In which Socrates argues that virtue is knowledge, refutes his opponent, and raises the question of how that virtue can be knowledge if it is not teachable.
Protagoras has offered a rhetorical tour de force: a story built on a traditional myth, with a moral, which he then uses as the basis of an of argument, making deft analogies with other kinds of learning. He parries Socrates’ attempt to get him to criticize the Athenian constitution, and he walks the tightrope of providing a theory of political virtue that sees it as part innate endowment and part teachable skill: the political art is an innate ability that is developed by society in general but that can be honed and perfected by a master craftsman. Protagoras’ theory is compatible with both democratic practices and an aristocracy of talent. The theory is elegantly presented, eminently reasonable and intuitively plausible. At the same time the sophist also presents his own impressive credentials as an instructor of virtue. How could anyone want more?
Yet Socrates is not satisfied.
“You said that Zeus bestowed on men justice and respect for their fellows,” says Socrates to Protagoras, “and again at several points in your discourse justice and self-control and holiness and the rest were mentioned as if they made up one thing, virtue. This is the point I want you to state for me with precision. Is virtue a single whole, and are justice and self-control and holiness parts of it, or are these latter all names for one and the same thing? That’s what I still want to know.”
“Well, that’s easy to answer. Virtue is one, and the qualities you ask about are all parts of it.” Socrates, however, is not satisfied; he hints that the several virtues are really indistinguishable from each other.
Socrates’ arguments are almost invariably directed not at building up a comprehensive theory, but at refuting a mistaken conception. But in order to refute errant views, Socrates often reveals a commitment to bizarre premises, such as the claim that the virtues are all alike. Some of these premises are ad hoc inventions, but some come up again and again, a kind of treasury of Socratic doctrine that came to by associated with the philosopher. It will be our task to extract his unique views and to see if they can be assembled into a coherent theory that drives his strange program of question-and-answer philosophizing.
Is there such a thing as holiness or piety? Protagoras agrees there is. And it is one single thing, and it must be holy, as justice is just. But according to Protagoras, the virtues are different and do not resemble one another. Thus it would appear that holiness is not just or justice holy, which seems absurd. So it would appear that justice and holiness must either be the same or very similar, to avoid the absurdity.
“I don’t think it is quite so simple,” cautions Protagoras. “I can’t really admit that justice is holy and holiness is just; I think there is some difference. However, what does it matter? If you like, let’s assume that justice is holy and holiness is just.”
“Excuse me,” replies Socrates. “It isn’t this ‘if you like’ and ‘if that’s what you think’ that I want us to examine, but you and me ourselves. What I mean is, I think the argument will be most fairly tested, if we take the ‘if’ out of it.”[1]
And here we see Socratic method unveiled. Socrates’ method does not consist merely of asking questions, but of testing people, or to be precise, people’s beliefs. Socrates will raise sometimes outlandish questions and entertain outlandish answers, but he will not tolerate hypothetical questions, to which no one is committed and which make no difference to the participants. For the discussion to be philosophically meaningful, it must examine the beliefs of the discussants. Later he explains to Protagoras, “It’s the argument itself that I wish to probe, though it may turn out that both I who question and you who answer are equally under scrutiny.”[2]
Protagoras goes on to say, quite properly, that the virtues have some similarities and some differences. Socrates changes his line of questioning. Does not folly have a contrary, wisdom? And in general does not every quality have only one contrary and no more? Protagoras agrees. But folly is also the contrary of temperance. Thus it would seem that if folly can have only one contrary, wisdom and temperance must be one. Socrates goes on to ask if what is good is what is beneficial to men. Protagoras protests that some things are good which are not beneficial to him personally.
“I know plenty of things,” says the sophist, “foods, drinks, drugs, and many others—which are harmful to men, and others which are beneficial, and others again which, so far as men are concerned, are neither, but are harmful or beneficial to horses, and others only to cattle or dogs. Some have no effect on animals, but only on trees, and some again are good for the roots of trees but injurious to the young growths. Manure, for instance, is good for all plants when applied to their roots, but utterly destructive if put on the shoots or young branches. Or take olive oil. It is very bad for plants, and most inimical to the hair of all animals except man, whereas men find it of service both to the hair and to the rest of the body. So diverse and multiform is goodness that even with us the same thing is good when applied externally but deadly when taken internally. Thus all doctors forbid the sick to use oil in preparing their food, except in the very smallest quantities, just enough to counteract the disagreeable smell which food and sauces may have for them.”[3]
At this point, the gallery breaks out in wild applause for a sophistic tour de force on the relativity of valuations. This is the sort of set-piece that sophists pride themselves on, and which shows their ability to make fine distinctions and to undermine generalizations made by their opponents. But Socrates cries foul; he is not able to remember what’s said in a long speech. He and Protagoras wrangle about how the discussion should be conducted. Socrates gets up to leave, but Callias his host begs him to stay. Prodicus the sophist in a speech of his own, in which he displays his command of verbal nuances and synonym studies, his personal forte, urges Socrates and Protagoras to continue their discussion.
In the end, Socrates offers to let Protagoras ask the questions, with Socrates answering. Protagoras takes up the challenge and immediately shifts the topic. He examines a poem by Simonides and asks Socrates what he thinks of it; Socrates likes the poem. At this point Protagoras criticizes the poet for contradicting himself when he first says that it is hard to become good, and later seems to criticize Pittacus (whom Simonides addresses in the poem) for saying virtually the same thing. Flustered by the criticism, Socrates tries to defend the poem by various maneuvers, some of them apparently sophistical or playful. But at one point he gets serious in the discussion. Socrates says, “The good man might become bad sometime, either by the passage of time or because of some trouble or illness or other misfortune — for this is the only real kind of faring ill, to be deprived of knowledge — but the bad man could not ever become bad, for he is bad always.”[4] After quoting a line in which Simonides seems to say that he praises anyone who does not do wrong willingly, Socrates goes on to reinterpret the line to say that the poet willingly praises anyone who does not do wrong. “I’m pretty well convinced that no wise man holds that any man sins willingly or does evil or wrong, but the wise know perfectly well that all who do evil or wrong act unwillingly.”[5] Socrates’ skills in literary criticism seem limited, especially in light of his desire to ascribe his own philosophical views to a poet. But the episode does reveal that Socrates has some deeply held philosophical conceptions. They are, moreover, paradoxical: why does he think that the only kind of faring ill is lacking knowledge, and that no one does wrong willingly?
In this episode we perceive an important difference between Protagoras and Socrates. Given the chance, the sophist will recount myths and engage in literary criticism. Socrates, on the other hand, fumbles around in discussing literature. But ultimately he sees myth and literature as mere distractions from the real philosophical quest, or at most as a source of philosophical questions. When other sophists want to share their own readings of the poem, Socrates demands that the discussants turn back to the question at hand. Protagoras has had his chance to be the questioner, but he wants only to play literary games. The real question is the nature of virtue, which the sophist hasn’t helped to clarify. When Protagoras is reluctant to return to the philosophical question, Socrates reminds the sophist that he advertises himself as an expert who was the first to charge tuition for teaching virtue. Surely he will not begrudge Socrates his assistance. Aided by peer pressure from the gallery, Socrates reopens the philosophical question. Socrates has faced his opponent’s best weapons and remained standing. Now it’s his turn.
[1].Plato Protagoras 331b-c.
[2].Plato Protagoras 333c.
[3].Plato Protagoras 334a-c.
[4].Plato Protagoras 345b.
[5].Plato Protagoras 345d-e.