And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent?
Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that
there might be something in what he said). And you think otherwise?
Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising
as his own thought, 'Hardly can a man become truly good'; and then a
little further on in the poem, forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and
refusing to agree with him, when he says, 'Hardly can a man be good,'
which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who says the
same with himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in
his first or his second assertion.
Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first
giddy and faint, as if I had received a blow from the hand of an expert
boxer, when I heard his words and the sound of the cheering; and to
confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what the meaning of
the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus,
I said, Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his
aid. I must appeal to you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when
beleaguered by Achilles, summons the Simois to aid him, saying:
'Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).'
And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of
Simonides. Now is the time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application
of your philosophy of synonyms, which enables you to distinguish 'will'
and 'wish,' and make other charming distinctions like those which you
drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree with
me; for I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of
Simonides. And first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your
opinion, Prodicus, 'being' is the same as 'becoming.'
Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus.
Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that 'Hardly can a
man become truly good'?
Quite right, said Prodicus.
And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating
that which he says himself, but for saying something different from
himself. Pittacus does not say as Simonides says, that hardly can a man
become good, but hardly can a man be good: and our friend Prodicus would
maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as becoming; and if
they are not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself.
I dare say that Prodicus and many others would say, as Hesiod says,
'On the one hand, hardly can a man become good,
For the gods have made virtue the reward of toil,
But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height,
Then, to retain virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy
--(Works and Days).'
Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction,
Socrates, involves a greater error than is contained in the sentence
which you are correcting.
Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but
aggravate a disorder which I am seeking to cure.
Such is the fact, he said.
How so? I asked.
The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say
that virtue, which in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all
things, can be easily retained.
Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at
the right moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine,
is more than human and of very ancient date, and may be as old as
Simonides or even older. Learned as you are in many things, you appear
to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his.
And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word 'hard'
(chalepon) in the sense which Simonides intended; and I must correct
you, as Prodicus corrects me when I use the word 'awful' (deinon) as a
term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else is an 'awfully'
wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good
'awful'; and then he explains to me that the term 'awful' is always
taken in a bad sense, and that no one speaks of being 'awfully' healthy
or wealthy, or of 'awful' peace, but of 'awful' disease, 'awful' war,
'awful' poverty, meaning by the term 'awful,' evil. And I think that
Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of 'hard' meant
'evil,' or something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus,
for he ought to be able to answer questions about the dialect of
Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the term 'hard'?
Evil, said Prodicus.
And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, 'Hard is
the good,' just as if that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.
Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting
Pittacus with ignorance of the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has
been accustomed to speak a barbarous language, is natural.
Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying?
And have you an answer for him?
You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very
well that Simonides in using the word 'hard' meant what all of us mean,
not evil, but that which is not easy--that which takes a great deal of
trouble: of this I am positive.
I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning
of Simonides, of which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but
he thought that he would make fun, and try if you could maintain your
thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the other is clearly
proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift. Now
he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards
proceeds to say that God only has this gift, and that this is the
attribute of him and of no other. For if this be his meaning, Prodicus
would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness which is very
unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I
imagine to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will
test what, in your way of speaking, would be called my skill in poetry;
or if you would rather, I will be the listener.
To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;--and Hippias,
Prodicus, and the others told me by all means to do as I proposed.
Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about
this poem of Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which is more
cultivated in Crete and Lacedaemon than in any other part of Hellas, and
there are more philosophers in those countries than anywhere else in
the world. This, however, is a secret which the Lacedaemonians deny; and
they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish to have it
thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom
Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms; considering that
if the reason of their superiority were disclosed, all men would be
practising their wisdom. And this secret of theirs has never been
discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions in other cities,
who go about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the
caestus bound on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short
cloaks; for they imagine that these are the practices which have
enabled the Lacedaemonians to conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the
Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold free conversation with their
wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret intercourse, they
drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who may happen
to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown
to strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into
other cities--in this they are like the Cretans--in order that they may
not unlearn the lessons which they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon
and Crete not only men but also women have a pride in their high
cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in attributing to
the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If
a man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him
seldom good for much in general conversation, but at any point in the
discourse he will be darting out some notable saying, terse and full of
meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with whom he is talking seems
to be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and of former
ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the
love of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are
conscious that only a perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such
expressions. Such were Thales of Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and
Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus the Lindian, and
Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the
Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples
of the culture of the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that
their wisdom was of this character; consisting of short memorable
sentences, which they severally uttered. And they met together and
dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits
of their wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men's
mouths--'Know thyself,' and 'Nothing too much.'
Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity
was the style of primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of
Pittacus which was privately circulated and received the approbation of
the wise, 'Hard is it to be good.' And Simonides, who was ambitious of
the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying,
then, as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would
carry off the palm among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken,
he composed the entire poem with the secret intention of damaging
Pittacus and his saying.
Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking
the truth. Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first
words of the poem, wanting to say only that to become good is hard, he
inserted (Greek) 'on the one hand' ('on the one hand to become good is
hard'); there would be no reason for the introduction of (Greek),
unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference to the words
of Pittacus. Pittacus is saying 'Hard is it to be good,' and he, in
refutation of this thesis, rejoins that the truly hard thing, Pittacus,
is to become good, not joining 'truly' with 'good,' but with 'hard.'
Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were some
truly good men, and there were others who were good but not truly
good (this would be a very simple observation, and quite unworthy of
Simonides); but you must suppose him to make a trajection of the word
'truly' (Greek), construing the saying of Pittacus thus (and let us
imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him): 'O my
friends,' says Pittacus, 'hard is it to be good,' and Simonides answers,
'In that, Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty is not to be good,
but on the one hand, to become good, four-square in hands and feet
and mind, without a flaw--that is hard truly.' This way of reading the
passage accounts for the insertion of (Greek) 'on the one hand,' and for
the position at the end of the clause of the word 'truly,' and all that
follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal might be said
in praise of the details of the poem, which is a charming piece of
workmanship, and very finished, but such minutiae would be tedious. I
should like, however, to point out the general intention of the poem,
which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the
saying of Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on
as if he meant to argue that although there is a difficulty in becoming
good, yet this is possible for a time, and only for a time. But having
become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you, Pittacus,
affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this
blessing; 'but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances
overpowers him.' Now whom does the force of circumstance overpower in
the command of a vessel?--not the private individual, for he is always
overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate cannot be overthrown,
and only he who is standing upright but not he who is prostrate can be
laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower him
who, at some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at
all times helpless. The descent of a great storm may make the pilot
helpless, or the severity of the season the husbandman or the physician;
for the good may become bad, as another poet witnesses:--
'The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.'
But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the
force of circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and
virtue, then he cannot help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are saying,
'Hard is it to be good.' Now there is a difficulty in becoming good; and
yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility--
'For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.'
But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes
a man good in letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of
well-doing makes a man a good physician? Clearly the knowledge of the
art of healing the sick. 'But he who does ill is the bad.' Now who
becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a
physician, and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a
bad one also: but none of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of
doing ill become physicians, any more than we can become carpenters or
anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot become a physician
at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the good
may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident
(the only real doing ill is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad
man will never become bad, for he is always bad; and if he were to
become bad, he must previously have been good. Thus the words of the
poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be continuously
good, but that he may become good and may also become bad; and again
that
'They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.'
All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he
adds:--
'Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in
searching after the impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly
faultless man among those who partake of the fruit of the broad-bosomed
earth: if I find him, I will send you word.'
(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus
throughout the whole poem):
'But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;--not even the
gods war against necessity.'
All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to
say that he praised those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there
were some who did evil voluntarily. For no wise man, as I believe, will
allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or voluntarily does evil
and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who do
evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides
never says that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word
'voluntarily' applies to himself. For he was under the impression that
a good man might often compel himself to love and praise another, and
to be the friend and approver of another; and that there might be an
involuntary love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or
mother, or country, or the like. Now bad men, when their parents or
country have any defects, look on them with malignant joy, and find
fault with them and expose and denounce them to others, under the idea
that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take themselves to task
and accuse them of neglect; and they blame their defects far more than
they deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by
them may be increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and
constrains himself to praise them; and if they have wronged him and he
is angry, he pacifies his anger and is reconciled, and compels himself
to love and praise his own flesh and blood. And Simonides, as is
probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and magnify
a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to imply
to Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious.
'For I am satisfied' he says, 'when a man is neither bad nor very
stupid; and when he knows justice (which is the health of states), and
is of sound mind, I will find no fault with him, for I am not given to
finding fault, and there are innumerable fools'
(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant
opportunity of finding fault).
'All things are good with which evil is unmingled.'
In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good
which have no evil in them, as you might say 'All things are white which
have no black in them,' for that would be ridiculous; but he means to
say that he accepts and finds no fault with the moderate or intermediate
state.
('I do not hope' he says, 'to find a perfectly blameless man among those
who partake of the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him,
I will send you word); in this sense I praise no man. But he who is
moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for me, who love and
approve every one')
(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve),
because he is addressing Pittacus,
'Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:'
and that the stop should be put after 'voluntarily'); 'but there are
some whom I involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would
never have blamed, if you had spoken what was moderately good and true;
but I do blame you because, putting on the appearance of truth, you are
speaking falsely about the highest matters.'--And this, I said, Prodicus
and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem.
Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good
explanation of the poem; but I have also an excellent interpretation of
my own which I will propound to you, if you will allow me.
Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At
present we must abide by the compact which was made between Socrates and
Protagoras, to the effect that as long as Protagoras is willing to ask,
Socrates should answer; or that if he would rather answer, then that
Socrates should ask.
I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but
I would rather have done with poems and odes, if he does not object,
and come back to the question about which I was asking you at first,
Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The talk about the
poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar
company have recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or
amuse one another, while they are drinking, with the sound of their own
voices and conversation, by reason of their stupidity, raise the price
of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great sum the voice of a
flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse among
them: but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education,
you will see no flute-girls, nor dancing-girls, nor harp-girls; and
they have no nonsense or games, but are contented with one another's
conversation, of which their own voices are the medium, and which they
carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though they are very
liberal in their potations. And a company like this of ours, and men
such as we profess to be, do not require the help of another's voice, or
of the poets whom you cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they
are saying; people who cite them declaring, some that the poet has
one meaning, and others that he has another, and the point which is in
dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline,
and prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof
in conversation. And these are the models which I desire that you and I
should imitate. Leaving the poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try
the mettle of one another and make proof of the truth in conversation.
If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if you would rather,
do you answer, and give me the opportunity of resuming and completing
our unfinished argument.
I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would
not distinctly say which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to
Callias, and said:--Do you think, Callias, that Protagoras is fair in
refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I certainly
think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument,
or distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and
then Socrates will be able to discourse with some one else, and the rest
of the company will be free to talk with one another.
I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of
Alcibiades, and when the prayers of Callias and the company were
superadded, he was at last induced to argue, and said that I might ask
and he would answer.
So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in
asking questions of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For
I think that Homer was very right in saying that
'When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),'
for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought;
but if a man
'Sees a thing when he is alone,'
he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he
may show his discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would
rather hold discourse with you than with any one, because I think that
no man has a better understanding of most things which a good man may be
expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For who is there,
but you?--who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for many
are this, and yet have not the power of making others good--whereas you
are not only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others.
Moreover such confidence have you in yourself, that although other
Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim in the face of Hellas
that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are
the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than
invite you to the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and
consult with you? I must, indeed. And I should like once more to have
my memory refreshed by you about the questions which I was asking you
at first, and also to have your help in considering them. If I am not
mistaken the question was this: Are wisdom and temperance and courage
and justice and holiness five names of the same thing? or has each of
the names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a
peculiar function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you
replied that the five names were not the names of the same thing, but
that each of them had a separate object, and that all these objects were
parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts of gold are like
each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of
the face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another,
and have each of them a distinct function. I should like to know whether
this is still your opinion; or if not, I will ask you to define your
meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a different
statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in
order to make trial of me.
I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of
virtue, and that four out of the five are to some extent similar, and
that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very different from the
other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many men are
utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless
remarkable for their courage.
Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave
men, do you mean the confident, or another sort of nature?
Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are
afraid to approach.
In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which
good thing you assert yourself to be a teacher.
Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right
mind.
And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?
Wholly good, and in the highest degree.
Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well?