Harmonides (1-4)

Harmonides the pipe-player once asked Timotheus, who was his teacher. “Tell me, Timotheus, how can I become famous in the art? What must I do to become known to all the Greek world? You have already (and I thank you) taught me the rest of the art: I mean, to tune the pipe accurately, to blow lightly and harmoniously into the mouthpiece, to fit the fingers with easy touch to the full rise and fall of the music, to step in rhythm, to direct the music harmoniously in the direction of the dancers, and to master the peculiarities of each mode—the frenzy of the Phrygian, the excitement of the Lydian, the dignity of the Dorian, the elegance of the Ionian. All this I have learnt from you. But the most important matter—the reason for my interest in the art of pipe-playing—I don’t see how pipe-playing will ever bring me to it. I mean universal fame, being noticed in a crowd, being pointed at, and on putting in an appearance anywhere having everyone turn towards me and say my name, ‘That is Harmonides the outstanding piper’; just as when you too, Timotheus, first left your home in Boeotia and accompanied the Daughter of Pandion and won the victory in the Ajax Mad, playing the music your namesake had written for you, every single person knew your name, Timotheus of Thebes. Whenever you appear there now, everyone flocks round you like birds around an owl. This was my reason for wanting to become a pipe-player and undertaking the hard training. I shouldn’t consider taking up pipe-playing for its own sake without its attendant reputation, and if I were to remain in obscurity. No, not even if I were to be an unknown Marsyas or Olympus. It’s no use, they say, if musical skill is to be secret and kept hidden. But teach me this as well, how to do some good to myself as well as our art and I shall feel doubly grateful to you—for the pipe-playing and, most important of all, for the glory it confers.”

Timotheus replied, “You must realise, Harmonides, that it is no small thing that you’re in love with—praise and reputation, distinction and being known to the public—, but if you wanted to achieve this by way of giving demonstrations before large crowds it would be a long business, and not even then will you be known to everyone. Where would you find a theatre or stadium big enough to play to all the Greeks? But I’ll suggest a way of becoming known to them and attaining your hopes in all their fullness: play the pipe sometimes in theatres as well yet take but little notice of the crowd. This is the easiest short cut to a reputation. For if you choose only the best of Greece and of these just the few at the top, men of undisputed genius and reliable judgment, if, I say, you show off your pipe-pieces to them and they praise you, then you can think yourself

a man of repute in the eyes of all the Greeks after this short trial. Do you see what my plan does for you? Suppose that those whom everyone knows and admires recognise that you are a piper of ability, then you can ignore the crowd—they will always follow men of superior judgment. This great mass doesn’t recognise quality for itself—most of them are low, vulgar fellows—but when acclaim is won from men of standing, they all believe it is due and reasonable, and they too will acclaim. The truth, you see, is that even when watching competitions plenty of spectators know how to clap at the end and hiss, but judgment is the prerogative of the odd half dozen.”

Harmonides did not have time to carry out these instructions. The story goes that during his first attempt at winning the pipe competition, his competitive blowing was so keen that he blew his last breath on his pipe and died on the stage uncrowned: his one Dionysiac performance was his first and his last.

It seems to me that Timotheus’s principle applies not only to pipe-playing and Harmonides but to all those who look for fame by making a public exhibition of themselves, aiming at the applause of the crowd. Take my own case. When I was contemplating something similar for myself and was looking for the quickest means of acquiring a general reputation, I took Timotheus’s advice. I looked for the best man in the city, the one everybody else would believe, the one who would suffice for all. You alone could reasonably be seen as the man, you the sum of all excellence, the measure, as they say, and model of accuracy in all such matters. To show you my work and for you to give it your praise—if only that could be!—then indeed would I have attained the fullness of my desire, winning the votes of all through that of you alone. Whom could I prefer to you without being rightly considered out of my wits? It could be said that I would be staking everything on one man, but in reality it is as if I had assembled the whole population in one theatre as audience for my words. For the plain fact is that by yourself you would be a better judge than the whole assembly taken singly or together. Now the kings of Sparta alone had two votes each, the rest had one: but you carry the weight of ephors and council as well, and in short in the field of culture you have a block vote that outvotes all. Most important of all you always hold the casting vote that secures an acquittal. This gives me courage at the present time, for I might well be nervous—my presumption is so great. There is in all truth an additional reason for my confidence: my interests are not altogether alien to you, inasmuch as I am a native of a city that has often been a beneficiary of your good will, both in specific acts of kindness and generally in company with the rest of the nation. So if at the present time the voting is going against me in the count and the favourable votes are in a minority, like Athena give your casting-vote [*] and make up the deficiency in your own person, and let the credit be yours for setting the matter right.

It is not enough for me that many may have expressed admiration before, that I may have some

reputation already, that my works are praised by those who have heard them—all this is empty show, as they say, a mere shadow of approval. Now the truth will appear; this is the strict measure of my work. There will henceforth be no doubt, no hesitation. I must be judged now either supreme in the field of literature, for this is your verdict, or of all men—but I must utter no word of ill omen now that I am entering on such a mighty contest. Heaven grant me your approval and confirmation of my reputation! Then for the future I shall face the world with a brave heart. Any other stadium already holds less terror for the man who has won the great prizes of Olympia.