'And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call pain a
good when it takes away greater pains than those which it has, or gives
pleasures greater than the pains: then if you have some standard other
than pleasure and pain to which you refer when you call actual pain a
good, you can show what that is. But you cannot.'
True, said Protagoras.
Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: 'Why do you spend many
words and speak in many ways on this subject?' Excuse me, friends, I
should reply; but in the first place there is a difficulty in explaining
the meaning of the expression 'overcome by pleasure'; and the whole
argument turns upon this. And even now, if you see any possible way in
which evil can be explained as other than pain, or good as other than
pleasure, you may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having
a life of pleasure which is without pain? If you are, and if you are
unable to show any good or evil which does not end in pleasure and pain,
hear the consequences:--If what you say is true, then the argument is
absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he might
abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again,
when you say that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good because he
is overcome at the moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will
be evident if only we give up the use of various names, such as pleasant
and painful, and good and evil. As there are two things, let us call
them by two names--first, good and evil, and then pleasant and painful.
Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that he
does evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is the
first answer. And by what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to
ask. And we shall not be able to reply 'By pleasure,' for the name of
pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our answer, then, we
shall only say that he is overcome. 'By what?' he will reiterate. By the
good, we shall have to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner
will rejoin with a laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, 'That is
too ridiculous, that a man should do what he knows to be evil when he
ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that, he will ask, because
the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil'? And in answer
to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had
been worthy, then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not
have been wrong. 'But how,' he will reply, 'can the good be unworthy
of the evil, or the evil of the good'? Is not the real explanation
that they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater and
smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of
being overcome--'what do you mean,' he will say, 'but that you choose
the greater evil in exchange for the lesser good?' Admitted. And now
substitute the names of pleasure and pain for good and evil, and say,
not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly, but that he does
what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure,
which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of the relations
of pleasure to pain other than excess and defect, which means that they
become greater and smaller, and more and fewer, and differ in degree?
For if any one says: 'Yes, Socrates, but immediate pleasure differs
widely from future pleasure and pain'--To that I should reply: And do
they differ in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no
other measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the
balance the pleasures and the pains, and their nearness and distance,
and weigh them, and then say which outweighs the other. If you weigh
pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the more and greater; or
if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less; or if
pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in which
the painful is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant by the near
or the near by the distant; and you avoid that course of action in
which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful. Would you not admit, my
friends, that this is true? I am confident that they cannot deny this.
He agreed with me.
Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer me
a question: Do not the same magnitudes appear larger to your sight when
near, and smaller when at a distance? They will acknowledge that.
And the same holds of thickness and number; also sounds, which are in
themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a distance.
They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to consist in doing
or choosing the greater, and in not doing or in avoiding the less,
what would be the saving principle of human life? Would not the art of
measuring be the saving principle; or would the power of appearance? Is
not the latter that deceiving art which makes us wander up and down and
take the things at one time of which we repent at another, both in our
actions and in our choice of things great and small? But the art of
measurement would do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing
the truth, would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth,
and would thus save our life. Would not mankind generally acknowledge
that the art which accomplishes this result is the art of measurement?
Yes, he said, the art of measurement.
Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice of
odd and even, and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose the
greater or less, either in reference to themselves or to each other, and
whether near or at a distance; what would be the saving principle of our
lives? Would not knowledge?--a knowledge of measuring, when the question
is one of excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the
question is of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not?
Protagoras himself thought that they would.
Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of human
life has been found to consist in the right choice of pleasures and
pains,--in the choice of the more and the fewer, and the greater and
the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this measuring be a
consideration of their excess and defect and equality in relation to
each other?
This is undeniably true.
And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and
science?
They will agree, he said.
The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future
consideration; but the existence of such a science furnishes a
demonstrative answer to the question which you asked of me and
Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you remember,
both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier than knowledge,
and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have the advantage over
pleasure and all other things; and then you said that pleasure often got
the advantage even over a man who has knowledge; and we refused to allow
this, and you rejoined: O Protagoras and Socrates, what is the meaning
of being overcome by pleasure if not this?--tell us what you call such a
state:--if we had immediately and at the time answered 'Ignorance,'
you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be
laughing at yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their
choice of pleasures and pains; that is, in their choice of good and
evil, from defect of knowledge; and you admitted further, that they err,
not only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that particular
knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the
erring act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This,
therefore, is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure;--ignorance, and
that the greatest. And our friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias
declare that they are the physicians of ignorance; but you, who are
under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the cause, and that
the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves,
nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these
things--you take care of your money and give them none; and the result
is, that you are the worse off both in public and private life:--Let us
suppose this to be our answer to the world in general: And now I should
like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as Protagoras (for
the argument is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I
am speaking the truth or not?
They all thought that what I said was entirely true.
Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the painful
evil. And here I would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce his
distinction of names, whether he is disposed to say pleasurable,
delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to call them,
I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of the
words.
Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.
Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions
honourable and useful, of which the tendency is to make life painless
and pleasant? The honourable work is also useful and good?
This was admitted.
Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything under
the idea or conviction that some other thing would be better and is also
attainable, when he might do the better. And this inferiority of a man
to himself is merely ignorance, as the superiority of a man to himself
is wisdom.
They all assented.
And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived about
important matters?
To this also they unanimously assented.
Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks
to be evil. To prefer evil to good is not in human nature; and when
a man is compelled to choose one of two evils, no one will choose the
greater when he may have the less.
All of us agreed to every word of this.
Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and here,
Prodicus, I should particularly like to know whether you would agree
with me in defining this fear or terror as expectation of evil.
Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear and
not terror.
Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former
assertions are true, a man will pursue that which he fears when he is
not compelled? Would not this be in flat contradiction to the admission
which has been already made, that he thinks the things which he fears
to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that which he
thinks to be evil?
That also was universally admitted.
Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I
would beg Protagoras to explain to us how he can be right in what he
said at first. I do not mean in what he said quite at first, for his
first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there were five
parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of them
had a separate function. To this, however, I am not referring, but to
the assertion which he afterwards made that of the five virtues four
were nearly akin to each other, but that the fifth, which was courage,
differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me the following
proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious,
and unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most
courageous; which proves that courage is very different from the other
parts of virtue. I was surprised at his saying this at the time, and I
am still more surprised now that I have discussed the matter with you.
So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he
replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that
this was your answer.)
He assented.
Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to
go--against the same dangers as the cowards?
No, he answered.
Then against something different?
Yes, he said.
Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where there
is danger?
Yes, Socrates, so men say.
Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that
the courageous are ready to go--against dangers, believing them to be
dangers, or not against dangers?
No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous
argument to be impossible.
That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly
proven, then no one goes to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since the
want of self-control, which makes men rush into dangers, has been shown
to be ignorance.
He assented.
And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that about
which they are confident; so that, in this point of view, the cowardly
and the courageous go to meet the same things.
And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is the
opposite of that to which the courageous goes; the one, for example, is
ready to go to battle, and the other is not ready.
And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.
Honourable, he replied.
And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all
honourable actions we have admitted to be good.
That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.
True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are
unwilling to go to war, which is a good and honourable thing?
The cowards, he replied.
And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?
It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.
And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and pleasanter,
and better?
The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former admissions.
But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and
pleasanter, and nobler?
That must be admitted.
And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?
True, he replied.
And if not base, then honourable?
He admitted this.
And if honourable, then good?
Yes.
But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on the
contrary, are base?
He assented.
And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and
uninstructedness?
True, he said.
Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it
cowardice or courage?