but you are both good yourself and have the gift of making others good. And you are so confident of yourself that, while others make a secret of this art, you have had yourself publicly proclaimed to all the Greeks with the title of sophist, and have appointed yourself preceptor of culture and virtue, and are the first who has ever demanded a regular fee for such work. What then could I do but call upon you to deal with our problem both by question and communication? I had no other course. So now with regard to those points which I have raised on the subject in my opening questions, I desire to be reminded of some by you and to have your help in investigating others. The question, I believe, was this:cf. Plat. Prot. 329c ff. Are the five names of wisdom, temperance, courage, justice, and holiness attached to one thing, or underlying each of these names is there a distinct existence or thing that has its own particular function, each thing being different from the others? And your answer was that they are not names attached to one thing, but that each of these names applies to a distinct thing, and that all these are parts of virtue; not like the parts of gold, which are similar to each other and to the whole of which they are parts, but like the parts of the face, dissimilar to the whole of which they are parts and to each other, and each having a distinct function. If you still hold the same opinion of them, say so; if you have a new one, define what it is, for I make no objection to your replying now on other lines. Indeed I should not be surprised if you were merely experimenting upon me when you spoke before. Well, Socrates, he replied, I say that all these are parts of virtue, and that while four of them are fairly on a par with each other, courage is something vastly different from all the rest. You may perceive the truth of what I say from this: you will find many people extremely unjust, unholy, dissolute, and ignorant, and yet pre-eminently courageous. Stop now, I said: we must duly examine what you say. Do you call courageous men bold, or something else? Yes, and impetuous also, he replied, where most men fear to tread. Well now, do you say that virtue is a good thing, and of this good thing offer yourself as teacher? Nay, it is the best of things, he said, unless I am out of my senses. Then is one part of it base and another good, or is the whole good? Surely the whole is good in the highest possible degree.

Now do you know who dive boldly into wells? I do; divers. Is this because they have knowledge, or for some other reason? Because they have knowledge. And who are bold in going to war on horseback—those who are practised horsemen, or those who are not? Practised horsemen. And who with bucklers—buckler-men, or those who are not? Buckler-men: and so with all other cases, he went on, if that is your point; those who have knowledge are bolder than those who lack it, and individually they are bolder when they have learnt than before learning. But you must have seen at times, I said, persons who are without knowledge of any of these affairs, yet behaving boldly in each of them. I have, he said, and very boldly too. Then are these bold ones courageous also? Nay, that would make courage a base thing, he replied; for those you speak of are out of their senses. What then, I asked, do you mean by courageous men? Surely the same as bold men? Yes, I do still, he said. Then these men, I went on, who are so brave, are found to be not courageous but mad? And in those former cases our wisest men are boldest too, and being boldest are most courageous? And on this reasoning, wisdom will be courage? You do not rightly recall, Socrates, what I stated in replying to you. When you asked me whether courageous men are bold, I admitted it: I was not asked whether bold men are courageous. Had you asked me this before, I should have said—Not all. And as to proving that courageous men are not bold, you have nowhere pointed out that I was wrong in my admission that they are. Next you show that such persons individually are bolder when they have knowledge, and bolder than others who lack it, and therewith you take courage and wisdom to be the same: proceeding in this manner you might even take strength to be wisdom. On this method you might begin by asking me whether the strong are powerful, and I should say Yes; and then, whether those who know how to wrestle are more powerful than those who do not know how to wrestle, and whether individually they are more powerful when they have learnt than before learning, and I should say Yes. And on my admitting these points it would be open to you to say, by the same token, that according to my admission wisdom is strength.

But neither there nor elsewhere do I admit that the powerful are strong, only that the strong are powerful; for I hold that power and strength are not the same, but that one of them, power, comes from knowledge, or from madness or rage, whereas strength comes from constitution and fit nurture of the body. So, in the other instance, boldness and courage are not the same, and therefore it results that the courageous are bold, but not that the bold are courageous; for boldness comes to a man from art, or from rage or madness, like power, whereas courage comes from constitution and fit nurture of the soul.Do you speak of some men, Protagoras, I asked, as living well, and others ill? Yes.Then do you consider that a man would live well if he lived in distress and anguish? No, he said. Well now, if he lived pleasantly and so ended his life, would you not consider he had thus contrived to live well? I would, he said. And, I suppose, to live pleasantly is good, and unpleasantly, bad? Yes, he said, if one lived in the enjoyment of honorable things. But, Protagoras, will you tell me you agree with the majority in calling some pleasant things bad and some painful ones good? I mean to say—Are not things good in so far as they are pleasant, putting aside any other result they may have; and again, are not painful things in just the same sense bad—in so far as they are painful? I cannot tell, Socrates, he replied, whether I am to answer, in such absolute fashion as that of your question, that all pleasant things are good and painful things bad: I rather think it safer for me to reply, with a view not merely to my present answer but to all the rest of my life, that some pleasant things are not good, and also that some painful things are not bad, and some are, while a third class of them are indifferent—neither bad nor good. You call pleasant, do you not, I asked, things that partake of pleasure or cause pleasure? Certainly, he said. So when I put it to you, whether things are not good in so far as they are pleasant, I am asking whether pleasure itself is not a good thing. Let us examine the matter, Socrates, he said, in the form in which you put it at each point, and if the proposition seems to be reasonable, and pleasant and good are found to be the same, we shall agree upon it; if not, we shall dispute it there and then. And would you like, I asked, to be leader in the inquiry, or am I to lead? You ought to lead, he replied, since you are the inaugurator of this discussion.

Well then, I proceeded, will the following example give us the light we need? Just as, in estimating a man’s health or bodily efficiency by his appearance, one might look at his face and the lower part of his arms and say: Come now, uncover your chest too and your back and show them, that I may examine you thoroughly—so the same sort of desire comes over me in regard to our inquiry. Observing your condition to be as you describe in respect of the good and the pleasant, I am fain to say something like this: Come, my good Protagoras, uncover some more of your thoughts: how are you in regard to knowledge? Do you share the view that most people take of this, or have you some other? The opinion generally held of knowledge is something of this sort—that it is no strong or guiding or governing thing; it is not regarded as anything of that kind, but people think that, while a man often has knowledge in him, he is not governed by it, but by something else—now by passion, now by pleasure, now by pain, at times by love, and often by fear; their feeling about knowledge is just what they have about a slave, that it may be dragged about by any other force. Now do you agree with this view of it, or do you consider that knowledge is something noble and able to govern man, and that whoever learns what is good and what is bad will never be swayed by anything to act otherwise than as knowledge bids, and that intelligence is a sufficient succor for mankind? My view, Socrates, he replied, is precisely that which you express, and what is more, it would be a disgrace for me above all men to assert that wisdom and knowledge were aught but the highest of all human things. Well and truly spoken, I said. Now you know that most people will not listen to you and me, but say that many, while knowing what is best, refuse to perform it, though they have the power, and do other things instead. And whenever I have asked them to tell me what can be the reason of this, they say that those who act so are acting under the influence of pleasure or pain, or under the control of one of the things I have just mentioned. Yes, Socrates, he replied, I regard this as but one of the many erroneous sayings of mankind.

Come then, and join me in the endeavor to persuade the world and explain what is this experience of theirs, which they call being overcome by pleasure, and which they give as the reason why they fail to do what is best though they have knowledge of it. For perhaps if we said to them: What you assert, good people, is not correct, but quite untrue—they might ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not being overcome by pleasure what on earth is it, and what do you call it? Tell us that. Why, Socrates, must we consider the opinion of the mass of mankind, who say just what occurs to them? I fancy, I replied, that this will be a step towards discovering how courage is related to the other parts of virtue. So if you think fit to abide by the arrangement we made a while ago—that I should lead in the direction which seems best for elucidating the matter—you must now follow; but if you would rather not, to suit your wishes I will let it pass. No, he said, your plan is quite right: go on to the end as you began. Once more then, I proceeded, suppose they should ask us: Then what do you call this thing which we described as being overcome by pleasures? The answer I should give them would be this: Please attend; Protagoras and I will try to explain it to you. Do you not say that this thing occurs, good people, in the common case of a man being overpowered by the pleasantness of food or drink or sexual acts, and doing what he does though he knows it to be wicked? They would admit it. Then you and I would ask them again: In what sense do you call such deeds wicked? Is it that they produce those pleasures and are themselves pleasant at the moment, or that later on they cause diseases and poverty, and have many more such ills in store for us? Or, even though they have none of these things in store for a later day, and cause us only enjoyment, would they still be evil just because, forsooth, they cause enjoyment in some way or other? Can we suppose, Protagoras, that they will make any other answer than that these things are evil, not according to the operation of the actual pleasure of the moment, but owing to the later results in disease and those other ills? I think, said Protagoras, that most people would answer thus. Then in causing diseases they cause pains? And in causing poverty they cause pains? They would admit this, I imagine. Protagoras agreed.