On Plato’s ‘Protagoras’ — The Teaching of Virtue
For a man it’s certainly hard to be truly good
- perfect in hands, feet, and mind,
built without a single flaw;
only a god could have that prize;
but a mere man,
there’s just no way he can help being bad
when some overwhelming disaster knocks him down.
Any man’s good when life treats him well,
and bad when it treats him badly,
and the best of us are the ones the gods love most.
But for me that saying of Pittacus doesn’t ring true either
(even if he was a smart man): He says ‘being good is hard’.
For me, a man’s good enough as long as he’s not lawless,
and if he has the common sense of right and wrong
that does a city good — a decent guy.
I certainly won’t find fault with a man like that.
After all, there’s an endless supply of stupid fools.
The way I see it,
if there’s no great shame in it,
it’s all right.
So I’m not going to throw away
my short allotment of life on a futile, silly hope,
searching for something there simply cannot be -
a completely blameless man — not among us mortals
who must win our bread from the broad earth.
(Of course, if I do happen to come across one,
I’ll be sure to let you know.)
So long as he doesn’t willfully do wrong,
I give my praise and love to any man.
But not even the gods can resist necessity.
- Simonides of Ceos, (c. 556–468 BC)
Very little of the ancient texts written in the Greek and Latin languages have survived, indeed scholars have estimated as little as 1% of the known works written in Greek and Latin in ancient times has survived to the present day, which may be due to the invasions of barbarian hordes and the burning down of ancient libraries, or perhaps it is also because manuscripts survived by being copied and hence their survival depended upon their use in medieval school education, whereby works that made it onto school curricula tended to be copied more, medieval scribes preserving them in large numbers, whilst texts proving to be too difficult or unfit for use in schools were more prone to being lost. The above lyric poem by Simonides is the only one of his to have survived and that is because it is quoted in Plato’s, (c. 429–347 B.C.), dialogue, the ‘Protagoras’. We here get a good sense of what we have lost, a lyric making evident the accounts that are given of Simonides as a defender of a tolerant, humanitarian viewpoint that revered ordinary simple goodness while recognizing the great pressures that life places upon human beings.
It is certainly hard to be good. Or is it? What does it mean to be good? Our Lord? ‘And when he was gone forth into the way, there came one running, and kneeled to him, and asked him, Good Master, what shall I do that I may inherit eternal life? And Jesus said unto him, Why callest thou me good? there is none good but one, that is, God’. (‘Mark’, 10.17–18). If by being good is meant being kind (of course there must be more to it than that but you would expect it to be at least part of it) then consider these pronouncements of Jesus: ‘Ye serpents, ye generation of vipers, how can ye escape the damnation of hell?’ (‘Matthew’ 23.33), said to people who did not approve of his preaching. ‘And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him, neither in this world, neither in the world to come’. (‘Matthew’, 12.32). ‘The Son of man shall send forth his angels, and they shall gather out of his kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity; And shall cast them into a furnace of fire: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth’. (‘Matthew’, 13.41–42). Such an attitude, as Bertrand Russell pointed out, is not to be found in Socrates, (c. 470–399 BC): ‘You find him quite bland and urbane towards the people who would not listen to him; and it is, to my mind, far more worthy of a sage to take that line than to take the line of indignation. You probably all remember the sort of things that Socrates was saying when he was dying, and the sort of things that he generally did say to people who did not agree with him’.
In his novel ‘The Idiot’, Fyodor Dostoevsky, (1821–1881), undertook the task of portraying ‘the positively good and beautiful man’ in the character of Prince Myshkin. Lev Nikolayevich, who finds himself torn between the love of two women that are very much antipodal in character and temperament as a consequence of which his reasons for loving them are antipodal too, two women who alternately appear to love and hate him in uncommonly and unpredictable alternation, albeit in entirely different ways. Hence we witness a good man, (allegedly), perhaps the good man, (allegedly), pressured into a state of affairs wherein he can only do one evil thing or another, and when finally the choice has been made the resulting evil is even more than could be expected (murder as it happens, not wishing to give away too much of the plot). Perhaps life is just too complex, too unpredictable, for there to be a good man, or woman, (how could a good person be the cause of evil?), in particular if you take a Utilitarian stance (the moral theory that advocates for actions that promote happiness or pleasure and opposes actions that cause unhappiness or harm), whereby consequence is all, but then that would mean our goodness or lack of it is somewhat out of our hands and the Prince must be deemed a bad man given his actions produced such a terrible outcome.
Utilitarianism as a distinct ethical system emerged in the 18th century, perhaps beginning with Jeremy Bentham, (1747–1832), but its roots can be traced back much further. Aristotle, (384–322 BC), argued that eudaimonia (happiness, welfare, a condition of good spirit), is the highest human good, and St. Augustine, (354–430 AD), asserted that ‘all men agree in desiring the last end, which is happiness’. (Do we really?). But we can go even further back, to Plato’s ‘Protagoras’, which also concerns itself with whether or not goodness or virtue is teachable.
The principal ideas forwarded in the ‘Protagoras’ are as follows:
1. In a discussion with the Sophist Protagoras, (490–420 BC), Socrates raises some doubts concerning the claim that goodness can be taught, everyone is supposed to be qualified to speak about goodness, and good people have difficulty teaching goodness to their children.
2. Socrates then wonders whether the virtues, justice, wisdom, temperance, and courage, are identical, Protagoras claims they are not, but Socrates manoeuvres Protagoras into admitting that wisdom, temperance, and justice are identical since they are all opposite to folly.
3. When Protagoras then insists that although three of the virtues discussed are identical, courage is different because it may be a reflection of passion, Socrates persuades him that no person is courageous who faces danger in passion and ignorance, only the wise are brave, courage is wisdom.
4. It is ironic, Socrates points out, that having begun by arguing that virtue cannot be taught, he ends by identifying virtue with wisdom or knowledge, which can be taught.
The ‘Protagoras’ is Plato on top form, in addition to being a fine piece of argumentation it is splendid dramatically, while incorporating a picture of the Sophist and a glimpse of the cultured aristocrats of the age of Pericles, (495–429 BC), facts that cannot fail to interest anyone who has a desire to know more about the life of ancient Greece. The dialogue is one of four great dialogues representing high points of Plato’s literary activity, the ‘Republic’, the ‘Phaedo’, the ‘Symposium’, and the ‘Protagoras’. This was the period in which Plato reached his zenith as a literary artist, and in literary quality the dialogue is surpassed only by the ‘Symposium’, and not every reader of the dialogues would concede that even that work surpasses it. Philosophical development and dramatic development parallel each other precisely in the dialogue, exemplifying the high level Plato achieved in the very special literary type he used to write out his philosophy. Not only is the philosophical argument presented clearly and distinctly, but also the characters in the dialogue are drawn with great finesse, and one comes to an acquaintance not only with the Protagorean position, but also with the man Protagoras. The comic relief provided by Socrates’ ridiculous analysis of Simonides’ poem, a satire on the kind of literary criticism which must have been current in Periclean Athens, is an entertaining diversion, separating the preliminary discussion between Socrates and Protagoras from the final demonstration of the unity of the virtues.
Another fine touch is the description of the Sophist Protagoras marching back and forth in Callias’, (515–432 BC), house, followed by his coterie, who are careful always to execute the necessary close order drill at the turns so that the flow of wisdom need not be interrupted. Then there is the irony of Socrates in saying how moved he is by Protagoras’ long speeches, even though he cannot follow them, a remark which Socrates’ subsequent arguments clearly reveal is a falsehood. Finally there is Socrates’ reduction of Protagoras to impotent fury at the end of the argument, so that when Socrates asks why he will no longer answer the questions, Protagoras erupts, ‘Finish the argument yourself!’ Such a scene could not possibly be improved upon as a description of the situation all philosophers would like to find themselves in face to face with their opponents, for here is philosophical drama.
As the dialogue begins, Socrates explains to a companion how Hippocrates, (c. 460 — c. 370 BC), early one morning brought him the news that Protagoras was in Athens. Hippocrates hoped to be introduced to Protagoras by Socrates so that he might become one of Protagoras’ pupils. Socrates was surprised at the request, and since it was still too early to go to Protagoras, the two friends spent the time in conversation until they could make the call. The dialogue goes back in time to that conversation. Socrates asks Hippocrates why he wants to study with Protagoras. If he were to study with a physician he would become a physician, or if with a statuary he would become a statuary, but what is Protagoras? The answer is that he is a Sophist. But what does one learn from a Sophist? Hippocrates replies that he does not wish to become a Sophist, but he thinks he can learn from Protagoras how to be a good public speaker. Such a reply does not satisfy Socrates since Hippocrates will learn from Protagoras not merely how to say something, but what to say. The Sophist, Socrates points out, offers ‘food for the soul’. The best advice in such a case is that one should exercise considerable care before letting another person ‘tend his soul’. The two friends then go call on Protagoras.
Socrates and Hippocrates go to the home of Callias, where Protagoras is staying, and a servant grudgingly ushers them into Protagoras’ presence:
‘And when we found ourselves in front of the door, we stood there and carried on a conversation that we happened to strike up on the way — we wanted to round it off before going inside rather than leave it unfinished, so we stood there, right in front of the door, talking things through until we’d come to an agreement. Now I think the doorman (a eunuch) had been eavesdropping on us; and chances are, with all the sophists who were staying there, he was pretty sick of people constantly coming to the house. At any rate, when we knocked on the door, he opened it, saw us and said, ‘Oh no! Sophists! He’s busy!’ [i.e. Callias] And with that he very keenly slammed the door in our faces, with both hands, as hard as he could. So we knocked again; and this time he kept the door firmly shut and answered like this: ‘Didn’t you people hear what I said? He’s busy!’ ‘No, listen, my good man’, I said. ‘We’re not here to see Callias, and don’t panic, we’re not Sophists. We’re here because we want to see Protagoras. So go and let him know we’re here’. So eventually the man opened the door for us’.
This gives us some idea about how the Sophist was held in low regard, even by a simple doorman, and what follow is an amusing description of the Sophist, Protagoras pictured as pompous and as eager for the attention his fawning disciples are paying him, marching back and forth, passing judgement on important matters, followed by a group of admirers who cluster around him in a way that suggests reporters gathering around a celebrity today:
‘And there were a number of others following along behind them, listening to the talk, most of whom seemed to be from out of town — the people Protagoras gathers from the cities he passes through: he draws them with his spellbinding voice, like Orpheus, and wherever the voice leads, they follow, under his spell. But there were one or two Athenians in the chorus as well. And a particularly entertaining sight, I found, was the way the chorus took great care to avoid getting in Protagoras’ way: each time he and the front row swivelled around, the extra crowd of listeners split very neatly down the middle, half to the left and half to the right, then swirled round in an arc and took up their position at the back — it was beautifully done’.
Protagoras pomposity contrasts noticeably with the straightforward manner of Socrates, who, when he comes up to the Sophist, introduces Hippocrates and, on his behalf, asks Protagoras what Hippocrates will learn if he studies with Protagoras. Protagoras frankly acknowledges his profession as a Sophist, stating that he is the first to admit openly his profession, but Socrates is not to be put off without an answer to his question, so he asks Protagoras to state specifically what he teaches his students. Protagoras then replies that his students become better each day as a result of his instruction, to which Socrates asks if this means that Protagoras teaches good citizenship, that is, how to be a good man in the context of the Greek city state, and Protagoras replies that Socrates has understood him correctly.
Socrates then raises some doubts about whether this kind of goodness can be taught. He remarks that the Athenians, who are not all fools, recognise that particular men should be listened to as experts on such matters as ship building or medicine, but they regard all men as equally well qualified to speak on matters of goodness. Furthermore, men who are renowned for their personal goodness (for example, Pericles) feel that they cannot offer instruction even to their own children in this subject. So it seems that at least some persons are not willing to admit that what Protagoras professes to teach really can be taught. Can Protagoras reply to this? Protagoras replies by launching into a long speech. He recites the fable of Prometheus and Epimetheus. Epimetheus, under Prometheus’ supervision, was given the job of distributing the various qualities of the animal kingdom, swiftness to animals who were sought to prey, fur to animals who lived in cold climates, and so on, but he distributed all the qualities without leaving any for men. Prometheus then stole fire and knowledge of the industrial arts from heaven to make up for men’s deficiencies, but, in spite of their knowledge, men were forced to live in cities for their mutual protection and this was impossible unless men were made ethically sensitive, so Zeus commanded Hermes to distribute conscience and moral sense to men, and to distribute them equally among all men.
This myth describes the situation that exists, Protagoras says. All men are ethically sensitive, and all men must learn the principles of morality. All adults, quite properly, regard themselves as responsible for the moral education of the young, but some are better teachers than others in this area of moral instruction. Protagoras happens to be better than most people as a teacher. Socrates professes to have been impressed by the splendid speech Protagoras has made, yet, characteristically, he has ‘a little question’ which he is sure Protagoras can easily answer. Are the virtues, justice, wisdom, temperance, and courage, identical? Protagoras answers confidently that they are not, although they have certain likenesses and they are all parts of virtue, which itself is a unity. Socrates then presses to find out whether they are homogeneous parts of an aggregate (as a pail of water is a unity consisting of many uniform drops) or are heterogeneous parts which together make a unity (as eyes, nose, and mouth are parts of a face). Protagoras replies that they are heterogeneous elements which together make a unity.
Socrates now moves to the attack. He gets Protagoras to agree to the logical principle that a thing can have only one contrary opposite, in addition he gets the admission from Protagoras that folly is the opposite of both wisdom and temperance. This forces an alternative on Protagoras, either he must admit that wisdom is identical with temperance or he must abandon the logical principle. Protagoras reluctantly admits the identity of wisdom and temperance, and he tacitly concedes that justice and holiness, too, are identical. However, since Protagoras senses that the argument is beginning to turn against him at this point, he tries to divert the argument. He launches into a long-winded discourse about the relativity of goods, what is good for animals is not always good for humans, oil may be good for massaging the body, but not good if taken as food.
But Socrates will not go along with this, pleading that he has a bad memory and therefore cannot remember long answers, he can only deal with short ones. He knows Protagoras can speak either at length or with brevity, but he himself protests that he cannot manage long speeches. Will not Protagoras please confine himself to short answers? Protagoras, however, recognizing that he is losing the argument, refuses to let Socrates determine the rules for the debate. The discussion almost collapses at this point, Socrates remembers that he has an appointment elsewhere which he must keep, and he begins taking his leave.
The listeners plead with the two disputants to continue. Plato uses this occasion to give the reader a brief glimpse of the other two Sophists who are present, Hippias, (c. 460 BC -?) and Prodicus, (c. 465 — c. 395 BC), by having them offer suggestions about how the discussion may be resumed. Prodicus urges them to ‘argue’ but not to ‘wrangle’ so that they will win ‘esteem’ and not merely ‘praise’. This type of discussion will give the hearers ‘gratification’ rather than ‘pleasure’, the latter reaction being concerned only with the body, while gratification is ‘of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge’. Prodicus linguistic pedantry, akin to that of some modern linguistic philosophers, thereby emerges clearly in one paragraph. And Hippias, too, is a target of Plato’s wit, as he is made to say that all those present are really ‘kinsman’ by nature if not by law, and should conduct themselves as such. He is an advocate of the brotherhood of man, lofty in speech but with very little thought to fill out his speech. Socrates finally rescues the situation by suggesting that he and Protagoras reverse their roles, Protagoras will ask the questions and Socrates will answer. Later on, when Protagoras has asked all the questions he desires, Socrates will resume his customary role as questioner. Protagoras agrees, even though he does so half-heartedly, and thus the dialogue can continue.
Protagoras is not the expert in cross-examination that Socrates is, however, and he soon loses the initiative. Protagoras begins questioning Socrates about a poem written by Simonides, pointing out an apparent contradiction in the poem. Socrates has a good deal of fun making long speeches which present a ridiculous literary analysis of the poem (and which show, incidentally, that he is a match to Protagoras as far as long-windiness is concerned). He appeals to Prodicus, the pseudo-expert on usage, to justify out and out equivocations, he cites the Spartans, who conceal their concern for knowledge under a counterfeit cultivation of physical prowess, as the most truly philosophical of all the Greeks. Nothing is too wild for him as he dissolves the contradiction with an exegesis of the poem which is undoubtedly a satire on the excesses of absurd literary criticism in the Athens of the day. His serious point is well-taken, however, for he reminds Protagoras that one ought to judge a poem in the light of its total effect, instead of rejecting it because of one relatively minor flaw.
Socrates now goes back to the main argument. He asks Protagoras again whether the virtues are identical, and this time Protagoras admits that all are alike, with one exception, courage is different from the rest. Protagoras insists that men may be courageous either because they have knowledge or because they are in a passion. But it turns out that we do not really regard the man in a passion as courageous after all, he is foolhardy. What distinguishes the brave man from the foolhardy man who does the same deed is, of course, that the brave man knows the possible consequences of what he is doing. Thus it turns out that courage really identical with wisdom.
Socrates does not arrive at this conclusion directly, however. After Protagoras states that men may act bravely either out of knowledge or out of passion, Socrates shifts his attention to another problem. He raises the question whether whatever is good is also pleasant. Neither he nor Protagoras accepts the hedonistic version of this doctrine, but for the sake of the argument both agree to develop its consequences. As is only to be expected, it turns out that wisdom and courage are the same. The argument is as follows: Ordinary men believe that one always acts so as to increase the ratio of pleasure over pain for himself. However, some men say that they are ‘overcome by pleasure’ and hence do not do the good that they should. But if men always seek their own pleasure, and if what is good is also pleasant, this can only mean that they have chosen a lesser pleasure rather than a greater pleasure (or a lesser ratio of pleasure over pain instead of a greater ratio of pleasure over pain). If we add that no one ever knowingly does evil unless he is ‘overcome by pleasure’, then the inference is clear that when a man does not do the good he has acted out of ignorance of what the good is. He has chosen short-range pleasure instead of long-range pleasure. This choice results only from his having failed to estimate the consequences of his act properly. Proper estimation of the consequences, however, is a matter of knowledge. So the conclusion which must be drawn is that the wise man is the good man, knowledge being identical with goodness, that is, justice.
At the end of the argument Protagoras and Socrates part on surprisingly good terms, considering how near they came to conversational disaster earlier in the dialogue. Protagoras comments favourably on Socrates’ skill in argument and predicts that he will become eminent in philosophy. Socrates courteously excuses himself and leaves. But just before these closing compliments, Socrates points out the paradoxical reversal of positions that has taken place in the course of the dialogue. Protagoras had taken the position at the beginning that virtue can be taught and said that he himself had adopted the teaching of it as his profession. At the end of the dialogue, however, Protagoras had been maintaining that virtues was not knowledge, and thus, by implication, he was denying that virtue can be taught. Socrates, on the other hand, had begun by raising doubts that virtues can be taught, he ended by identifying virtue with knowledge, thus implying that it can be taught. The reversal is not so strange as it appears at first glance, however. Protagoras had implicitly identified virtue with skill at getting along in public affairs. Such skill cannot, of course, be taught. One must acquire it by doing it, by practicing. Socrates denies only that virtue can be taught when ‘virtue’ is defined as a skill. If, on the contrary, virtue is not a skill, but is a form of knowledge, then of course it can be taught. Socrates has not shifted his position in any fundamental sense. At the end of the dialogue he still holds to his conviction that a skill cannot be taught. What he has done is to argue that virtue is knowledge, and, once this shift to the proper definition of virtue is made, he obviously must hold that virtue can be taught.
Thus ends the dialogue. Note that the ‘Protagoras’ opened with Socrates engaged in small talk with a companion, to whom he offered to narrate the whole dialogue, which he says took place earlier that day. Socrates therefore must have spent the next few hours narrating the dialogue to his companion, but at the end of the dialogue that he had with Protagoras he stated that he could not stay further, for he had to go and take care of some important business. It is quite evident that there was no important business and Plato is showing us Socrates in a blatant lie, hardly very virtuous. But consider why he visited Protagoras that morning in the first place, he did it for Hippocrates sake not his own, a bold rich young man who was wanting to learn the art of managing households and cities and he believed he can learn that art from Protagoras but he needed an introduction. Socrates issues a warning about how Hippocrates could know whether whatever he learns from Protagoras will not cause him harm, and as he does not know this Socrates offers to accompany Hippocrates to Protagoras not just to introduce him to the great man but to protect him also. Socrates thereby appears as the guardian of the young, and Protagoras as the potential corrupter. Many years later the city of Athens will prosecute Socrates and execute him on the grounds that he corrupted the young, and hence, like the other dialogues, the ‘Protagoras’ is a dialogue written in defence of Socrates’ virtue.
Once he and Protagoras begin speaking at Callias’ house Protagoras began by announcing that if he were to take Hippocrates on as a student he would make him better every day by teaching him good counsel both in business and politics. In Socrates’ words, Protagoras teaches the political art and Socrates challenges Protagoras for he does not think that this art is teachable. Protagoras defends his profession with a myth, the meaning of which is that human beings owe their well being to their own efforts and to their own arts and not to the Gods. In particular political life rests upon certain social virtues such as justice and holiness which encourages people to put other’s goods in front of their own, and Protagoras contends that almost all adults teach these social virtues albeit in a rough and ready way while Sophists, like himself, take that teaching to another level. Protagoras manages to affirm the would be wisdom of parents and his own wisdom in one go and Hippocrates and Hippocrates’ handsome fee appear now to be his for the taking. But then Socrates questions Protagoras about the virtues he mentioned, justice and holiness, and related virtues such as moderation and wisdom. Through his questions Socrates reveals that Protagoras has no idea whether these virtues are one or many, separable or inseparable, and Protagoras is confused about what virtue is, he is in a muddle over the very core of his so-called art. He did not proceed with good counsel for himself here, so what kind of teacher of good counsel could he be? By the end of the dialogue the great Protagoras is thoroughly frustrated and Hippocrates leaves with Socrates
If Protagoras was merely a windbag his defeat would not be very meaningful, but if you look at his method and his own writings, or Socrates discussion of Protagoras in the ‘Theaetetus’, (see my article On Plato’s ‘Theaetetus’- Birth Pangs) we see that Protagoras is a quite impressive speaker and thinker, hence his defeat is not due to mere thoughtlessness Where does it lie then? In that which Protagoras stresses as his uniqueness in his opening speech when he claims descent from a long line of sophists, but they all concealed their sophistry, pretending to be other things, poets, orators, or the like, and what makes Protagoras unique is that he is truthful about his profession. He is a sophist, he boldly admits it, he even named his book ‘Truth’ (which has not survived and although ancient books were not necessarily given their titles by their authors Plato continuously refers to Protagoras’ text as Aletheia), and his stance about his wisdom differs greatly from Socrates’ stance about his own. Socrates claims to descend from a long line of philosophers who concealed their wisdom behind pithy sayings. Protagoras claims to be one who reveals. Socrates claims to be one who conceals. Thinking about these two positions more closely we can see that Protagoras’ position implies that philosophy or science is fundamentally compatible with political life. The Sophist brings to fruition the rudimentary teaching that we all begin to learn by living in society. Socrates position in contrast implies that philosophy or science is always in tension with the political community This is not to say that Protagoras the man is an open book, for someone claiming only to tell the truth we may suppose in all likelihood has something up his sleeve. He claims to be more candid than he actually is and his myth is clearly invented, he has dressed up his political teachings in a mythological guise. As he himself contends he practices caution, at the same time Protagoras clearly thinks that sophistry is not only compatible with politics but should even rule. To win students and adherents he suggests and and even advertises sophistry’s superiority here. Incautious indeed. He reveals his hand most when he boasts of filling Greece with his name, he wants to be superior, and that requires smartness but also publicity.
To use two terms crucial to his conversation with Socrates, Protagoras seeks to combine wisdom and courage, but when Socrates shows late in the dialogue that all the virtues can be reduced to the forms of wisdom and to a sort of art of measuring as he terms it Protagoras is clearly repulsed. Ultimately Protagoras enjoys daring more than insight and his defeat is not simply a defeat of sophistry, the dialogue has a subtitle ‘On Sophists’, not ‘On Sophistry’. Plato devoted another dialogue on the subject of the Sophist, (see my article On Plato’s ‘Sophist’ — the Image Makers). Protagoras reveals the internal tensions of the life of the Sophist as lived by its most pre-eminent representative, and likewise it contrasts this life with the life of the philosopher Socrates who despite reducing virtue to forms of wisdom steadfastly claims that virtue is not teachable. The ‘Protagoras’ shows Socrates’ combination of wisdom, moderation, and justice. Courage appears less prominently in Socrates’ character. Perhaps his more quieter laconic stance has greater appeal than the daring restless spirit exhibited by the Protagorases of his world and ours.
And where did Utilitarianism feature in the dialogue? Utilitarian philosopher John Stuart Mill, (1806–1873), explains:
‘… it is Socrates who, in this dialogue, [i.e the ‘Protagoras’], maintains the ‘degrading’ doctrine of Utilitarianism — at least the part most odious to its impugners, the doctrine of Hedonism, that Pleasure and the absence of Pain are the ends of morality; in opposition to Protagoras, to whom that opinion is repugnant; a reversal of the parts assigned to the two teachers by the German commentators, very embarrassing to some of them, who, rather than impute to Plato so ‘low’ a doctrine, resort to the absurd supposition that one of the finest specimens of analysis in all his writings is ironical, intended to ridicule a Sophist who is not even represented as agreeing with it. Let us add, that though at first sore under his confutation by Socrates, Protagoras parts with him on excellent terms, and predicts for him, at the conclusion of the dialogue, great eminence in Wisdom’.
It does seem something of a reversal. As Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, (1770–1831), pointed out in the ‘History of Philosophy’:
‘The Sophists neutralized the doctrines of the previous philosophers by mixing them together, and at the same time made their mode of treatment the common possession of all educated men; and hence it is not possible to revert to the position of any one among them. And since, moreover, their chief point of view is suitableness, utility, they also made it a matter of course that the question of the wherefore had to be raised first of all. This lesson remains unforgotten, even when there issues from the soil of sophistry a philosophy which devours and denies it for this very reason. The necessity of this is found in the fact that the principle of the Sophists leads further and beyond them. The Sophists posited the Useful as the universal finite aim of all thought and action. But there exists in the conception of the Useful these two opposite determinations, that in the first place it is that which is conformed to an end, i.e. an attained end, and secondly, that it is useful for something, i.e. a means to an end. And though consciousness in making use of this category experiences in every definite case, that that which it regarded as an end just before, is really only a means, yet it does not in the one case think of the other; or if this contradiction once strikes it, it calms itself by keeping the two apart by the sophistical, ‘from one point of view’ and ‘from another’, so that that which is an end from one point of view, is supposed to be a means from another. But if the mind understood itself and the category it made use of, it would be compelled to perceive that these two determinations must be connected into a single idea, which must take the place of the Useful. And conversely, when the human spirit has made this new thought-determination its own, instead of the previous one, it is an indication that it has risen to the next higher stage of self-knowledge, i.e. of philosophy. And again, if in that which is called an End-in-itself, or Idea, means and end are really one, Idealism is the proper consequence and truth of subjective finalism; and Socrates, who is the first to raise philosophy to the level of ideal contemplation, here takes the next step in advance beyond the Sophists, whom he rightly combats, although he could neither have come forward himself, nor have found adherents without them’.
And yet in the ‘Protagoras’ Socrates certainly seems to be presenting an argument for good and bad pleasures based on a crude felicific calculus, (the felicific calculus, an algorithm formulated by Jeremy Bentham for calculating the degree or amount of pleasure that a specific action is likely to induce, he was a utilitarian ethical hedonist, Bentham, believing the moral rightness or wrongness of an action to be a function of the amount of pleasure or pain that it produced, hence the felicific calculus could at least in principle determine the moral status of any considered act, in the context of how Bentham defines morality). Socrates explains how what are ordinarily considered to be bad pleasures, for instance eating chocolate, are in fact unpleasant over the long run. Guzzling chocolate may seem pleasant for the moment, but then it leads to indigestion, tooth decay, being overweight, and so gives more pain than pleasure over the course of time. While a trip to the dentist delivers more pleasure than pain over the long run (unless he or she is like my former dentist who left a bit of grit in a cavity while inserting a filling … oh the pain I endured before having it taken out and a new filling put in, by a different dentist).
Socrates in the ‘Gorgias’ however, (see my article On Plato’s ‘Gorgias’ — The Art of Persuasion) argues, against Callicles, that pleasure and pain are not identical with the good and bad, that Callicles cares only for the brute existence of pleasure, holding that the satisfaction of any desire, no matter how fleeting, is pleasant and good, regardless of consequences. Socrates point out the absurdity of such a view. So is Socrates the ethical hedonist of the ‘Protagoras’ being ironic? I do not know.I do know that when Mill spoke of the ‘degrading’ doctrine of Utilitarianism he was being ironic and yet he spoke the truth,it is a degrading doctrine, and Hegel explains why.
There are two important principles undergirding any liberal political philosophy (in the positive sense of liberal, promoting individual rights, civil liberties, democracy, free enterprise and so on). First, the principle of individual autonomy, whereby each person is competent to and ought to participate in making law, and second, the rule of justice, the notion that there are standards any law must meet to be good or just. Hence for individual autonomy to be attained individual decisions have to be co-ordinated in order to maintain a viable social unit, and the conjoining of the aforementioned principles requires explaining the relationship between autonomous individuals and objective standards of justice (we must suppose there are such, see my article On Plato’s ‘Republic’ — Philosopher Kings. In the ‘Republic’, justice is called the health of the soul, and ethics are described as the inquiry into justice). There are three general manoeuvres to account for this relationship. First, the general will is held to be an aggregate of individual wills, second, correct policy is taken to be independent of individual wills and awaits their discovery, third, collective strategy maintains that there is a general or collective will that is not simply a function of individual wills and is not simply a reflection of some antecedent correct principle. Hegel adopted a collective approach to reconciling the two liberal principles of individual autonomy and the rule of law, whereby individuals do play a vital role in determining the content of law, albeit it is not performed by direct voting, rather, individuals play a role informing the content of law by maintaining and modifying social practices as needed to secure their freedom and their individual ends, and social practices necessary for achieving freedom are the proper basis of and content for statutory law.
Hegel therefore rejects of two standard liberal manoeuvres for justifying normative (prescribing standards) principles. First, the justification of normative principles, particularly in morals, by an appeal to conscience (and what is conscience? Protagoras’ myth of Zeus providing us with it doesn’t get us very far). Second, particularly in politics, justification is sought by an appeal to natural law or by analogy to natural rights. In both cases the appeal is to a kind of self-evidence to justify one’s claim or principle, always a dubious move, relying upon alleged self-evidence, for theories of self-evidence either conflate or fail properly to distinguish between being certain that something is true, and thus believing it, and something’s being true, and thus being certain of it. And further, the claims allegedly justified by appeals to conscience or to natural law are diverse and even mutually incompatible. What is needed for any manner of justification is to be able to sort justified from unjustified claims, in order to help sort true from false claims, and this is particularly important for areas of dispute in our collective moral and political life, and any manner of justification that can justify both a claim and its negation fails to meet this basic requirement and is inadequate, and this is with regard to appeals to conscience or to natural law.
Appeals to natural law or conscience also are inclined to omit relevant principles or considerations thereby generating incomplete accounts of an issue, what Hegel terms one-sided or abstract accounts. Hegel disagreed fundamentally with standard approaches to determining the content of natural law, but he upheld and overhauled a basic principle of natural law, namely, that right is a function of freedom of the individual will, indeed this principle is fundamental to his arguments in the ‘Philosophy of Right’. Hegel objected to social contract theory (see my article On Plato’s ‘Crito’ — Truth in Action) on the grounds that the state of nature is arbitrarily contrived to obtain the theorist’s desired outcomes, and that abstracting from any points that might be regarded as inessential, arbitrary, or controversial would empty the state of nature of all descriptive content. The principles attributed to the state of nature often have the same sort of justification as natural laws and suffer the same deficiencies. Most important, the social contract misrepresents the nature of our membership in society, this latter being inevitable, necessary, and constitutive of much of our character, whereas the social contract models our membership on an elective association of otherwise independent individuals and regarding membership in society in this way misrepresents ourselves as mutually independent parties to a fictitious contract whereby we agree to join society, or to form a government, in order to achieve some specified range of prior interests we independently choose to chase after. This hinders recognizing and understanding the social dimensions of human life, on such a basis, laws or principles of justice can only be seen as restricting individual freedom of action in return for security and peaceful coexistence. Hegel emphasizes instead the role of laws and principles of justice as enabling conditions for a wide range of aspects of character development and individual action.
Hegel thereby outlines a far more detailed and accurate account of our social involvements and our political allegiance, albeit agreeing with social contract theory that membership in society and obedience to government are matters that require rational justification, but he sought this justification in rational insight into the nature of our involvement in actual institutions. His most-fundamental objection to social contract theory is that the abstractions used by such theories to describe the state of nature, and to describe persons in that state, evade a whole range of benefits and obligations we have as members of a politically organized society, including the obligation to defend the state. As a consequence, social contract theory is implicitly sceptical about those benefits and obligations and is morally and politically irresponsible in virtue of the fact that it precludes their proper recognition and analysis, though Hegel’s objections to social contract theory do not prevent him from sharing many issues and points of doctrine with such theorizing.
And so for Hegel’s criticisms of Utilitarianism. It cannot account or provide for human autonomy because it takes given desires as the basic locus of value and source of ends, hence Utilitarianism does not take proper account of the intellectual character of the will, it involves too atomistic a view of individuals, too instrumental a view of the state and the government, and it is incompatible with the true foundation of right, which rests upon freedom and autonomy. The concept of utility is an important component of an intelligent grasp of one’s alternative courses of action and of the coherence of one’s long-range plans, and utility in the form of welfare is a fundamental component of the aims of individuals and organizations and a basic responsibility of a number of civil institutions. But freedom is a more fundamental value than utility, and considerations of utility cannot justify sacrificing freedom or individual rights, and securing freedom is the most basic obligation of governmental institutions. Indeed, Hegel regarded happiness as beyond the competence of political arrangements, for a rational state and its government are obligated to secure the conditions for the success of individual actions, they are not obligated to secure success itself, and so not the happiness that comes with it. Hegel upheld the liberal principles of individual autonomy and the rule of law, and there is a point of continuity between Hegel and the social contract theorists for they both take the analysis of the individual will and its freedom as the starting point for justifying basic political principles and institutions. Indeed, Hegel expressly credits Jean-Jacques Rousseau, (1712–1778), with contributing the fundamental idea that the state must be based upon the will.
Hegel writes:
‘In happiness thought has already the upper hand with the force of natural impulse, since it is not satisfied with what is momentary, but requires happiness as a whole. This happiness is dependent upon civilization to the extent to which civilization confirms the universal. But in the ideal of happiness there are two elements. There is (1) a universal that is higher than all particulars; yet, as the content of this universal is in turn only universal pleasure, there arises once more the individual, particular and finite, and retreat must be made to impulse; (2) Since the content of happiness lies in the subjective perception of each individual, this universal end is again particular; nor is there present in it any true unity of content and form …. But the truth of this formal universality, which taken by itself is undetermined and finds definite character in externally given material, is the self-directing universality which is will or freedom. Since the will has as its object, content and end, universality itself, and thus assumes the form of the infinite, it is free not only in itself or implicitly, but for itself or explicitly. It is the true idea’.
‘Escape’
by Karl Gottlieb Lappe (1773–1843)
I want to live in freedom,
Death decays in the coffin.
Just look there at the sunset
Weaving around the cheerful hills.
Life blossoms in freedom,
Danger lurks in confinement.
Hurry, so hurry to struggle out,
Before your heart risks coming to a stop!
There is a need for light and air and space.
I want to live in freedom.
Dearest birds, let us soar away,
Faithful to nature’s commandment.
‘Flucht’
In der Freie will ich leben.
In dem Sarge dumpft der Tod.
Sieh nur dort das Abendroth
Um die heitern Hügel weben.
In der Freie blüht das Leben,
In der Enge hockt die Noth.
Eilt, drum eilt hinaus zu streben,
Eh das Herz zu stocken droht!
Licht und Luft und Raum ist noth.
In der Freie will ich leben.
Traute Vögel, laßt uns schweben,
Folgsam der Natur Gebot.
