The Portable Plato

by Plato

Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to him: he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and music; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters and is beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a bench at school; in these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises, and encomia of ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order that he may imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the teachers of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music, and make their harmonies and rhythms quite familiar to the children’s souls, in order that they may learn to be more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more fitted for speech and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what is done by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the rich; their children begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters, the state again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write, the writing-master first draws lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these are given to the young man, in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that justice calls men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue private and public, why, Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder, for the opposite would be far more surprising.

  But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is not any man’s private possession. If so—and nothing can be truer—then I will further ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity, and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the laws, not concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them—for all of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws,—suppose, I say, that there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching one another flute-playing, do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I think not. Would not their sons grow up to be distinguished or undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and the son of a bad player to be a good one, and all flute-players would be good enough in comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of flute-playing? In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to be a just man and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education, or courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practice virtue—with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the stage at the last year’s Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the man-haters in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the world. And you, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue, each one according to his ability; and you say, Where are the teachers? You might as well ask, Who teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of their ability,—but who will carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above all other men to have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my pupils their money’s-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I have introduced the following mode of payment:—When a man has been my pupil, if he likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more than he declares to be their value.

  Such is my apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in comparison with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young and there is still hope of them.

  Protagoras ended, and in my ear

  “So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear.“6

  At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no human care could make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a question to ask of any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any one challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some one puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly; and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I, Protagoras, want to ask of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught;—that I will take upon your authority, and there is no one to whom I
am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus sending justice and reverence to men; and several times while you were speaking, justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all these qualities, were described by you as if together they made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these are only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my mind.

  There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking are the parts of virtue which is one.

  And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears, are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and from one another only in being larger or smaller?

  I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one another as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.

  And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one part, must he also have all the others?

  By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise.

  You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?

  Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts.

  And they are all different from one another? I said.

  Yes.

  And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;—the eye, for example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to know whether the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ from one another in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile would imply.

  Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ.

  Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or like temperance, or like holiness?

  No, he answered.

  Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is my opinion: would it not be yours also?

  Mine also, he said.

  And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, “O Protagoras, and you, Socrates, what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?”—and I were to answer, just: would you vote with me or against me?

  With you, he said.

  Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just: would not you?

  Yes, he said.

  And suppose that he went on to say: “Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?”—we should answer, “Yes,” if I am not mistaken?

  Yes, he said.

  Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing—should we not say so?

  He assented.

  “And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the unholy?” I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, “Peace, man; nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.” What would you say? Would you not answer in the same way?

  Certainly, he said.

  And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, “What were you saying just now? Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that the parts of virtue were not the same as one another.” I should reply, “You certainly heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question; Protagoras gave the answer.” And suppose that he turned to you and said, “Is this true, Protagoras? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this your position?”—how would you answer him?

  I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.

  Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say further, “Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness, but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy”: how shall we answer him? I should certainly answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I would say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether I may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with me.

  He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will, that justice is holy, and that holiness is just.

  Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this “if you wish” or “if you will” sort of conclusion to be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion will be best proven if there be no “if.”

  Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain way like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities in common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same principle that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some particular ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular, however slight, unlike.

  And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small degree of likeness?

  Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view.

  Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the examples which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly?

  I do.

  And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly?

  That is true, he said.

  And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate?

  Yes, he said.

  And temperance makes them temperate?

  Certainly.

  And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate?

  I agree, he said.

  Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately?

  He assented.

  And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance?

  He agreed.

  And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by weakness?

  He assented.

  And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with slowness, slowly?

  He assented again.

  And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done in an opposite manner by the opposite?

  He agreed.

  Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful?

  Yes.

  To which the only opposite is the ugly?

  There is no other.

  And is there anything good?

  There is.

  To which the only opposite is the evil?

  There is no other.

  And there is the acute in sound?

  True.

  To which the only opposite is the grave?

  There is no other, he said, but that.

  Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more?

  He assented.

  Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that everything has one opposite an
d not more than one?

  We did so.

  And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites?

  Yes.

  And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite way to that which was done temperately?

  Yes.

  And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was done foolishly by folly?

  He agreed.

  And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?

  Yes.

  And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly?

  Yes.

  And in opposite ways?

  Certainly.

  And therefore by opposites:—then folly is the opposite of temperance?

  Clearly.

  And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the opposite of wisdom?

  He assented.

  And we said that everything has only one opposite?

  Yes.

  Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that everything has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance, and that both of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of these two assertions shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in harmony; they do not accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is assumed to have only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one, has clearly the two opposites—wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras? What else would you say?

  He assented, but with great reluctance.

  Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to us to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and not faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice?

  I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this which nevertheless many may be found to assert.