Chapter Three

HITTING THE WALL

My only desire in asking all these questions is to learn about arete´.
Socrates quoted in Plato's PROTAGORAS, 360e

WITHOUT STOPPING FOR BREAKFAST THEY SET OUT THROUGH the early morning streets. They were early, but others were already up, heading to the agora. Boys were hurrying off to school,

The polis that is Athens is crowded as any urban center of 70,000 would be, and spacious as a field of flowers. Inside the city is the Pnyx, where free Athenians debate and vote the issues of war and peace; the Areopagus, where the high court sits; the amphitheatres where Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripedes produce their plays; the agora, where philosophy and commerce mix it up among fountains, sculptures and colonnades; and the many cobbled streets of small and large houses, largely windowless, with their rooms set around interior courts open to the sky and their exterior walls painted white or decorated with murals. Outside the city but part of Athens are farms planted with grapes and olive trees, meadows dark with cattle, and the mountains and plains of Attica, wild with eagles, lion, and boar. Beyond lies the sea with her islands and cities shimmering in the light.

In Sophocles’ play Antigone, first produced in 441 BC when Socrates was twenty-eight, every important character does something senseless, and the worried chorus, appalled at their irrational behavior and hoping to save their lives, cries, “Reason is the greatest gift the gods gave us.” In fact, both Antigone and Creon possess reason, but they carry reasonable ideas about the respect due the dead and the disgrace due those who abuse the public trust to unreasonable lengths. Obsessed with the idea that the truth belongs to only one of them, and that this truth is more important than anything or anyone else, they destroy each other. Socrates is aware of the paradox that reason may become irrational, but he believes that reason as revealed through elenchus will show us the optimum way to live.

Elenchus is rational and relational. Socrates needs and wants a partner. Today partners in elenchus might be parents trying to make the best decision for their child, scientists searching for a cure, entrepreneurs looking for a profitable return, the police investigating a crime, couples talking about how to spend their money, adult children trying to make the best decision for their parents, a spiritual director talking with a directee, lovers seeking harmony, or even – a somewhat unlikely scenario, perhaps – elected representatives on opposing sides of the aisle addressing an issue. In addition to a partner, a few other things are necessary for elenchus according to Socrates.

First, elenchus depends on questions and answers, not speeches, monologues, or rants. An answer helps to clarify a question, opens up new lines of thought, or takes us to the dead-end that will lead us to a new discovery. Elenchus may seem intimidating and intensely intellectual. It does not have to be that way. In elenchus it is important to answer with brevity. “When anyone makes a long speech to me I never remember what he’s talking about,” Socrates remarks. Elenchus wants short questions and short answers – “short enough” to ask and answer the question.

Second, elenchus wants attentive listening. Socrates assumes we have the minds to handle questions and answers. Unfortunately I sometimes lack an ear. I have a predetermined idea about an answer or I guess what the other person is going to say or I think I hear what was not said. I don't listen to my partner. Unless I truly listen, I cannot truly respond.

Third, and perhaps most important, a person has to be sincere. She has to be sincere in her willingness to discuss an issue with an open mind and sincere in her responses. As Socrates discovers, the number of people who don’t want to discuss a question with an open mind is underestimated. Some will engage, but only halfheartedly. They will become angry or offer polite insincerities. Socrates wants "honest agreement or disagreement every step of the way". If a conclusion sounds weak, he wants to know it. If we pretend to see eye to eye when we disagree, Socrates points out, “we will never be able to test the validity of our beliefs.” Sincerity means we dare to lay aside our domineering opinions and deep-seated emotions, look at all sides of a question, and accept at any given moment that our facts don't stand up or our ideas fall down. Sincerity means we are willing to seek the answers that will help or heal us.

Engaged in elenchus, Socrates has a sense of heady exhilaration as if he were connecting with the universal mind, but sometimes elenchus is difficult even for him, perhaps especially difficult that morning when he and Hippocrates walk through Athens to the house where Protagoras is staying. It cannot have escaped Socrates that Protagoras and many other sophists have seized on elenchus as a glittering rhetorical tool and are teaching how to use it for a fee, exploiting his tool of enquiry for mercenary motives. However he says nothing about this to Hippocrates. They are still talking when they reach the big house where Protagoras is staying, and stand outside, finishing their discussion in the wintry light before they knock on the front door.

The doorman opens the door, looks at them, and slams the door in their faces, grumbling about an invasion of sophists.

Laughing, Socrates knocks again, and persuades him to let them in. They find the big beautiful house full of visitors. Callias, the young host, is buzzing around the rooms. Hippias is in one court surrounded by listeners sitting on benches. Prodicus, a sophist from Ceos, who arrived the night before, has been installed in a storeroom hurriedly converted into a guestroom, and is still lying under a heap of sheepskins and bedclothes. Protagoras, a handsome man in his late forties, is strolling in a second colonnaded courtyard and expounding on some subject while trailed by young toga-clad admirers. Socrates is fascinated to see his band of listeners walking and wheeling in perfect formation behind him.

Stepping forward, Socrates tries to catch Protagoras' eye, but he swept past, and Socrates only manages to halt him on his next turn round the courtyard, an intervention that sends his young followers into a pile-up.

"Protagoras," said Socrates, "I'm here because Hippocrates wants to become your protégé, and hopes you will tell him what that means." Privately he hoped Protagoras would talk about the thing he loved more than life itself, but he had resolved to wait before broaching the subject, first because Hippocrates had asked for his help and second because his question should naturally lead Protagoras to it.

“Do you want to speak with me alone or in the presence of everyone?" Protagoras asked expansively.

"It's up to you," Socrates said.

Protagoras smiled genially, and said of course he would be happy to discuss Hippocrates’ request in the presence of everyone. When they had all gathered together – even Prodicus was dislodged from his bed and brought in to hear the discussion – Socrates repeated the question – “What will happen to Hippocrates if he becomes your protégé?”

Protagoras gazed at Hippocrates, and said, “Young man if you associate with me, on the very first day you will go home a better man than you came, and on the second day you will go home a better man than you did on the first day, and every succeeding day you will be better than you were the day before.” 

Hippocrates looked almost overcome at the idea of progress on this scale. 

Resigning himself to being tactless, Socrates said, “I fail to see what is impressive about being better and better, Protagoras. In what way will Hippocrates become better?”

“A very fair question,” Protagoras said, beaming at the handsome young men in togas. They were certainly a contrast to Socrates with his inelegant face and unconventional attire. That cloak and tunic were surely more suitable for fighting or riding horseback. Protagoras cleared his throat and replied, “If Hippocrates comes to me he will learn what he has come to learn. He will learn how to run his own affairs, and he will be qualified to speak and act in the affairs of the city.”

"Am I following you?” Socrates asked. “It appears you are promising to make him a good citizen.”

“That, Socrates, is exactly the claim I make,” and Protagoras launched into a long monologue that described his claim in detail.

Prodicus yawned. He had not had enough sleep the night before, and Protagoras was talking a blue streak. However, the young men seemed to enjoy him, and whistled and cheered when he introduced the concept of areté.

Socrates inhaled quickly. The name he loved had been spoken, and he listened silently, intently, to hear what Protagoras would say. Areté (pronounced ar-a-tay) was most dear to him. He felt he could not live without it, that life without it was simply not worth living. Areté was said to shine in the wisdom of thinkers, yet he sensed it was deeper than wisdom. He personally had witnessed areté as bravery, burning like a flame, but he knew it could not be compassed by courage alone. Areté was said to reside in the brilliant success of an athlete and in the beauty of a work of art, yet he was sure it was not limited to the physical nor confined to beauty. By some accounts areté infused prayer, yet he felt areté transcending holiness the way foaming wine spills over the libation cup. He knew areté existed, but he could not say exactly what it was. He felt the frustation of being in love with someone he could not see.

Protagoras talked at length about areté, but somehow managed to avoid defining it. Disappointed, Socrates didn't speak immediately when he had finished. When he was sure Protagoras had ended, he said, “There is just one small problem I hope you will clear up, Protagoras. You say that areté can be taught, but you call it different things. What exactly is this areté that you say can be taught? Is areté a single entity with justice and wisdom and holiness as parts of it, or are they different names for the same thing?”

Heh, thought Prodicus. Good question.

“It’s easy to answer your question, Socrates,” Protagoras replied.  “All these things are parts of areté which is one, single thing.”

“Parts, you say.  Really,” said Socrates. He rubbed his forehead. “Are they parts of areté the way the mouth, nose, ears and eyes are parts of a face?”

“They are, Socrates. They are related to each other just the way the parts of the face are.”

“So if a man acquires one part he must have them all?”

“No, Socrates, unfortunately not, since a man may be brave but also unjust, or he may be just but not wise.” Protagoras nodded sagely at Hippocrates.

“So you think courage and wisdom are parts of areté?” Socrates asked.

“Indeed they are. Wisdom is the greatest part, of course,” said Protagoras with a condescending smile.

“You say wisdom is the greatest part, and each part is different from another part the way the eye is different from the ear?”

“Yes, Socrates, each part of areté is different from every other. That is what I am saying.”

Prodicus’ eyes drooped. It was pleasant to keep his eyes closed, and listen.

“So if we look at these parts of areté individually, would you say justice is a real thing or not?” Socrates asked. “My opinion is that it is; and yours?”

“That is mine also,” intoned Protagoras.

“What if a fellow asked us, ‘Is justice just or unjust?’ I would say it is just.  Would you vote with me or against?”

 “I would vote with you.”

“So we agree that justice is just. Alright. And what if our man asked us, ‘Is there such a thing as holiness?’ We would answer yes, wouldn’t we?” 

“Yes, we would, Socrates.” Protagoras sounded both bored and patronizing.

“And if this same fellow asked us whether holiness was pious or impious, I would say, ‘It’s hardly likely anything else is going to be pious if holiness isn’t.’  What would you say?”

“I would say the same thing,” agreed Protagoras.

Socrates stared at him wide-eyed.

“What are you getting at?” Protagoras asked uneasily.

"Didn't you just say that Each part of areté is different from every other."

"I certainly did."

"But surely you don't mean by that that holiness is never just, or that justice is never holy."

Prodicus jerked upright. Socrates had just pinned Protagoras. Trying to wiggle free, Protagoras launched into another long speech that said nothing extremely well. The young men who were listening cheered. Prodicus closed his eyes, and sank into a pleasant dream.

When he awakened, Protagoras was questioning Socrates, and Socrates, who had previously suggested that areté could not be taught, now seemed to think it could be. Socrates’ sheer nerve and intelligence were enthralling. Yet as he listened to him, and watched him, Prodicus had the impression of an increasingly lonely figure trying to put his hands around something he could not see. For one pure moment of empathy Prodicus thought he understood what he felt, but business interests intervened. Feeling refreshed he scanned the room for Callias. He had a proposition to make.

Socrates felt close to despair. Using elenchus he could prove that Protagoras’ definitions of areté were incorrect, but he had not been able to say what areté actually was. Failing to define areté made him feel as if his beloved had slipped through his hands, leaving his body on fire and his mind in turmoil. Baffled and furious he stood with his head bent, his mind dark. Then a question flashed into his mind. "Protagoras," he said, "Let me ask you this."

"No, no, no," Protagoras said. “I admire you more than anyone else your age, Socrates. I wouldn't be surprised if you came to be ranked among famous philosophers, but I’d like to talk about something else.” He smiled largely, and said, "After all, man is the measure of all things."

Stunned, Socrates looked around the room, and made a small, beseeching movement with his hand. There must be someone, he thought, who will help me. The young men laughed, looked away, and began to talk among themselves. Prodicus shrugged, and hitching his robes trotted after Callias.

For a moment of unbearable clarity Socrates saw the future for men who did not understand or care about areté, and not caring about it did not defend it. He saw they would die senselessly, and their children, before them. Utterly alone, he felt as if he were being turned to stone. He was sure areté was the key to the question what will you become? But without a partner, his line of enquiry was stillborn. Was there no friend who saw what he saw, and loved what he loved?

The year was 440 BC. It was sometime in the spring of the year that Diotima left Arcadia for Athens. NEXT »

©2006 CATHERINE GLASS