Protagoras and Meno

by Plato

  At that point… because I sensed that he hadn't been very happy [b] with the way he'd handled his answers so far, and that if he had any choice in the matter he'd refuse to carry on the talk as the person answering the questions… I decided there was no point in my participating any further in the meeting. ‘You know what, Protagoras,’ I said. ‘I have no wish for the meeting to carry on in a way that's not to your liking, either. Let me know when you feel like talking with me in a way I can follow. I'll talk with you then. Remember, you can hold conversations in either style – long speeches or keeping it short; that's what people say, and you say the same yourself. That's [c] because you're a smart guy. As for me, I just can't cope with these long speeches. I wish I could! But the fact is, you're the one who can do things either way, so it's you who needed to make the concessions, if we were going to carry on with our talk. But never mind; seeing as you don't want to, and since I've got something else I have to do and wouldn't be able to hang around while you reeled out long speeches, I'll be off. The fact is, there's somewhere I really must be going57 – I mean, don't get me wrong: I'd probably have quite enjoyed listening to your long speeches as well.’

  As I finished speaking, I started getting up to leave; and as I was getting up, Callias grabbed hold of my arm with his right hand and with his left hand took hold of my cloak – like that [d] – and said: ‘No, Socrates! We're not going to let you go! Our talks simply won't be the same without you! I'm asking you to stay, for our sake. As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing I would enjoy listening to more than you and Protagoras talking something through. Please, Socrates; do us all a big favour.’

  And I said – and by this point I'd already got up to leave – ‘Callias, I've always been impressed by your enthusiasm for philosophy, and I really do appreciate it now, as well – thank you. So I'd be only too happy to oblige… if what you were [e] asking for were possible. But the fact is, you might as well be asking me to run as fast as Crison, the runner from Himera, at the peak of his form, or to run a whole race keeping pace with some long-distance runner or all-day courier – if you wanted me to do that, I'd say, “Look, nobody would like me to run as [336 a] fast as those guys more than I would! But the plain fact is, I can't. So if you want to watch Crison and me running side by side, you'll have to ask him to ease down to my speed. Because I can't run fast, but he can run slowly.” It's the same here; if you're so keen on listening to me and Protagoras, you'd better ask him to carry on answering my questions the same way as he did at first – with short answers that stick to the question. Otherwise, I can't see how our discussion can possibly work. I [b] mean, I always thought that actually engaging with one another and talking things through was something different from making long speeches.’

  ‘But don't you see, Socrates?’ he said. ‘I think it's fair enough of Protagoras to say he should be allowed to talk with you in whatever way he likes, and you in whatever way you prefer.’

  Here Alcibiades broke in: ‘No, Callias. That's not right. Look; Socrates here admits that long speeches aren't his thing, and in that department he's happy to give up the top spot to Protagoras; but as for being able to discuss a question, and knowing how to defend, or test out, an idea, I'd be surprised if [c] he'd back off to anyone. So the way I see it, if Protagoras is admitting he isn't as good as Socrates at talking something through, then that's good enough for Socrates; but if he's still staking his claim, then he's got to carry on with the discussion, asking questions and giving replies – and he can't keep dragging out long speeches in response to every question, side-tracking the arguments, refusing to defend his ideas, and going on and [d] on until most people who are listening have forgotten what the question was about in the first place (not Socrates, mind you: I can guarantee that he won't forget, no matter what he says about being “a bit forgetful” – he's just messing with us.) So here's my view – because I think each of us should state clearly what he thinks about this: I say that Socrates is the one being more reasonable.’

  After Alcibiades, I think it was Critias who spoke.

  ‘Listen, Prodicus and Hippias; Callias here seems to me to be [e] very much on Protagoras' side; and Alcibiades is always very headstrong once he's launched himself into something. But there's no need for us to get involved and take sides with either Socrates or Protagoras. Instead I suggest we ask them both, from a neutral standpoint, not to break up the meeting when it's in full flow.’

  [337 a] When he'd said that, Prodicus said, ‘Yes, I think that's quiteright, Critias. People who find themselves present at these sorts of discussions certainly ought to be a neutral audience – although not, mind you, an even-handed one, which is not the same thing. They have to listen to both speakers neutrally, but they don't have to give an even hand to each man; rather, they should hand more to the more intelligent speaker and less to the less intelligent speaker. Now, personally, Protagoras and Socrates, I also feel you need to reach a compromise, and that in going over these ideas you should debate with one another [b] but not have a dispute. There's a difference: a debate is something that goes on even between friends, without ill feeling; a dispute, on the other hand, is what occurs between people who have fallen out with one another and are being hostile. And that way our meeting would proceed in the finest possible style. Because, in the first place, it would be the best way for you, as the people speaking, to win the respect of those of us who are listening. And I stress: our respect, not our praise. There's a difference: respect is something that exists in the minds of the audience, so it can't be phoney. Praise is just a matter of what people say, and people often say the opposite of what they really think. And secondly, it would be the best way of making [c] the meeting enjoyable for us, the people listening. And I stress: enjoyable, not pleasurable. Enjoyment, you see, requires that one be learning something, gaining some element of wisdom, and is a purely mental experience; pleasure, on the other hand, requires that one be eating something, say, or having some other sort of pleasurable sensation, and is a purely physical experience.’

  That was what Prodicus had to say, and his comments were well received by a lot of the people who were there. And after Prodicus, it was Hippias, the famous intellectual, who spoke.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘all of you who are here today: I look upon you all as being of one family, true relatives, citizens of one country – according to nature, that is; not according to law. That's because, according to nature, if two things are [d] alike, then they belong to one family; but law, that tyrant of humankind, often forces things on us in violation of our nature.58 So it would be a disgrace if we, of all people, in spite of understanding the real nature of the world, and even though we are the finest minds in Greece, and have come together by virtue of that very status here in Athens, the world headquarters of philosophy, and what's more, in this, the greatest and most splendid household of that city – it would be a disgrace if we failed to produce anything worthy of this prestigious occasion, [e] and instead just squabbled with one another as if we were a bunch of utter good-for-nothings.

  ‘So I'm asking you, Protagoras and Socrates, and I'm advising you, to come to a middle ground, with us as the arbitrators, so to speak, bringing you together – and that means you, Socrates, mustn't insist on this very precise style of argument, where [338 a] everything is kept extremely brief, if that's something Protagoras doesn't enjoy; you should release, and relax, the reins of your talk, to allow his speeches, for our benefit, to have a more dignified, more handsome ring to them. And you, Protagoras, mustn't let out every cable to full stretch, unfurl your sail square to the wind and go tearing off into an open sea of speeches, beyond all sight of land. The two of you must strike a balance. So that's how I'd like you to do things – and I suggest you choose someone to act as an umpire, or moderator, or chairman; [b] someone to make sure both of you keep your contri-butions to just the right length.’

  These comments went down very well with the people there, and they all agreed it was a good idea. Calli
as said he wasn't going to let me leave, and they wanted to choose a moderator; at which point I said it would be insulting* to pick someone as a referee for the discussion. ‘Because if the person who's chosen isn't as good as we are, well, it wouldn't make sense to have someone less good supervising people who are better than he is, while if he's just the same, that wouldn't make any sense either, since if he's just the same as us, he'll also do the same things we'd do anyway, so appointing him would be a waste of [c] time. “So why not pick someone who's better than we are?” I hear you say. Well, in my view, it's impossible for you to pick someone who's genuinely smarter than Protagoras here. And if you go ahead and pick someone who isn't actually any better, and pretend that he is, that works out just as insulting to Protagoras – you'd be implying by your choice of moderator that he was just some ordinary guy. Of course, it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm easy.

  ‘Look, here's what I'm prepared to do to make it possible for us to carry on with the meeting and get some discussions going – which is what you're all so keen on: if Protagoras doesn't want [d] to answer questions, fine, let's have him ask some questions, and I'll do the answering – and in the process I'll try to show him how I think someone who's answering questions should go about it. But then once I've answered as many questions as he feels like asking, he's got to answer my questions in the same way. And if, at that point, he doesn't seem very keen on giving answers that stick to the question, we'll all ask him together just the same thing as you're asking me – not to mess up the [e] meeting. And there's no need for one particular person to be supervisor just for that. You can all supervise the discussion together.’

  Everyone thought that that was what we should do. So Protagoras, although he was very reluctant, found himself forced to go along with it: he would ask me some questions and then, once he'd had enough of asking questions, take his turn at answering mine – keeping his answers brief.

  So he began asking his questions – something like this:

  ‘I believe, Socrates,’ he said, ‘that a very important part of being a well-educated man is being a skilful critic of poetry. And by that I mean being able to see when the claims made by [339 a] poets and songwriters make sense and when they don't, and knowing how to explain them* and defend your reading if you're asked questions about it. And in line with that, the question I'm going to ask now will still be about the same thing you and I have been talking about – being good – but shifted to a poetic context. That'll be the only change. Here it is:

  ‘Simonides, 59 in one of his songs, says to Scopas, the son of Creon the Thessalian, that:

  Really and truly good [b]

  is a hard thing

  for a man to become,

  I'll give you that –

  straight as a die,

  in hands and feet and mind,

  built without a single fault…

  ‘Do you know the song? Or do you want me to go through the whole thing for you?’

  ‘No, no need,’ I said. ‘I know the song – it so happens it's a song I've devoted quite a lot of thought to myself.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘In that case, do you think it's well put together and makes sense, or not?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘I think it's very well put together and makes perfect sense.’

  ‘But do you think it can count as being well put together if the poet contradicts himself?’

  ‘No’ I said.

  ‘Then you'd better take a closer look,’ he said.

  [c] ‘No, really, Protagoras, I've looked it over pretty well already.’

  ‘So you're aware, then, that later on in the song he says:

  But for me that Pittacus thing

  just don't quite ring –

  even though he is real smart –

  he says “bein' good is hard.”

  ‘You realize this is the same person who's making both claims, this one and the one before?’

  ‘Yes, I'm aware of that,’ I said.

  ‘So do you think the second claim is consistent with the first one?’

  ‘Yes, I think so' – at that moment, mind you, I was beginning to suspect he might be on to something. ‘Why?’ I said. ‘You don't think so?’

  [d] ‘No! How could you possibly think someone who made both these claims was being consistent? Look, first of all, giving his own view, he claimed that it's hard to become a really good man, and then just a little bit further on in the song he forgot about that, and even though Pittacus is saying the same thing – that “bein' good is hard” – he criticizes him for it and says he can't accept his saying, even though it's just the same as his own! But by criticizing someone for saying the same thing as he does, obviously he's in effect criticizing himself. So that means that somewhere, either with the first claim or with the second, he's not making sense!’

  Well, that got him a big round of applause from a lot of the [e] people in the audience. And as for me, at first I felt like I'd taken a punch from a champion boxer – everything went black! my head was in a spin! – with him making his point and then the rest of them heaping on the applause. But then – and between you and me the idea was to give myself a little time to think about what the poet might be saying – I turned and called to Prodicus.

  ‘Prodicus,’ I said, ‘you're from Ceos – Simonides is your fellow countryman. It's your duty to come to the rescue! So I [340 a] think I'm going to call on your support – just like the way, in the Iliad, the river Scamander calls to the Simoëis for help, when Achilles has him under siege – “Brother! Let's join our forces, to hold off the hero's might!” I'm calling on you for help, so we can stop Protagoras from reducing poor Simonides to rubble. And anyway, come to think of it, your special art form is exactly what's needed for making sense of the song, in Simonides' defence – the one which lets you explain the difference between wanting something and desiring something (“which is not the same thing”) – and you gave us a number of [b] very fine examples of it just a moment ago. Here – see if you think the same way as me. Because I don't think Simonides is contradicting himself. Now let's hear your expert opinion first, Prodicus: do you think that becoming is the same thing as being, or different?’

  ‘Different, of course!’ said Prodicus.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now, in the first quote, Simonides clearly stated his own view in his own words, which is that “it's a hard thing for a man to become really and truly good.” Yes?’ [c]

  ‘That's correct,’ said Prodicus.

  ‘And then he criticizes Pittacus,’ I said, ‘not – as Protagoras believes – for saying the same thing he does but for saying something quite different – because Pittacus didn't say becoming good was hard, which is what Simonides says; he said that “bein' good” is hard.60 But being and becoming, Protagoras, aren't the same thing; not according to Prodicus here. And if being isn't the same thing as becoming, then Simonides isn't contradicting himself after all. And perhaps Prodicus here, along with lots of other people, would go along with Hesiod [d] when he says that, sure, becoming good is hard, because

  the gods laid it down,

  that a man's gotta sweat

  on the path to being good…

  but that once you

  reach the top, from then,

  hard as it was to get there,

  it's an easy thing

  to keep a hold upon.’

  Prodicus, when he heard my idea, said he thought it was a good one. But not Protagoras: ‘Your attempt to make sense of the song,’ he said, ‘involves a more serious problem than the one you're trying to make sense of.’

  And I said, ‘Oh no! What a disaster! Funny sort of doctor I [e] am – I try to cure the illness, and I just make it worse!’

  ‘I'm afraid so,’ he said.

  ‘Explain,’ I said.

  ‘The poet would have to be exceptionally stupid to claim that to keep being good is something so trivial, when in fact it's the most difficult thing there is. Everybody thinks so.’

/>   Then I said, ‘You know, it really is an amazing stroke of luck that Prodicus here happens to be sitting in on our discussion. Because I suspect, Protagoras, that Prodicus here possesses an [341 a] inspired, and very ancient, branch of knowledge; and obviously Simonides was one of its earliest exponents – if not its founder. You apparently have no experience of this particular field (in spite of being an expert in so many others) – unlike myself: I'm an expert, thanks to being a student of Prodicus' here. And in this instance, I think that what you're not grasping is that maybe Simonides didn't take the word hard to mean the same thing as you take it to mean. It's like with the word terribly. Prodicus is always telling me off if I'm complimenting someone – you, for example – and I say, “That Protagoras, what a terribly clever guy”. He asks me why I'm not embarrassed, [b] calling good things terribly anything. “After all, something that's terrible,” he says, “is bad. At any rate nobody ever says ‘terrible money’, ‘terrible peace' or ‘terrible health’; people talk about ‘terrible disease' and ‘terrible war' and ‘terrible poverty’, on the understanding that something terrible is something bad.” So maybe it's the same with “hard”. Maybe people in Ceos, including Simonides, take “hard” to mean “bad”, or something else that you're not grasping. I know – let's ask Prodicus. After all, he's the right person to ask about Simonides' dialect, isn't he? Prodicus, what exactly did Simonides mean by [c] “hard”?’

  ‘Bad,’ he said.

  ‘Aha! So that's also why he's criticizing Pittacus for saying that “bein' good is hard” – it's as if he took him to be saying that bein' good was something bad!’

  ‘Well obviously, Socrates,’ said Prodicus. ‘What else did you think Simonides could be saying? He's clearly reprimanding Pittacus for not knowing how to make accurate semantic distinctions, because he's from Lesbos and was brought up speaking some barbarous dialect.’

  ‘You hear that, Protagoras? You hear what Prodicus here is saying? What have you got to say to that?’ [d]