Well now, if the saving of our life depended on the choice of odd or even, and on knowing when to make a right choice of the greater and when of the less—taking each by itself or comparing it with the other, and whether near or distant—what would save our life? Would it not be knowledge; a knowledge of measurement, since the art here is concerned with excess and defect, and of numeration, as it has to do with odd and even? People would admit this, would they not?

Protagoras agreed that they would.

Well then, my friends, since we have found that the salvation of our life depends on making a right choice of pleasure and pain—of the more and the fewer, the greater and the smaller, and the nearer and the remoter—is it not evident, in the first place, that measurement is a study of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each other?

Protagoras This must needs be so.

And being measurement, I presume it must be an art or science?

They will assent to this.

Well, the nature of this art or science we shall consider some other time; but the mere fact of its being a science will suffice for the proof which Protagoras and I are required to give in answer to the question you have put to us. You asked it, if you remember, when we were agreeing that there is nothing stronger than knowledge, and that knowledge, wherever it may be found, has always the upper hand of pleasure or anything else; and then you said that pleasure often masters even the man of knowledge, and on our refusing to agree with you, you went on to ask us: Protagoras and Socrates, if this experience is not “being overcome by pleasure,” whatever can it be, and what do you call it? Tell us. If on the spur of the moment we had replied, “Ignorance,” you would have laughed us to scorn: but now if you laugh at us you will be laughing at yourselves as well. For you have admitted that it is from defect of knowledge that men err, when they do err, in their choice of pleasures and pains—that is, in the choice of good and evil; and from defect not merely of knowledge but of the knowledge which you have now admitted also to be that of measurement. And surely you know well enough for yourselves that the erring act committed without knowledge is done through ignorance. Accordingly “to be overcome by pleasure” means just this—ignorance in the highest degree, which Protagoras here and Prodicus and Hippias profess to cure. But you, through supposing it to be something else than ignorance, will neither go yourselves nor send your children to these sophists, who are the teachers of those things—you say it cannot be taught; you are chary of your money and will give them none, and so you fare badly both in private and in public life.

Such would have been our answer to the world at large. And I ask you now, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras—for I would have you make a joint reply—whether you think what I say is true or false.

They all thought what I had said was absolutely true.

Then you agree, I continued, that the pleasant is good and the painful bad. And let me entreat my friend Prodicus to spare me his distinction of terms: for whether you say pleasant or delightful or enjoyable, my excellent Prodicus, or in whatever style or manner you may be pleased to name these things, pray reply to the sense of my question.

At this Prodicus laughed and consented, as did the rest.

Well now, my friends, I said, what of this? All actions aimed at living painlessly and pleasantly are honorable, are they not? And the honorable work is both good and useful?

They agreed.

Then if, I proceeded, the pleasant is good, no one who has knowledge or thought of other actions as better than those he is doing, and as possible, will do as he proposes if he is free to do the better ones; and this yielding to oneself is nothing but ignorance, and mastery of oneself is as certainly wisdom.

They all agreed.

Well then, by ignorance do you mean having a false opinion and being deceived about matters of importance?

They all agreed to this also.

Then surely, I went on, no one willingly goes after evil or what he thinks to be evil; it is not in human nature, apparently, to do so—to wish to go after what one thinks to be evil in preference to the good; and when compelled to choose one of two evils, nobody will choose the greater when he may the lesser.

All this met with the assent of everyone.

Well, I said, is there something you call dread, or fear? And is it—I address myself to you, Prodicus —the same as I have in mind—something I describe as an expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread?

Protagoras and Hippias agreed to this description of dread or fear; but Prodicus thought this was dread, not fear.

No matter, Prodicus, I said, but my point is this: if our former statements are true, will any man wish to go after what he dreads, when he may pursue what he does not? Surely this is impossible after what we have admitted—that he regards as evil that which he dreads? And what is regarded as evil is neither pursued nor accepted willingly, we saw, by anyone.

Here also they were all in agreement.

So much, then, being granted, Prodicus and Hippias, I said, let our friend Protagoras vindicate the correctness of the answer he made at first—not that which he made at the very beginning, when he said that, while there were five parts of virtue, none of them was like any other, but each had its particular function: I do not refer to that, but the statement he made afterwards, when he proceeded to say that four of them had a considerable resemblance to each other, but one was quite different from the rest—courage; and he told me I should perceive this by the following token: You will find, Socrates, said he, that men may be most unholy, most unjust, most dissolute, and most ignorant, yet most courageous; whence you may judge that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. His answer caused me great surprise at the moment, and still more when I went into the matter with your help. But anyhow, I asked him whether by the brave he meant “bold.” Yes, he replied, and impetuous. Protagoras, I said, do you remember making this answer?

He admitted he did.

Well now, I said, tell us, towards what do you mean they are impetuous when they are courageous? Towards the same things as cowards?

Protagoras No, he said.

Then towards other things?

Yes, he said.

Do cowards go after things that allow boldness, and the courageous after dreadful things?

So people say, Socrates.

Quite true, I said. But my point is rather, towards what, according to you, are the brave impetuous? Dreadful things, in the belief that they are dreadful, or towards what is not dreadful?

No, he said; the former has just been shown, by the arguments you put forward, to be impossible.

Quite true again, I said; so that if this proof was correct, no one goes to meet what he regards as dreadful, since to be overcome by oneself was found to be ignorance.

He admitted this.

And yet all men go also to meet what they can face boldly, whether cowardly or brave, and in this respect cowardly and brave go to meet the same things.

But still, Socrates, he said, what cowards go to meet is the very opposite of what the courageous go to meet. For instance, the latter are willing to go to war, but the former are not.

Is going to war an honorable thing, I asked, or a base thing?

Honorable, he replied.

Then if it is honorable, we have admitted, by our former argument, that it is also good for we agreed that all honorable actions were good.

True, and I abide by that decision.

You are right to do so, I said. But which sort of men do you say are not willing to go to war, that being an honorable and good thing to do?

The cowardly, he replied.

Then, I went on, if it is honorable and good, is it also pleasant?

That certainly has been admitted, he said.

Now do the cowards wittingly refuse to go to what is more honorable, better, and pleasanter?

Well, if we admit that too, he replied, we shall undo our previous admissions.

But what of the courageous man? Does he not go to the more honorable and better and pleasanter?

I am forced to admit that, he said.

Now, in general, courageous men do not feel base fears, when they fear, nor is there anything base in their boldness?

True, he said.

And if not base, then it must be honorable?

He admitted this.

And if honorable, then good?

Yes.

And the cowardly and the bold and the mad, on the contrary, feel base fears and base boldness?

He agreed.

Do they feel base and evil boldness solely through stupidity and ignorance?

Just so, he said.

Well now, the cause of cowards being cowardly, do you call this cowardice or courage?

Cowardice, I call it, he replied.

And were they not found to be cowards through ignorance of what is dreadful?

Certainly, he said.

And so they are cowards because of that ignorance?

He agreed.

And the cause of their being cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice?

He assented.

Then ignorance of what is dreadful and not dreadful will be cowardice?

He nodded assent.

But surely courage, I went on, is the opposite of cowardice.

Yes.

Then the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is opposed to the ignorance of these things?

To this he could still nod assent.

And the ignorance of them is cowardice?

To this he nodded very reluctantly.

So the wisdom that knows what is and what is not dreadful is courage, being opposed to the ignorance of these things?

Here he could no longer bring himself to nod agreement, and remained silent. Then I proceeded: Why is it, Protagoras, that you neither affirm nor deny what I ask you?

Finish it, he said, by yourself.

I must first ask you, I said, just one more question: Do you still think, as at the beginning, that there are any people who are most ignorant and yet most courageous?

I see, Socrates, you have set your heart on making me your answerer; so, to oblige you, I will say that by what we have admitted I consider it impossible.

My only motive, I then said, in asking all these questions has been a desire to examine the various relations of virtue and its own special nature.