the day.

It is hard to exhaust all the interest and contrasts of character in a great dramatic work like the Protagoras. We should not miss the scene’s powerful effect. Nor should we overlook how Socrates gradually replaces Protagoras as the central figure in the second part. All the characters introduced at the beginning of the Dialogue play a more or less prominent role toward the end. Alcibiades, whose nature compels him to take sides, gives Socrates effective support. Critias adopts a tone of impartiality. Callias, here as always, favors the Sophists but eagerly welcomes any intellectual feast. Prodicus finds a chance to display his distinctions between words. These distinctions are worthless and pedantic because they are not based on dialectic. Hippias has already displayed his superficial knowledge of natural philosophy. Now he also claims to interpret the Poets, just as in both Dialogues named after him. The mock-heroic descriptions of Prodicus and Hippias in the introduction have already undermined their standing. We may note that Protagoras is consistently presented throughout as a teacher of moral and political virtue. There is no mention of the theories of sensation attributed to him in the Theaetetus and elsewhere. Nor is there any mention of his denial that the gods exist, found in a well-known fragment attributed to him. In this Dialogue, he is a religious rather than an irreligious teacher. We may also observe that Socrates treats him with as much respect as Socrates’ own ironic character allows. Socrates admits that the dialectic that defeated Protagoras has also led Socrates to a conclusion opposed to his original claim. So the force of argument, rather than Socrates or Protagoras, has won the day.

But is Socrates serious in maintaining (1) that virtue cannot be taught; (2) that the virtues are one; (3) that virtue is the knowledge of pleasures and pains present and future? These propositions to us have an appearance of paradox—they are really moments or aspects of the truth by the help of which we pass from the old conventional morality to a higher conception of virtue and knowledge. That virtue cannot be taught is a paradox of the same sort as the profession of Socrates that he knew nothing. Plato means to say that virtue is not brought to a man, but must be drawn out of him; and cannot be taught by rhetorical discourses or citations from the poets. The second question, whether the virtues are one or many, though at first sight distinct, is really a part of the same subject; for if the virtues are to be taught, they must be reducible to a common principle; and this common principle is found to be knowledge. Here, as Aristotle remarks, Socrates and Plato outstep the truth—they make a part of virtue into the whole. Further, the nature of this knowledge, which is assumed to be a knowledge of pleasures and pains, appears to us too superficial and at variance with the spirit of Plato himself. Yet, in this, Plato is only following the historical Socrates as he is depicted to us in Xenophon's Memorabilia. Like Socrates, he finds on the surface of human life one common bond by which the virtues are united,—their tendency to produce happiness,—though such a principle is afterwards repudiated by him.

But is Socrates serious in claiming (1) that virtue cannot be taught, (2) that the virtues are one, and (3) that virtue is knowledge of present and future pleasures and pains? These claims seem paradoxical to us. They are really stages or aspects of the truth. They help us move from traditional, conventional morality to a higher understanding of virtue and knowledge. The claim that virtue cannot be taught is a paradox like Socrates’ claim that he knew nothing. Plato means that virtue cannot be given to someone but must be drawn out of them. Virtue cannot be taught through rhetorical speeches or quotations from poets. The second question is whether the virtues are one or many. Although this question seems separate at first, it is really part of the same subject. For if the virtues can be taught, they must be reducible to a common principle. This common principle turns out to be knowledge. Here, as Aristotle observes, Socrates and Plato go beyond the truth. They treat one part of virtue as the whole. Furthermore, this knowledge is assumed to be knowledge of pleasures and pains. That understanding of knowledge seems too superficial to us and at odds with Plato’s own outlook. Yet here Plato is simply following the historical Socrates as portrayed in Xenophon's Memorabilia. Like Socrates, Plato finds a common bond uniting the virtues on the surface of human life: their tendency to produce happiness. Yet Plato later rejects this principle.

It remains to be considered in what relation the Protagoras stands to the other Dialogues of Plato. That it is one of the earlier or purely Socratic works—perhaps the last, as it is certainly the greatest of them—is indicated by the absence of any allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence; and also by the different attitude assumed towards the teaching and persons of the Sophists in some of the later Dialogues. The Charmides, Laches, Lysis, all touch on the question of the relation of knowledge to virtue, and may be regarded, if not as preliminary studies or sketches of the more important work, at any rate as closely connected with it. The Io and the lesser Hippias contain discussions of the Poets, which offer a parallel to the ironical criticism of Simonides, and are conceived in a similar spirit. The affinity of the Protagoras to the Meno is more doubtful. For there, although the same question is discussed, 'whether virtue can be taught,' and the relation of Meno to the Sophists is much the same as that of Hippocrates, the answer to the question is supplied out of the doctrine of ideas; the real Socrates is already passing into the Platonic one. At a later stage of the Platonic philosophy we shall find that both the paradox and the solution of it appear to have been retracted. The Phaedo, the Gorgias, and the Philebus offer further corrections of the teaching of the Protagoras; in all of them the doctrine that virtue is pleasure, or that pleasure is the chief or only good, is distinctly renounced.

We still need to consider how the Protagoras relates to Plato’s other Dialogues. It appears to be one of the earlier, purely Socratic works, perhaps the last and certainly the greatest of them. One sign is the absence of any reference to the doctrine of reminiscence. Another is the different attitude toward the Sophists and their teaching in some of the later Dialogues. The Charmides, Laches, and Lysis all touch on the relationship between knowledge and virtue. They may be preliminary studies or sketches for the more important Protagoras. Even if they are not, they may at least be regarded as closely connected with it. The Io and the lesser Hippias contain discussions of the Poets. These discussions parallel the ironic criticism of Simonides and share its spirit. The connection between the Protagoras and the Meno is less certain. The Meno discusses the same question, 'whether virtue can be taught,' although its answer draws on the doctrine of ideas. Meno’s relationship to the Sophists is also much like that of Hippocrates. Yet the historical Socrates is already becoming Plato’s Socrates. At a later stage of Plato’s philosophy, both the paradox and its solution seem to have been withdrawn. The Phaedo, the Gorgias, and the Philebus offer further corrections to the teaching of the Protagoras. All three explicitly reject the doctrine that virtue is pleasure, or that pleasure is the chief or only good.

Thus after many preparations and oppositions, both of the characters of men and aspects of the truth, especially of the popular and philosophical aspect; and after many interruptions and detentions by the way, which, as Theodorus says in the Theaetetus, are quite as agreeable as the argument, we arrive at the great Socratic thesis that virtue is knowledge. This is an aspect of the truth which was lost almost as soon as it was found; and yet has to be recovered by every one for himself who would pass the limits of proverbial and popular philosophy. The moral and intellectual are always dividing, yet they must be reunited, and in the highest conception of them are inseparable. The thesis of Socrates is not merely a hasty assumption, but may be also deemed an anticipation of some 'metaphysic of the future,' in which the divided elements of human nature are reconciled.

After much preparation, we have seen contrasts between human characters and between views of truth, especially popular and philosophical views. We have also faced many interruptions and delays along the way. As Theodorus says in the Theaetetus, these are just as enjoyable as the argument itself. At last we arrive at the great Socratic claim that virtue is knowledge. This insight into truth was lost almost as soon as it was found. Yet everyone who wants to move beyond proverbial wisdom and popular philosophy must rediscover this insight for themselves. The moral and intellectual sides of human nature are always separating, yet they must be brought together again. At the highest level of understanding, these sides are inseparable. Socrates' claim is not merely a hasty assumption. It may also be seen as anticipating some 'metaphysics of the future,' in which human nature's divided elements are reconciled.