“What then,” said I, “do you call dread and fear something? and the same
that I do, (I address myself to you, Prodicus,) I mean by it a certain
expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread.”
It appeared to Protagoras and Hippias that dread and fear were of this
nature, but to Prodicus that dread was, but fear not.
“But,” said I, “it is of no consequence, Prodicus; but this is; if what
we before said is true, will any man deliberately engage in things which
he dreads, when it is in his power to engage in things which he does not
dread? or is not this impossible from our former admissions? for it has
been admitted that what he dreads he considers to be evil; and what he
considers to be evil, no one either engages in or willingly receives.”
These things, likewise, were agreed to by all.
120. “These points, then, being established,” I said, “Prodicus and
Hippias, let Protagoras here defend himself and shew us how his first
answer is correct, no, not quite the first, for he then said, that there
being five parts of virtue, no one of them was like any other, but that
each had a peculiar function of its own. I do not however mean this, but
what he said afterwards. For afterwards he said, that four of them very
much resembled each other, but that one was altogether different from
the rest, namely courage. And he said I should know it by the following
proof. ‘You will find men, Socrates, who are most unholy, most unjust,
most intemperate, and most ignorant, who are yet most courageous; by
which you will know that courage differs much from the other parts of
virtue.’ And I indeed, at the moment, was very much astonished at the
answer, and I have been still more so since I have discussed these
things with you. I therefore asked him if he meant that courageous men
are bold? He said he did, and ready to rush headlong. 121. Do you
remember, Protagoras,” said I, “that you gave this answer?”
He admitted it.
“Come then,” said I, “tell us on what you say the courageous are ready
to rush headlong? Is it on the same things as cowards?”
He said not.
“On different things, therefore.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“But whether do cowards attempt things which they can venture on with
confidence, but the courageous on such as are dreadful?”
“It is said so, Socrates, by the generality of men.”
“You say truly,” I replied. “I do not, however, ask this: but on what do
you say courageous men are ready to rush headlong, on dreadful things,
thinking that they are dreadful, or on such as are not dreadful?”
“But this,” he said, “in the arguments which you just now used, was
shewn to be impossible.”
“And in this,” I replied, “you say truly. So that if this point was
proved correctly, no one attempts things which he considers to be
dreadful, since to be overcome by one’s-self was found to be ignorance.”
He admitted it.
“All men, however, attempt things in which they have confidence, both
the cowardly and the courageous, and thus both the cowardly and the
courageous attempt the same things.”
122. “But indeed, Socrates,” said he, “the things which the cowardly and
the courageous attempt are quite contrary to each other; for instance,
the latter are willing to engage in war, but the former are unwilling.”
“Whether,” said I, “is it honourable to engage in it, or base?”
“Honourable,” he replied.
“If, therefore, it is honourable, have we not already admitted that it
is good, for we have admitted that all honourable actions are good.”
“You say truly, and I am always of this opinion.”
“Right,” said I. “But which of the two do you say are unwilling to
engage in war, though it is honourable and good?”
“Cowards,” he replied.
“If therefore,” said I, “it be honourable and good, is it not also
pleasant?”
“That has been granted,” he said.
“Are the cowardly, then, unwilling to attempt what they know to be more
honourable and better, and more pleasant?”
“But,” said he, “if we admitted this, we should destroy our former
admissions.”
123. “But what with respect to the brave man? Does he not engage in what
is more honourable, better, and more pleasant?”
“It is necessary,” said he, “to admit that he does.”
“On the whole, then, is it not the case, that the courageous, when they
are afraid, have no base fear, nor are they inspired with base
confidence.”
“True,” said he.
“But if not base, are they not honourable?”
He assented.
“And if honourable, also good?”
“Yes.”
“And are not the cowardly, and the bold, and the mad, on the contrary,
influenced by base fears, and inspired with base confidence?”
He admitted that they are.
“And are they bold in what is base and evil, through any thing else than
ignorance and want of knowledge?”
“So it is,” he replied.
“What then? Do you call this, through which cowards are cowardly,
cowardice or courage?”
“Cowardice,” said he.
“But have not cowards appeared to be what they are, through not knowing
what is dreadful?”
“Certainly,” said he.
“They are cowardly then, through this want of knowledge?”
He admitted it.
“But that through which they are cowardly, you have admitted is
cowardice?”
He assented.
“Must not, then, the not knowing what is dreadful, and not dreadful, be
cowardice?”
He nodded assent.
“However,” said I, “courage is contrary to cowardice.”
He said it was.
“Is not then the knowledge of what is dreadful, and not dreadful,
contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?”
And here he still nodded assent.
“But is not the want of knowing these things cowardice?”
He, here, with great difficulty, nodded assent.
“Is not the knowledge therefore, of what is dreadful, and not dreadful,
courage, being contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?”