Protagoras

The pre-dawn light had barely touched the Athenian rooftops when young Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus, burst into my chambers, breathless with excitement. "Protagoras is in town!" he exclaimed, his voice hushed with awe. This Protagoras, he explained, was the wisest man alive, and Hippocrates yearned to become his pupil, to learn from the celebrated sophist. I, Socrates, cautioned him, for to entrust one's soul to a sophist was a serious matter, far graver than entrusting one's body to a physician, and one ought to know what such a master would make of him.

Our journey led us to the house of Callias, a man renowned for his lavish spending on sophists. There, we found a vibrant assembly: Protagoras himself, walking with a train of admirers, among them the sons of Pericles, Charmides, and the young Alcibiades, whose first beard was just beginning to show. Also present were other distinguished sophists, Hippias of Elis and Prodicus of Ceos, each holding court in different corners of the grand dwelling. It was a spectacle of intellect and ambition, a gathering of the finest minds and the most eager students of Athens.

When I finally approached Protagoras, I laid bare Hippocrates' desire and my own fundamental question: "What will Hippocrates become by associating with you?" Protagoras, with a confident air, declared that he would make Hippocrates a better and wiser man, teaching him "prudence in affairs private and public; in short, the science or knowledge of human life." This, I admitted, was a noble profession, but I expressed my doubts about the teachability of virtue. How could it be taught, I wondered, when Athenians, wise as they were, did not teach political virtue to their own sons, and when in the assembly, they listened to anyone on matters of state, not just those with specialized training?

Protagoras, to address my skepticism, chose to unfold his argument not through mere dialectic, but with a grand myth, followed by a reasoned account. He recounted how, after the gods had fashioned all living things, Epimetheus, in his haste, distributed all the natural qualities to the animals, leaving man naked and defenseless. Prometheus, seeing man's plight, stole fire and the mechanical arts from the gods, bestowing them upon humanity. Yet, men still lacked the political art, the ability to live together in cities, and so Zeus, fearing their destruction, sent Hermes to impart Justice and Reverence to all mankind, not just a select few. This, Protagoras argued, proved that political virtue was indeed a universal human endowment, and therefore, teachable.

Our discussion then narrowed, focusing on whether virtue was a single, unified quality or comprised of distinct, separable parts like justice, temperance, piety, wisdom, and courage. Protagoras initially maintained that these were distinct, though connected, qualities, much like the parts of a face. He conceded that courage, in particular, seemed to exist independently of wisdom, citing examples of courageous but ignorant individuals. However, through my persistent questioning, I led him to consider the nature of each virtue, examining their opposites and their interrelations.

We delved into the thorny matter of whether pleasure was the only good, and pain the only evil. I argued that no one willingly chooses evil over good, or pain over pleasure, except through ignorance. If all wrongdoing stemmed from a miscalculation of pleasure and pain, then virtue, or the avoidance of evil, must be a form of knowledge - an "art of measurement" that correctly weighs consequences. This line of reasoning began to subtly shift Protagoras's initial position, much to the amusement and occasional frustration of our audience.

The conversation grew heated at times, with Protagoras preferring lengthy expositions and I, short, pointed questions, leading to a brief interlude where others interceded to ensure the debate continued. Yet, as the discussion wound to its close, a curious reversal had taken place. I, who had begun by doubting the teachability of virtue, found myself arguing that if virtue was knowledge, it must indeed be teachable. Protagoras, on the other hand, who had championed the teachability of virtue, had, through the force of my arguments, been led to emphasize the distinctness of the virtues, almost implying they were not reducible to knowledge and thus perhaps not teachable in the way he initially conceived. We parted with a sense of mutual respect, Protagoras acknowledging my formidable dialectical skill, and I, regretting that we could not delve further into the essence of virtue itself.