"The sense of divinity, which moves in us, may be but a hope born of this trouble and perplexity, a desire that at some future time the fragments of our being shall be collected again and fashioned into a whole. We cry out that we need not be wasted, to drift forever as dust, blind, dumb, and inarticulate, yet with a dim consciousness of a life stirring beyond us and alien to us. Let us share in it. Let us have a share in the world's sunlight and the sweet air. We have personified this hope, and given it an extended significance which seems to breathe and move in all things. Each individual finds his justification in God; and it follows that his God must be merciful, just, and good; but, at the same time, the notions of justice and good are entirely peculiar to the individual. God is thus a realisation of self, a self who triumphs and will be justified, even through his misery. The very practice of virtue is an accusation against the gods, an affirmation that if the good perish then God is evil.
"I am a maker of myths, one who fashions out of perishable things a thought which, through its informing truth, exists independently of time. I think of man as of one who is blind, dumb, and without hands. Sitting alone in this physical darkness a thought comes to him of what his life might have been if he had been born whole; and he imagines himself as a man with hands, a voice, and sight, creating a whole world out of his pleasure. This other man, who moves like a creature of light through the dim passages of his mind, becomes, as it were another self; but through his greater power, a being of joy living eternally, a strong, triumphant, beautiful figure; and consequently external from, and different to, the man. And the blind, dumb, handless man, bowing his head in the darkness, says: 'It is God.'
"For the gods which we have imagined are immortal men, and man a mortal God. They differ from us in nothing but the gladness and eternity of their actions. They move delightfully on the wings of the wind; through the great tumult of waters their feet are swift and sure; their voices have a music that is like the fierce motion of dancing, yellow flames. God is simply our own selves, made whole, and removed from the devouring years. God is our weakness searching after strength, our blindness, thirsting after light; our desire seeking for a voice, and we worship him. We worship him because he is ourselves; but we seek him, always, as if conscious of our own weakness and worthlessness, beyond ourselves, in the external world, Our God is hidden in the deeps of the sea; in the shadows of the forests; in that blue heaven beyond the stars. He is very subtile, moving on stealthy feet, through unknown ways. We seek him, but we find him not. He is swifter than we are, and when we pursue him he flies away into the darkness; and when we cry out that we have lost him he comes close to us again, filling our hearts with a silent sweetness. So it is ever with us; when we seek to clasp him he eludes us; but in the silence of night we imagine that he is not very far away and that a little thing would suffice to allure him to us, to reveal him to sight.
"Once in a country of hills and valleys lived a shepherd who called to the nymph Echo, and she answered him from her cave in the hillside with his own voice. Then he girded himself, and taking a staff in his hand set out to seek her; and coming to the place whence she had answered him, he called again, and she replied from a higher peak. When he had called from the next peak he was answered from the valley and descended into its deep forests; and men saw him no more, for he died there, and the beasts devoured him.
"We also die ere we have found the voice which calls to us from the mountains; but it ever lures us forward, calling sometimes from a cave quite close to us, and again from a distant peak. We also die, and our ears hear it no longer; but our children will hear and follow it gladly up the steep glens of the windy hills."
As Protagoras finished, he dropped the roll of parchment beside him, and motioned the slave to bring him some wine. Lysis rose from his couch and attempted to crown him, when the loud voice of Pythodorus broke in upon the general conversation.
"What is this that you are applauding?" he said; "are you men of Athens or foreigners fond only of subtile words? I, for one, shall not praise or consent to what has been said by Protagoras here to-night. What has he done but cloak his impiety in smooth phrases and suave periods? Are you willing, through his soft persuasion, to deny that the gods inhabit the wide skies and the hidden regions of the bright sea?"
A silence fell upon the company. One or two shifted uneasily upon their couches. It was fairly well known that Pythodorus had some personal grudge against Protagoras; but no one had suspected that he would take this opportunity of revenge.
"You are mistaken, Pythodorus," said Euripides. "Protagoras has only discussed the question of whether we can have any knowledge of the gods. He carefully disclaimed any intention of denying their existence."
"It is clear to me, Euripides, that Protagoras has denied them," answered Pythodorus. "He claims that if we do not know a thing, the thing does not exist. But I shall not argue the question here; I shall lay it before the proper judges. An offence against the gods is a crime in which the whole city is implicated, and which they must cleanse from themselves. I would have you believe that I am not moved by any personal feeling against Protagoras, but only by a desire that the whole people should not have to expiate, in suffering, the crime of one man. All the misfortunes of Athens have arisen from the spirit of irreverent sophistry which is eating her away; and people now seem to think that they may say anything, provided that it be well said."