Complete Works (165 page)

“A sophist is what they call him, anyway, Socrates.”

“Then it is as a sophist that we are going to pay him?”

“Yes.”

”And if somebody asks you what you expect to become in going to
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Protagoras?”

He blushed in response—there was just enough daylight now to show him up—and said, “If this is at all like the previous cases, then, obviously, to become a sophist.”

“What? You? Wouldn’t you be ashamed to present yourself to the Greek world as a sophist?”

“Yes, I would, Socrates, to be perfectly honest.”

“Well, look, Hippocrates, maybe this isn’t the sort of education you [b] expect to get from Protagoras. Maybe you expect to get the kind of lessons you got from your grammar instructor or music teacher or wrestling coach. You didn’t get from them technical instruction to become a professional, but a general education suitable for a gentleman.”

“That’s it exactly! That’s just the sort of education you get from Protagoras.”

“Then do you know what you are about to do now, or does it escape you?” I said.

“What do you mean?”

[c] “That you are about to hand over your soul for treatment to a man who is, as you say, a sophist. As to what exactly a sophist is, I would be surprised if you really knew. And yet, if you are ignorant of this, you don’t know whether you are entrusting your soul to something good or bad.”

“But I think I do know,” he said.

“Then tell me what you think a sophist is.”

“I think,” he said, “that, as the name suggests, he is someone who has an understanding of wise things.”

[d] “Well, you could say the same thing about painters and carpenters, that they understand wise things. But if someone asked us ‘wise in what respect?’ we would probably answer, for painters, ‘wise as far as making images is concerned,’ and so on for the other cases. And if someone asked, ‘What about sophists? What wise things do they understand?’—what would we answer? What are they expert at making?”

“What else, Socrates, should we say a sophist is expert at than making people clever speakers?”

“Our answer would then be true, but not sufficient, for it requires another [e] question: On what subject does the sophist make you a clever speaker? For example, a lyre-player makes you a clever speaker on his subject of expertise, the lyre. Right?”

“Yes.”

“All right then. On what subject does a sophist make you a clever speaker?”

“It’s clear that it’s the same subject that he understands.”

“Likely enough. And what is this subject that the sophist understands and makes his student understand?”

“By God,” he said, “I really don’t know what to say.”

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I went on to my next point: “Do you see what kind of danger you are about to put your soul in? If you had to entrust your body to someone and risk its becoming healthy or ill, you would consider carefully whether you should entrust it or not, and you would confer with your family and friends for days on end. But when it comes to something you value more than your body, namely your soul, and when everything concerning [b] whether you do well or ill in your life depends on whether it becomes worthy or worthless, I don‘t see you getting together with your father or brother or a single one of your friends to consider whether or not to entrust your soul to this recently arrived foreigner. No, you hear about him in the evening—right?—and the next morning, here you are, not to talk about whether it’s a good idea to entrust yourself to him or not, but ready to spend your own money and your friends’ as well, as if you had thought it all through already and, no matter what, you had to be with Protagoras, [c] a man whom you admit you don’t know and have never conversed with, and whom you call a sophist although you obviously have no idea what this sophist is to whom you are about to entrust yourself.”

“I guess so, Socrates, from what you say.”

“Am I right, then, Hippocrates, that a sophist is a kind of merchant who peddles provisions upon which the soul is nourished? That’s what he seems like to me.”

“But what is the soul nourished on, Socrates?”

“Teachings, I would say. And watch, or the sophist might deceive us [d] in advertising what he sells, the way merchants who market food for the body do. In general, those who market provisions don’t know what is good or bad for the body—they just recommend everything they sell—nor do those who buy (unless one happens to be a trainer or doctor). In the same way, those who take their teachings from town to town and sell them wholesale or retail to anybody who wants them recommend all their products, but I wouldn’t be surprised, my friend, if some of these people did not know which of their products are beneficial and which detrimental [e] to the soul. Likewise those who buy from them, unless one happens to be a physician of the soul. So if you are a knowledgeable consumer, you can buy teachings safely from Protagoras or anyone else. But if you’re not, please don’t risk what is most dear to you on a roll of the dice, for there
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is a far greater risk in buying teachings than in buying food. When you buy food and drink from the merchant you can take each item back home from the store in its own container and before you ingest it into your body you can lay it all out and call in an expert for consultation as to what should be eaten or drunk and what not, and how much and when. So [b] there’s not much risk in your purchase. But you cannot carry teachings away in a separate container. You put down your money and take the teaching away in your soul by having learned it, and off you go, either helped or injured. Anyway, these are the questions we should look into, with the help of our elders. You and I are still a little too young to get to the bottom of such a great matter. Well, let’s do what we had started out to do and go hear this man; and after we have heard him, we can talk with some others also. Protagoras isn’t the only one there. There’s Hippias [c] of Elis too, and also Prodicus of Ceos, I believe. And many others as well, wise men all.”

Having agreed on this, we set out. When we got to the doorway we stood there discussing some point which had come up along the road and which we didn’t want to leave unsettled before we went in. So we were standing there in the doorway discussing it until we reached an agreement, [d] and I think the doorman, a eunuch, overheard us. He must have been annoyed with all the traffic of sophists in and out of the house, because when we knocked he opened the door, took one look at us and said, “Ha! More sophists! He’s busy.” Then he slammed the door in our faces with both hands as hard as he could. We knocked again, and he answered through the locked door, “Didn’t you hear me say he’s busy?” “My good [e] man,” I said, “we haven’t come to see Callias, and we are not sophists. Calm down. We want to see Protagoras. That’s why we’ve come. So please announce us.” Eventually he opened the door for us.

When we went in we found Protagoras walking in the portico flanked by two groups. On one side were Callias, son of Hipponicus, and his
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brother on his mother’s side, Paralus, son of Pericles, and Charmides,
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son of Glaucon. On the other side were Pericles’ other son, Xanthippus, Philippides, son of Philomelus, and Antimoerus of Mende, Protagoras’ star pupil who is studying professionally to become a sophist. Following behind and trying to listen to what was being said were a group of what seemed to be mostly foreigners, men whom Protagoras collects from the [b] various cities he travels through. He enchants them with his voice like Orpheus, and they follow the sound of his voice in a trance. There were some locals also in this chorus, whose dance simply delighted me when I saw how beautifully they took care never to get in Protagoras’ way. When he turned around with his flanking groups, the audience to the rear would split into two in a very orderly way and then circle around to either side and form up again behind him. It was quite lovely.

[c] And then I perceived (as Homer
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says) Hippias of Elis, on a high seat in the other side of the colonnade. Seated on benches around him were Eryximachus,
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son of Acumenus, Phaedrus of Myrrhinus, Andron, son of Androtion, a number of Elians and a few other foreigners. They seemed to be asking Hippias questions on astronomy and physics, and he, from his high seat, was answering each of their questions point by point.

[d] And not only that, but I saw Tantalus too, for Prodicus of Ceos was also in town. He was in a room which Hipponicus had formerly used for storage, but because of the number of visitors Callias had cleared it out and made it into a guest room. Prodicus was still in bed and looked to be bundled up in a pile of sheepskin fleeces and blankets. Seated on couches next to him were Pausanias
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from Cerames, and with Pausanias a fairly [e] young boy, well-bred I would say, and certainly good-looking. I think I heard his name is Agathon, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he were Pausanias’ young love. So this boy was there, and the two Adeimantuses,
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sons of Cepis and Leucolophides, and there seemed to be some others. What they were talking about I couldn’t tell from outside, even though I really
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wanted to hear Prodicus, a man who in my opinion is godlike in his universal knowledge. But his voice is so deep that it set up a reverberation in the room that blurred what was being said.

We had just arrived when along came Alcibiades the Beautiful (as you call him, and I’m not arguing) and Critias son of Callaeschrus.
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So when we were inside and had spent a little more time looking at everything, [b] we went up to Protagoras, and I said, “Protagoras, Hippocrates here and I have come to see you.”

“Do you want to talk with me alone or with others present?” he said.

“It doesn’t make any difference to us,” I said. “Listen to what we’ve come for, and decide for yourself.”

“Well, then, what have you come for?” he asked.

“Hippocrates is from here, a son of Apollodorus and a member of a great and well-to-do family. His own natural ability ranks him with the best of anyone his age. It’s my impression that he wants to be a man of [c] respect in the city, and he thinks this is most likely to happen if he associates himself with you. So now you must decide. Should we discuss this alone or in the presence of others?”

“Your discretion on my behalf is appropriate, Socrates. Caution is in order for a foreigner who goes into the great cities and tries to persuade the best of the young men in them to abandon their associations with [d] others, relatives and acquaintances, young and old alike, and to associate with him instead on the grounds that they will be improved by this association. Jealousy, hostility, and intrigue on a large scale are aroused by such activity. Now, I maintain that the sophist’s art is an ancient one, but that the men who practiced it in ancient times, fearing the odium attached to it, disguised it, masking it sometimes as poetry, as Homer and Hesiod and Simonides did, or as mystery religions and prophecy, witness Orpheus and Musaeus, and occasionally, I’ve noticed, even as athletics, as with [e] Iccus of Tarentum and, in our own time, Herodicus of Selymbria (originally of Megara), as great a sophist as any. Your own Agathocles, a great sophist, used music as a front, as did Pythoclides of Ceos, and many others. All
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of them, as I say, used these various arts as screens out of fear of ill will. And this is where I part company with them all, for I do not believe that they accomplished their end; I believe they failed, in fact, to conceal from the powerful men in the cities the true purpose of their disguises. The [b] masses, needless to say, perceive nothing, but merely sing the tune their leaders announce. Now, for a runaway not to succeed in running away, but to be caught in the open, is sheer folly from the start and inevitably makes men even more hostile than they were before, for on top of everything else they perceive him as a real rogue. So I have come down the completely opposite road. I admit that I am a sophist and that I educate [c] men, and I consider this admission to be a better precaution than denial. And I have given thought to other precautions as well, so as to avoid, God willing, suffering any ill from admitting I am a sophist. I have been in the profession many years now, and I’m old enough to be the father of any of you here. So, if you do have a request, it would give me the greatest pleasure by far to deliver my lecture in the presence of everyone in the house.”

[d] It looked to me that he wanted to show off in front of Prodicus and Hippias, and to bask in glory because we had come as his admirers, so I said, “Well, why don’t we call Prodicus and Hippias over, and their companions, so that they can listen to us?”

“By all means!” said Protagoras.

“Then you want to make this a general session and have everyone take seats for a discussion?” Callias proposed this, and it seemed like the only thing to do. We were all overjoyed at the prospect of listening to wise men, and we laid hold of the benches and couches ourselves and arranged [e] them over by Hippias, since that’s where the benches were already. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades had gotten Prodicus up and brought him over with his group.

When we had all taken our seats, Protagoras said, “Now, then, Socrates, since these gentlemen also are present, would you please say what it was you brought up to me a little while ago on the young man’s behalf.”

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“Well, Protagoras,” I said, “as to why we have come, I’ll begin as I did before. Hippocrates here has gotten to the point where he wants to be your student, and, quite naturally, he would like to know what he will get out of it if he does study with you. That’s really all we have to say.”

Protagoras took it from there and said, “Young man, this is what you will get if you study with me: The very day you start, you will go home [b] a better man, and the same thing will happen the day after. Every day, day after day, you will get better and better.”

When I heard this I said, “What you’re saying, Protagoras, isn’t very surprising, but quite likely. Why, even you, though you are so old and wise, would get better if someone taught you something you didn’t happen to know already. But what if the situation were a little different, and Hippocrates here all of a sudden changed his mind and set his heart on [c] studying with this young fellow who has just come into town, Zeuxippus of Heraclea, and came to him, as he now comes to you, and heard from him the very same thing as from you—that each day he spent with him he would become better and make progress. If Hippocrates asked him in what way he would become better, and toward what he would be making progress, Zeuxippus would say at painting. And if he were studying with Orthagoras of Thebes and he heard from him the same thing as he hears from you and asked him in what he would be getting better every day he studied with him, Orthagoras would say at flute-playing. It is in this way [d] that you must tell me and the young man on whose behalf I am asking the answer to this question: If Hippocrates studies with Protagoras, exactly how will he go away a better man and in what will he make progress each and every day he spends with you?”