by Plato
– and he says that ‘a man with his first beard, like Alcibiades, [b]
is at ‘the high point of the charm of youth’.3
FRIEND: So what's new? Am I right? Have you just been with
him? How are things between you and the young man?
SOCRATES: Very well. At least, that was my impression; today
especially – he took my side and spoke up for me a lot…
yes, you're right: I have just been with him. But let me tell
you something really strange. He was there all right, but I
wasn't paying much attention to him, and pretty often I
forgot about him altogether.
FRIEND: No! How could something as serious as that have [c] happened between you two? You can't have met somebody more beautiful. Not here in Athens, at any rate.
SOCRATES: I did – somebody far more beautiful.
FRIEND: I don't believe it! Was he a local or a foreigner?
SOCRATES: A foreigner.
FRIEND: Where from?
SOCRATES: Abdera.
FRIEND: And this foreigner struck you as so beautiful that he
seemed even more beautiful than Clinias' son?
SOCRATES: Well, of course he did. How could a supreme intellect
possibly fail to be something more beautiful?
FRIEND: Aha… you've met some sort of intellectual, have
you?
[d] SOCRATES: Only the greatest intellectual alive today. That is,
if you think the greatest living intellectual is… Protagoras.
FRIEND: You're kidding! Protagoras is here in Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes. He's been here for two days already.
FRIEND: And you mean to say you've been spending time with
him? Just now?
SOCRATES: That's right. We had a long conversation. [310 a]
FRIEND: Well why don't you sit yourself down and tell us all
about it! You can sit right here beside me; get the boy4 here
to give you his seat – unless you're busy, that is.
SOCRATES: No, I'd be glad to. In fact I'd be grateful to you – for listening.
FRIEND: Not as grateful as we'll be to you, for the telling.
SOCRATES: We'll be doubly grateful, then. All right, listen up.
Last night, a little bit before dawn, my friend Hippocrates – Apollodorus' son; Phason's brother5 – started making a huge [b] racket banging on the door6 with his stick; and when somebody opened it for him, he came charging straight in and said, in a loud voice, ‘Socrates! Are you awake, or asleep?’
I recognized his voice and said, ‘Hippocrates, is that you? What is it? Has something happened?’
‘No! – well, only something good!’
‘That's a relief!’ I said. ‘So what is it? Why've you come round so early?’
‘Protagoras has arrived in Athens!’ he said, standing beside me.
‘I know. He arrived two days ago,’ I said. ‘You've only just found out?’
‘That's right!’ he said. ‘I only found out yesterday evening.’
[c] He felt around for the edge of my camp-bed7 and sat beside my feet.
‘In the evening,’ he said, ‘when I got home, late, from Oinoë. You see, what happened was, my boy, Satyros, ran away.8 I meant to tell you I was going to go after him, but something or other made me forget. And when I got home, and we'd had something to eat and were about to go to bed, that's when my brother tells me that Protagoras is here in Athens! And I was on the point of coming round to see you right away, but then I decided the night was too far gone; but as soon as I'd got some sleep and didn't feel so exhausted, I got up right away and came [d] over – so here I am!’
I could sense his enthusiasm and excitement. ‘So what's this got to do with you?’ I said. ‘Protagoras isn't committing some kind of crime against you, is he?’
He laughed. ‘Yes, he is, damn it! His crime is that he keeps his knowledge to himself and won't share any of it with me!’
‘But of course he will. Just give him some money, 9 and talk him into it, and he'll teach you everything he knows.’
‘I wish – by all the gods! If only that were all it came down to! Believe me, I'd spend everything I have, and everything my [e] family has as well. But that's exactly why I've come round to see you: I want you to talk to him on my behalf. For a start, I'm too young. What's more, I've never even seen Protagoras or heard him speak. I was just a child when he was last in town. But everyone's talking about how great he is, Socrates, and how he's the most brilliant speaker! Come on, we should be on our way over there already – we've got to make sure we catch him before he goes out. I heard he's staying with Callias, [311a] Hipponicus' son.10 Come on, let's go!’
And I said, ‘Hold on, Hippocrates. We can't go now – it's too early. Let's get up and go out here into the courtyard, and stroll around for a little while, until it gets light. Then we can go. In any case, Protagoras spends most of his time indoors, so don't worry; we're pretty likely to catch him before he goes out.’
Next, we got up and went out into the courtyard, and started walking around; and to get a clearer idea of Hippocrates' plan*, [b] I began sounding him out with a few questions.
‘Tell me something, Hippocrates,’ I said. ‘Your idea is to go and see Protagoras, right now, and pay him a fee so he'll take you on – why? What is he? And what do you see yourself becoming, by being his pupil? I mean, look: suppose you'd been planning to go to your namesake, Hippocrates from Cos, the doctor, to pay him a fee for taking you on. If someone had said to you, “So tell me, why are you paying money to Hippocrates, [c] Hippocrates? Because he's a… what?” What would you have said?’
‘I'd have said, “Because he's a doctor.”’
‘“And what are you hoping to become?”’
‘A doctor,’ he said.
‘And if you'd been planning to go to Polyclitus from Argos, or Phidias from Athens, to pay them your money, to take you on, and someone had asked, “What's the idea? Why give your money to Phidias and Polyclitus? Because they're… what?” How would you have answered?’
‘I'd have said, “Because they're sculptors.”’
‘“And what are you hoping to become yourself?”’
‘A sculptor, obviously.’
[d] ‘Right; but in this case it's Protagoras you and I are going to see, and when we get there we're ready to pay good money for your tuition – our own money if it's enough to persuade him with, and, if it it's not, we'll spend our families' money too. So suppose someone saw how incredibly keen we were and said, “What's the idea, Socrates and Hippocrates? Why are you planning to pay Protagoras all this money? What is he?” Well, [e] what could we say? What do we hear people calling Protagoras, the way they call Phidias a sculptor and Homer a poet? Is there some other name like that for Protagoras?’
‘A sophist Socrates. People call the man a sophist.’
‘Ah – a sophist. So that's why we're going to go and give him our money? Because he's a sophist?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And what if someone asked you this as well: “And how [312 a] about you? What are you hoping to become, by going to Protagoras?”’
Hippocrates blushed11 (there was just a little daylight by then – enough to give him away): ‘Well, if those other cases are anything to go by, I'm obviously hoping to become a sophist!’
‘You! A sophist? Wouldn't you be embarrassed, going around Greece presenting yourself as a sophist?
‘Well, of course I would! – I'd be lying if I said otherwise.’
‘All right; so I take it you don't see the teaching you'll get from Protagoras as working the same way; you probably see it as being more like the things you were taught by your writing [b] teacher, or your guitar12 teacher, or your athletics-trainer – because in each of those cases you didn't learn things with the idea of taking up their profession.13 It was just for your education; the sort of thing you expect of any free citizen of i
ndependent means.’
‘Yes, exactly,’ he said. ‘I think of the instruction that I'll get from Protagoras as being more like that sort of thing.’
‘So do you realize what it is you're about to do? Or hasn't it occurred to you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, do you realize you're about to let a man take care of your soul?14 A sophist, you say – but what is a sophist? I'd be [c] surprised if you knew. But if you don't know what a sophist is, then you also don't know whether you'll be handing over your soul to something good or something bad.’
‘I think I know what a sophist is.’
‘All right then; tell me what you think a sophist is.’
‘I think,’ he said, ‘that a sophist, as the name implies, is someone who has sophisticated knowledge.’15
‘All right; but isn't that something we can say about carpenters as well, or painters? – we could say they have “sophisticated knowledge” too. But if someone asked us, “In what area? What [d] is a painter's ‘sophisticated knowledge’ directed at?”, we could say that it's directed at creating images; and we could say the same sort of thing for the rest of them. But what if someone asked, “So what about a sophist? What's his ‘sophisticated knowledge’ directed at?” What could we say? What does a sophist produce? What's he a master of?’
‘I'm not sure what we'd say, Socrates – unless we'd say he's a master of making people skilled at speaking.’
‘That may well be right,’ I said, ‘but it certainly isn't a full answer, because it just raises the further question – what does a sophist make people skilled at speaking about?16 Think of it this way: a guitarist presumably makes people skilled at speaking [e] too – skilled at speaking about the same thing he teaches them – i.e., guitar-playing. Doesn't he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. So how about a sophist? What does he make people “skilled at speaking” about? Obviously it'd have to be whatever it is that he teaches them?’
‘That would certainly make sense.’*
‘So what is that? What's a sophist an expert at, and what does he make his pupils experts at?’
‘Well, damn, you've got me there. I just don't know.’
[313a] So then I said, ‘All right, how about this? Do you realize the kind of danger you'll be placing your soul in? I bet that if it was your body you had to hand over to someone, and you were taking a chance on its ending up in good or bad shape, you'd have thought really carefully about whether or not to go ahead with it; you'd have been asking your friends and family to give you their advice; you'd have spent several days looking into it. But here it's a question of something more precious to you than your body – your soul, the thing that determines (by turning out either good or bad) whether your whole life goes well or badly.17 That's what's at stake here; and yet you didn't talk to your father about it, or your brother, or any of your friends, to [b] see what they thought about whether or not it was a good idea to hand over your soul to this man who's only just arrived in town. You say yourself that you only heard last night that he was here, and yet here you are, at the crack of dawn, with no interest in talking about it, or asking my advice about whether or not this is something you should do, and you're ready to spend all your money, and all your family's money too, because you've already made up your mind that becoming Protagoras’ pupil is something you've absolutely got to do. And this is a man you say you don't know, and haven't so much as spoken to, ever, and you call him a “sophist”, but you obviously don't [c] have any idea what on earth a sophist is – the thing you're planning to hand yourself over to.’
When he'd listened to all that, he said, ‘Yes; from what you've been saying, that seems about right.’
‘Well, would it be fair to say, Hippocrates, that a sophist is a sort of salesman or trader – trading in the goods that feed the soul? That's more or less what I think a sophist is.’
‘But what is it that “feeds the soul”, Socrates?’
‘Well, the things we learn, of course,’ I said. ‘And we've got to be very careful not to let ourselves be duped by sophists when they're touting their wares – just like with people who sell food for the body: your ordinary merchant and market-trader. They're the same: they've got no idea, themselves, which of the [d] things they're selling are good or bad (for your body), but they'll claim it's all good, because they're selling it; and as a customer you don't know any better, unless you happen to be a trainer or a doctor. That's how it is with these people who deal in education, touring the cities like travelling salesmen, peddling their courses to anyone who wants them – sure, they'll talk up whatever it is they're selling; but it's pretty likely that some of them don't know which of the things they're selling are good or bad (for your soul). And the same goes for their [e] customers, unless you happen to be a kind of expert on the health of the soul.
‘So, if you are in fact an expert on this sort of thing, and know which ones are good for you and which ones are harmful, there's no danger in your buying courses from Protagoras or from anyone else. But if you're not, then for heaven's sake be careful! Don't gamble – don't play dice with the most valuable [314 a] things you've got! Remember, there are much higher stakes involved in shopping for education than there are in buying your groceries. The thing about buying food and drink from a street-vendor or a shop-keeper is that you can take it away in a separate container, which means that before you eat it or drink it, and take it into your body, you can go home, put it on the shelf and get someone who knows what they're talking about to help you decide what you should eat or drink, and what you shouldn't, and how much you should eat, and when you should eat it. So there's no great gamble just in buying it. But you can't take away learning in a separate container. Once [b] you've paid for it, you're forced to take it in with your very soul – to learn it – and go away either harmed by it or improved.
‘So I think we should get some help looking into these things from people who've got more experience than us. We're still a bit young to be able to make such an important decision.
‘But for the time being let's do as we planned and go and hear what the man has to say. And after we've spoken to him we can consult some of the other sophists as well. It isn't just Protagoras who's staying at Callias' place. Hippias from Elis is [c] there, too, and Prodicus from Ceos, I think, and lots of other great intellectuals.’
So that's what we decided to do, and we started making our way over there.
And when we found ourselves in front of the door, we stood there and carried on a conversation that we happened to strike up on the way – we wanted to round it off before going inside rather than leave it unfinished, so we stood there, right in front of the door, talking things through until we'd come to an agreement. Now I think the doorman (a eunuch) had been eavesdropping on us; and chances are, with all the sophists who [d] were staying there, he was pretty sick of people constantly coming to the house. At any rate, when we knocked on the door, he opened it, saw us and said, ‘Oh no! Sophists! He's busy!’ 18 And with that he very keenly slammed the door in our faces, with both hands, as hard as he could.
So we knocked again; and this time he kept the door firmly shut and answered like this: ‘Didn't you people hear what I said? He's busy!’
‘No, listen, my good man,’ I said. ‘We're not here to see Callias, and don't panic, we're not sophists. We're here because [e] we want to see Protagoras. So go and let him know we're here.’
So eventually the man opened the door and let us in.
Once we'd got inside, we came upon Protagoras, walking up and down under the colonnade, with a number of people walking in a row on either side of him: on one side were Callias [315 a] and his half-brother, Pericles' son Paralus, and Glaucon's son Charmides, and on the other side Pericles’ other son Xanthippus, Philomelus' son Philippides, and Antimoerus from Mendë – he's Protagoras' most famous pupil; he's training with him professionally, with the idea of becoming a sophist himself. And there were a number of ot
hers following along behind them, listening to the talk, most of whom seemed to be from out of town – the people Protagoras gathers from the cities he passes through: he draws them with his spellbinding voice, like Orpheus, and wherever the voice leads, they follow, [b] under his spell. But there were one or two Athenians in the ‘chorus’19 as well. And a particularly entertaining sight, I found, was the way the chorus took great care to avoid getting in Protagoras' way: each time he and the front row swivelled around, the extra crowd of listeners split very neatly down the middle, half to the left and half to the right, then swirled round in an arc and took up their position at the back – it was beautifully done.
‘And whom next should I cast my eyes upon?’20 (as Homer says) if it wasn't Hippias from Elis. He was sitting in a high-backed [c] chair under the opposite colonnade; and sitting around him on benches were Acumenus' son Eryximachus, Phaedrus of Murrhinous and Androtion's son Andron, along with a number of foreigners made up of Hippias' fellow Eleans and various other people. They seemed to be quizzing Hippias on natural science – stars and planets and so on – and he was sitting there in his high-backed chair, passing out judgements, explaining the answers to their questions.
‘And then I caught sight of Tantalus as well!’21 Yes, that's right, Prodicus from Ceos was in town! He was there in a [d] building that Callias' father used to use as a storeroom, but now, because of all the people that come to stay, Callias has had it cleared out and converted it into rooms for guests. Prodicus himself was still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and blankets (a huge pile of them, as far as I could see); and sitting around him on the beds next to him were Pausanias from Cerameis and with Pausanias a teenage boy who, if you ask me, seemed a fine lad, of good breeding; and he was certainly very easy on [e] the eye. I think I heard someone say his name was Agathon, and I wouldn't be surprised if in fact he was Pausanias' sweetheart.22 And besides the boy, I could see both the Adimantuses (Cepis' son and Leucolophides' son) and various other people. But as for what they were talking about, from where I was standing outside I simply couldn't make it out, even though I was itching to hear what Prodicus was saying – he's a brilliant [316 a] man, in my view, truly inspired – the problem was he's got such a deep voice that it set off a kind of rumbling echo inside the room, and I couldn't make out a word.