When I was appointed organ professor at the Conservatory, I had to leave my residence at [8] rue Garancière and move to the ground floor of [3] rue de l’Abbaye, where I enjoyed a vast living room that was quite suitable to the installation of a grand orgue. Later, the parish priest of Saint-Germaindes-Prés bought the palace and set up an asylum for old women. At his insistence, Eugène Guillaume and I had to give up the place. But we still deeply regret that this historic building had this fate because its architecture has suffered from it, and, since then, even a dispensary was set up there, whereas it would have been interesting to make it a museum.

The Hôtel de Chimay where the Comtesse Elisabeth de Greffuhle was born is inhabited by Mlle de Caraman-Chimay, daughter of the Duke of Caraman-Chimay. Joseph Fouché lived in a house, now demolished, that was part of the group of buildings of the … and the offices of the police headquarters located on the ground floor with a small garden at 7 rue des Saints-Peres where I lived. This garden was connected to the offices. As for the executive at the time, he was in the house of the publisher Garnier. My former house, 7 rue des Saints-Pères, is set back from the street, with a courtyard in front. Under this courtyard is the beginning of an underground passage that connects the two houses, where orders were transmitted under ground.

The beautiful actress Cécile Sorel lived on the quai in the building next to the Hôtel de Bugeaud. It can be said that Sorel has become an important personality. She already had many admirers at that time, including one of our colleagues, the great American architect Whitney Warren, and this is perhaps the reason for many of his stays in Paris. François-Léopold Flameng, Théodore Reinach, Whitney Warren, Gabriele d’Annunzio, etc. were often invited to the beautiful second-floor residence where she lived. Sorel often came to my house with her friends during the war, and she never failed to bring Robert de Ségur, whom she has since married. A curious detail, Sorel was born in the impasse du Maine where Cavaillé-Coll had long had his private villa, as did Antoine Bourdelle.

On the first Sunday of the 1914 war, M. and Mme Pichon came to lunch at Foyot's where I was having lunch in the next room with a very beautiful woman from Rome, the Comtesse de Cossato, of remarkable intelligence and who was returning to Italy the next day. Everyone was very stirred up. Countess Cossato was asking if the English would come to our aid: “But what is the English fleet doing?” —“Yes, yes,” said Pichon, deeply emotional. Countess Cossato remarked to me at one point: “Look at the wife of your minister of foreign affairs; she's crying into her eggs!”

I heard the French mobilization proclaimed by the rural constable in front of the church of Ville d’Avray. I was coming back from Versailles where I had gone to pick up some friends by car.

On September 2, [1914], Étienne Lamy, permanent secretary of the Académie Française came to see me and said, “Raymond Poincaré is asking the permanent secretaries to pack their bags so as not to be taken hostage. I’m leaving tonight,” he added. We deliberated all day. At six o’clock in the evening we held a meeting at Albert Sarraut's place, at the Ministry of Public Education. “I have no orders to give you,” he said, “but the effect of your leaving would be disastrous.” While we were talking with him, there was a sudden burst of heavy platoon fire under our windows; it was one of the first German planes to drop its bombs on the capital, to which the battalion of Zouaves responded from the barracks on rue de Bellechasse. We drew the curtains so that we could hear each other, and in the end we decided not to leave. “As for me,” said the minister, “I am leaving for Bordeaux this evening!”

On the other hand, the minister of the interior gave us seventeen laissezpasser, allowing us to leave Paris. I remember Bonnat's indignation when I brought him one of those passes: “Do you think I’m going to abandon my house, the Beaux-Arts, for which I am responsible, my students, and my collections? Who do you take me for? Get out! Go away!” So we stayed in Paris, which became ominous as soon as night fell; everyone remembers that the shops and restaurants closed early. Maxim's was our refuge.

Late medieval depictions of romance heroines, noble women, and female saints generally focus on their subjects’ beauty. Guinevere, Helen, Criseyde, the Virgin Mary, St. Margaret, and even Eve are shown as exceptionally beautiful by medieval standards, while in reaction, a number of clerical misogynistic moralists, such as William Peraldus and Berthold of Regensburg, looked on female beauty as Satan's chief device to entrap men.

Yet if such beauty, good and bad, is everywhere in the Middle Ages, theoretical discussion of its material culture, what makes it up and how it can be achieved, is less common and not particularly innovative. For the extant medieval discourses on beauty show a remarkable reliance on ancient authorities, satiric or not, such as Ovid, suggesting both the historical continuity of such writing and also how little the female desire for beauty changed from Roman antiquity through the Early Modern period.

The present paper attempts to identify specific components of ideal female beauty in the Middle Ages. I shall consider its chief utensils, the comb and the mirror; examine the processes of cosmetically “improving” the skin and lips, and decorating and covering the hair; and finally treat in some detail moralist responses to these practices, which are, incidentally, often good sources of information on beauty and fashion. In addition to classical and medieval written sources, much can also be learned on this topic from manuscript miniatures and other graphic media showing women before mirrors grooming themselves by combing their hair, applying cosmetics to the face, and the like. Moreover, Renaissance dialogues on the individual components of female beauty, such as that offered in a Decameron-like Neo-Platonic dialogue by the Italian poet Agnolo Firenzuola (1493–1543) speaking in the guise of Celso Selvaggio with four ladies of Prato, are also excellent sources of information.

These beauty aids feature in a number of medieval and Early Modern discourses on fashion, medicine, beauty workers as a class (“artisans of the body,” to use Sandra Cavallo's term), the economics of the comb and the mirror trades, the mercantile distribution of cosmetics, the toilette as a subject for art, and the cosmetic recipe collection as a genre.

By March 28, 1918, Big Bertha had been thundering for five days. The Duke of Alba was supposed to come and talk to me about the exhibition. I rushed to his house to tell him that it was dangerous to go out. It was Easter Sunday. From fear of the danger threatening the crowd, the services of Saint-Sulpice had been reduced to a minimum. The very simple evening service lasted only fifteen minutes. For their relative safety, the clergy had set up a dormitory in the vaulted room of the façade—located between the two towers—in which was located the Dauphin's organ that I have talked about elsewhere because of incidents surrounding its history. When the dormitory was removed from this room, which was poorly protected by the windows and not heated, I went to find the parish priest to obtain permission to have the organ moved to prevent it from getting moldy. I had it placed in the Chapelle du Péristyle, which is heated like all the rest of the church. This was done within six months.

The Dauphin's organ is an interesting document because of the limited range of its keyboards, its particular sonorities, and the style of the time. Once a week, Marie Josèphe of Saxony had her musical evening with organ, the Dauphin and their daughters as an audience, and sometimes a singer and a guest, never more than two. Jean-François Marmontel tells in his Mémoires of an invitation to dine at the Dauphin's in strict privacy. The Dauphin and his wife did not say a word, and Marmontel was forced into a monologue during the whole dinner. But the next day he received a visit from an aide-de-camp of the Dauphin who came to apologize for the silence of his masters. He related, “Marmontel's conversation had interested them so much that they had not dared say a word.” He had noticed some unusual movement of the table, wondering what it meant. It was apparently the Dauphin who expressed his delight at hearing Marmontel by giving a kick to the table, as if to say: “Isn't this all charming?”

Medieval Travelers and Their Accounts

Recent research has deeply engaged with the vast corpus of medieval and early modern travel and pilgrimage literature, published both in the West and in the East. People in Latinate Europe during the Middle Ages were much on the road, contrary to many modern assumptions, and often covered huge distances. Arabic travelers, however, though also going on huge journeys, such as Ibn Fadlan (879–960), Ibn Jubayr (1145–1217), Ibn Battuta (1304–1368/1369), or Yāqūt Shihāb al-Dīn ibn-ʿAbdullāh al-Rūmī al-Ḥamawī (1179–1229), tended not to approach or touch on Christian European territory, apart from Andalusia (southern Spain) and Sicily (across from Tunisia). There were, of course, also Indian or Chinese travelers, but my knowledge about them is too limited to engage with them here.

Marco Polo (c. 1254–c. 1324), with his Travels (c. 1300), also known as Book of the Marvels of the World, and Il Milione, and in the original Franco-Venetian as Devisement du Monde, composed with the courtly poet Rustichello da Pisa, is of course well-known among medievalists and arguably even to a wider audience to this very day, being recognized as a fascinating and daring author. Children in the USA, for instance, commonly play a game based on the name of Marco Polo. Numerous travel companies use his name for their own purpose, and “Polo” has to serve even for video chat apps.

As famous as Polo's work already was during the late Middle Ages, the “armchair traveler” John Mandeville achieved much wider popularity with his own Travels, although, or perhaps because, fact and fiction intermingle here in a brilliant fashion. As much as Mandeville claimed authority and hence authenticity, he was really more an imaginative writer than an actual traveler. However, his willingness to entertain his audience with much monster lore about the world in the East piqued the general interest, and many other writers followed his pattern long into the early modern age. Mandeville, however, was neither the first literary author to draw on this topic nor the last, as the current translation clearly indicates.

A New Voice From Fourteenth-Century Germany

Previous scholarship has uncovered a wide range of medieval travelogues, editing and analyzing them and often also translating individual narratives. The present volume adds a truly unusual voice to the gamut of available accounts now in English translation.

Cavaillé-Coll modified the organ that had been commissioned for the Église d’Auteuil to install it in the Trocadéro, given the limited time before the 1878 Exposition. I was living on rue Garancière at the time when one fine morning at seven o’clock père Cavaillé came to ring at my door and said: “Get up quickly. Liszt expects us at nine o’clock at the Trocadéro, where I have just finished the organ. He is asking to hear it.” Naturally, I hurried and the two of us arrived at the Trocadéro, where we found Liszt chatting as simply as possible with the voicers inside the instrument, and where he was looking at all the details with the greatest care. Our friendship was to commence there and continue at Madame de Blocqueville’s, where we met frequently.

Liszt was extremely pleasant and had absolutely no kind of arrogance; he always even seemed to be thanking you for anything you could ask of him. He spoke and wrote admirable French, and read everything that was published in our language, all the philosophers and poets. A close friend of Victor Hugo, he used to go donkey riding on country outings with him and his entourage. He was greatly admired in all the salons—political or philosophical— where the Parisian clique reigned. I played the Bach pieces that he asked for, and, having been kind enough to ask me to play my latest work for him, I performed my Symphony no. 3.

He was still keenly interested in the mechanics of the organ, the studies of the wind pressure, and the harmonic schemes of père Cavaillé. Toward noon he invited us both to lunch in one of the Exposition restaurants that was already open. He asked me, “How can I thank you for the time that I have made you waste this morning?” At the word “waste,” I blushed and replied, “I have the honor of living in the century of Liszt and I have never heard Liszt!” —“Well fine, I have a little free time right now. Madame Érard has given to me her place at rue du Mail, and I have taken up residence there. Would you like to come tomorrow at two o’clock? I’ll play whatever you want.” Nearly all week, he played for me all the works of the time, as well as his own.

This study has been one of Debussy's changing styles from his first book of preludes from 1907–10 to the composition of the second book of preludes along with Jeux in 1912–13. In chapter 6 we explored the last change in style, as the most advanced style Debussy used gradually evaporated. The catalyst behind these changes was seen to be Debussy's relationship with Stravinsky. While The Firebird in 1910 did not immediately win over Debussy, Petrushka in 1911 did. From this point Debussy began his octatonic exploration, having heard what magnificent use could be made of it in Stravinsky's ballets.

In 1910, completely independent of his relationship with Stravinsky, Debussy composed “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest,” which contained a consistent opposition between diatonic (asymmetrical) scales and chromatic (symmetrical) scales. The form of this work was created from the intertwining of the various lines of the composition, each line devoted to a distinct scale. This was the first of Debussy's works in stratified form, and it was with the invention of this formal organization that the French composer was able to influence the young Russian, for Stravinsky used sections of stratified form in Petrushka and The Rite, and eventually made the leap from stage to concert work with the Symphonies of Wind Instruments in 1920 and other works throughout his long career.

Debussy's stratified works share many of the following characteristics: a continuous opposition between diatonic and chromatic scales, an introduction that hints at scales without overtly stating them, the body of a work made up of strands of the various lines used that determine the form, one scale per line, and synthesis between the various lines at the end of the work and often briefly throughout. The work that best exemplifies this is “Ondine,” which exhibits such craft in its construction that it is hypothesized to be among the last of the preludes to be composed. “Ondine” exhibited discontinuity with each juxtaposition of lines, but this is actually rare in Debussy's stratified works. Most are continuous, with the job of separating the various lines falling to the distinct harmony assigned to each one. Other preludes written with a stratified form include “Les tierces alternées,” “Feuilles mortes,” “Les fées sont d’exquises danseuses,” “‘Général Lavine’—eccentric,” “La terrace des audiences du clair de lune,” “Brouillards,” and “Feux d’artifice.”

INTRODUCTION

American belligerency coincided with the deepest maritime crisis of World War I, when the U-boats were sinking one in every four ocean-going vessels clearing British ports. Only some 10 per cent of the lost tonnage was being replaced; moreover, damaged ships were generally out of service for several months and some for the duration of the war. In the month of America’s intervention, almost 900000 tons of Allied and neutral shipping was lost by enemy action, the vast bulk of it to the submarines. The British were reduced to a few weeks’ supply of grain and only ten days’ stock of sugar but the most serious shortage was that of oil, vital to all arms. Successful interdiction of the supply reduced the Grand Fleet to half speed and any further constriction would cripple the anti-submarine effort. The British public was kept in the dark about this dire situation but ministers and shipping officials were becoming restless at the Admiralty’s self-confessed incapacity to discover a solution. It was in these doom-laden circumstances that a new member of the coalition, distant from it in more than one sense, had to be integrated into the Allied war effort. The disturbing fact that the United States was so woefully unprepared for war rendered her absorption into the coalition all the more difficult. For a time the Americans were likely to prove a military liability and a drain on resources until their own war effort had taken off. Moreover, the Americans, half afraid that they might soon find themselves alone against the power of Germany and her allies, remained wary of committing themselves too deeply to their new associates. They clung to as high a degree of independence as seemed consistent with ensuring the Allies’ survival and an ultimate victory. As Benson’s biographers explain:

INTRODUCTION

American entry into the war coincided with the worst period of the submarine campaign. In April 1917, sinkings of Allied and neutral merchantmen approached 250000 tons per week, well above the German target. Moreover, the onset of longer daylight raised the prospect of yet higher losses. Most sinkings took place in the Western Approaches but there were substantial losses, too, in the Mediterranean, the English Channel, the North Sea and the Irish Sea. British food stocks were estimated at between three and ten weeks’ consumption, while fuel oil was reduced to six weeks’ supply. The critical level of supplies necessary to maintain the Allied armies and civilian populations was 32 million tons per annum and this mark was being approached rapidly by the end of June. The U-boats were sinking shipping far faster than it could be replaced – Allied building capacity was only 130000 tons per month. The destruction of U-boats was not increasing. Between 54 and 58 had been sunk since the war began and the current rate was about three a month – at a time when the Germans were turning out three per week. The morale of the crews was high and the new boats incorporated many improvements [127, 164].

In view of this dire situation, it is not surprising that Sims’s first report to Washington declared that ‘Control of the sea is actually imperilled’ and that Page should call it ‘the sharpest crisis of the war’. Sims observed that the Royal Navy was ‘dangerously strained’ and Page referred to ‘a great depression in naval circles’ [127, 129, 151, 152, 182]. Jellicoe told Carson ‘we shall be very hard put to it unless the United States help us to the utmost of their ability’ and urged De Chair to ‘keep constantly before the US Authorities the great gravity of the situation’ [130]. A British correspondent of House called it ‘a race against time’ and British leaders from Lloyd George downwards, supported by Page and Sims, urged both the despatch of every available anti-submarine vessel and, more importantly, a huge emergency programme of mercantile construction, estimated at six million tons per annum by Lloyd George. A decrease in sinkings would not enable the target to be reduced as even more shipping would be needed to transport and supply the AEF.

At this point Reynard spotted the farmer, and this prom-ised to be a cause for rejoicing because he was carrying a large ham. Reynard laughed and said, “Listen to this, my Lord Isengrim!” “What's that, kinsman?” “Would you like to try some of that meat?” Isengrim and the family all declared that they would indeed.

Reynard got up and went over to a spot where he knew the farmer would have to pass, lifted up one foot, and began to limp heavily, and at the same time he bowed his back as if he had been beaten. The farmer yelled at him and dropped the ham onto the grass, because he was still after the white fur around Reynard's throat. He was carrying a fearsome-looking club. Reynard looked around, then lured him toward the forest. Isengrim jumped up, and before the farmer could do anything, he grabbed the ham and just as quickly started to gobble it up, forgetting entirely about Reynard. The farmer gave up the chase and wanted to retrieve his ham, but then he saw Isengrim, his nemesis, in the distance. He complained loud and long, but there was no sign of meat or bones, so he fell down on the grass and bewailed the loss of his ham.

Isengrim started to laugh. “Reynard's a good companion for me,” he said. “We couldn't have gotten a better dinner, and it's all thanks to him.” He had no idea, however, of where this would all lead in the end. Reynard came back with a smug look on his face and said, “Now where's my share?” Isengrim replied, “You’d better ask your kinswoman if she has saved any of hers.”

“Sorry, Reynard,” said the she-wolf, “I found it all far too tasty, but your reward will be in heaven! Don't be cross! It won't happen again.” [449–498]