This is the tale of Reynard the Fox.

May God guide us on our journey!

What I am about to tell you is an unusual, but entirely believable story about a wild animal, and it may serve as an instructive fable in a great many ways. The animal in question was entirely focused upon deceit and trickery, which often led him into trouble. He indulged in all kinds of wickedness, and his name was Reynard the Fox. So let us begin the story.

The American Conservatory of Fontainebleau lasted successfully until the American crisis. As most of the boarders were supported by scholarships, the school was in jeopardy when these scholarships were stopped.

In the aftermath of the Armistice, the American government thought: “We cannot repatriate all our nationals. What do we do with these young people, many of whom were destined for an artistic career?” We had started to found a school of painting and sculpture in Meudon that operated for a season, and we realized that there were also other artists: musicians. It was then, with Saint-Saëns and Walter Damrosch, that we founded the Fontainebleau School [in 1921]. Why Fontainebleau? Because the premises, which had served as a hospital during the war, had been cleaned, refurbished, and were vacant. They could therefore accommodate a conservatory.

An organ was built for the former room of the Jeu de Paume. Most of the study rooms were the former apartments of court guests; the parquet floor is magnificent. This school was a delight for a few years until, alas, the crisis occurred. It currently remains in a reduced state, but we hope that a day will come in better times when it will regain its former vitality. The Conservatory was doubled by an American art school of which Jacques Carlu was the director; it included a painting section and a sculpture section.

I resigned two years ago [1934] when the number of students became completely insufficient. Most of the local citizens of Fontainebleau were quite interested in the Conservatory. They were very high-class, which could be judged by the elegant audiences that flocked to the Thursday concerts in the hall of the Jeu de Paume. I personally went every week to listen to the organists, and to give them a general course in composition and on Bach's works and the appropriate style to maintain for him. We had some very beautiful concerts. Of course, the admission to these concerts was free and always by invitation, since it's never allowed to charge entrance fees to national palaces. We had asked in vain for permission to take up a collection in favor of the Sisters of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul and the poor, but it was impossible. The administration refused.

Pendant le bombardement, avec le bon Waltner, nous nous promenions bravement sur le Pont des Arts, au clair de lune, admirable, à minuit. Le sifflement d’une bombe frôle nos oreilles et je dis à Waltner, “Eh, mais, c’est pour nous!”

During the bombing, the good Waltner and I were walking bravely on the Pont des Arts, in the wonderful moonlight at midnight. The whistle of a bomb grazed our ears and I said to Waltner, “Hey, that was meant for us!”

—Ch.-M. Widor

[see Fig. 37]

ACADÉMIE ROYALE

des Sciences, des Lettres et des Beaux-Arts de Belgique.

La Classe des Beaux-Arts de l’Académie Royale, dans sa séance du 9 Janvier 1908 a nommé Associé Monsieur Charles-Marie Widor, compositeur à Paris.

La Classe a décidé en même temps qu’on délivrerait à Monsieur Widor, le présent diplôme revétu de son seau et signé par son Directeur et par le Secrétaire perpétuel.

Fait à Bruxelles, le 6 février 1908.

[Signé:] Le Secrétaire perpétuel, Le Chevalier Edmond Marchal Le Directeur, Edgar Tinel

ROYAL ACADEMY of Sciences, Letters and Fine Arts of Belgium.

The Fine Arts Division of the Royal Academy, at its meeting of January 9, 1908, named Associate Monsieur Charles-Marie Widor, composer in Paris.

The Division decided at the same time that we would deliver to Monsieur Widor the present diploma bearing its seal and signed by its Director and Permanent Secretary.

Done in Brussels, February 6, 1908.

[Signed:] The Permanent Secretary, Chevalier Edmond Marchal The Director, Edgar Tinel

There is hardly an organist who is not familiar with the name of Charles- Marie Widor, if only from having heard or played his famous Toccata. But, in fact, Widor was more than a composer of organ music. He was certainly one of the more prolific composers of the second half of the nineteenth century and the first part of the twentieth, and his output is astounding, even in comparison with his contemporaries. Dozens of collections of piano music, chamber works, sacred music—both choral and solo voice, songs and vocal duets, five orchestral suites, five orchestral symphonies—including two with organ, four concertos, a ballet, lyric dramas, operas, a symphonic poem, and other sundry pieces, all added to the ten symphonies for organ, make an astonishing list of works. Then there were his literary works, which in John Near's biography cover four and one-half pages.

Perhaps more than anything these Autobiographical Recollections demonstrate Widor's broad interests, catholicity of taste, and the international social milieu in which he moved. It is remarkable how little these valedictory recollections mention the organ. Rather, they are memories of his life beyond the organ loft.

What began as a hodge-podge of reminiscences by a ninety-two-year-old narrator, taken down by dictation on several occasions, has been assembled by John Near into a seamless autobiography. But appreciating that readers, particularly English-speaking readers, would be unfamiliar with the people and events scattered throughout the text, he has researched and identified hundreds of names, as well as provided the historical background of the world in which Widor lived. Realizing the likely historic importance of his narrative, Widor frequently advised his amanuensis to look up a date or fact, and this Dr. Near has done almost a century later.

Widor was indeed the last of the Romantics. Many remembered and had known Franck, Saint-Saëns, and Fauré, but almost none had met or known Liszt, Rubinstein, and Wagner, much less fought in the Franco-Prussian War. His influence at the Conservatory and at the Académie des Beaux-Arts was far-reaching in France's musical culture.

John Near's lifelong research has produced the award-winning biography, Widor: A Life beyond the Toccata, the definitive edition of Widor's ten organ symphonies, the first edition of his Symphonie, op. 42[bis], and a critical edition of Bach's Memento. This previously unpublished autobiography gives us Widor the man in his own words.

C’est lorsque je sentis vibrer sous mes mains et mes pieds les 6,000 tuyaux de l’orgue de Saint-Sulpice que je me mis à écrire mes quatre premières symphonies d’orgue.

It was when I felt the six thousand pipes of the Saint-Sulpice organ vibrating under my hands and feet that I began to write my first four Organ Symphonies.

—Ch.-M. Widor

In 1910, I went to Berlin. Our ambassador, Jules Cambon, had organized an exhibition of eighteenth-century French art. Kaiser Wilhelm II had taken a keen interest in it, for he had canvases in Potsdam [at Sans Souci] by Watteau, Fragonard, etc., the authenticity of which he questioned. We initiated a project of exchange between a work of art belonging to him and the restoration of the château sculptures through our colleague Maurice Fenaille. This exhibition was of great interest to the Germans and several exchange agreements with the sovereign to complete his collections or ours were drawn up at that time.

We spent ten days in Berlin and remained in constant contact with the Emperor, who had given his Grand Cordon of the Black Eagle to Léon Bonnat. I was then a member of the Berlin Academy, but not yet that of France. The Emperor came every day, and all day long he hosted us throughout the capital. This is how, with [Louis Bernier]—architect of the Opéra-Comique—he took us to the theater and showed us the old machinery, saying: “We have to rebuild it, but we can't do it without breaking a leg. I’m looking for my minister of finance, but he is never there!”

On Sundays at that time, during the season, people met in Potsdam at the home of [Sophie,] the Princess of Wied. She presided over the most artistic gatherings there, from which protocol was banished. Thus, one day the Empress of Germany was silenced while Lili Lehmann was singing: “Be quiet, she's singing!” they shouted at her. After Lehmann's song, I was quite dazzled by the entrance of a very beautiful young woman with golden hair. I asked who she was, and was told: “She is the niece of Edward VII.” She [Sophie] had married a German staff officer, [Wilhelm,] the Prince of Wied, who had a small German principality [Albania] and was the nephew of Carmen Sylva [Elisabeth of Wied], the Queen of Romania. It was she who was named “queen with an unhappy reign.” I’m referring to [Princess] Maria.

For the first time since 1870, and in fact the only time, an official dinner for one hundred guests at intimate tables was given at the French Embassy in honor of the Berlin court. We had brought in some famous characters from the Comédie-Française.

In the forest he met Tibert, the tomcat. Reynard embraced him and claimed: “A thousand welcomes, my friend! I am absolutely delighted to find you looking so well. I’ve heard a great deal about how fast you can run, and that is something I should like to see. If it's true, I’ll tell everyone about it.”

Tibert replied, “Reynard my friend, I’m pleased that such good things are being said about me, and I shall be happy to oblige you.” Reynard, however, was not being honest. He sent the cat off in a direction where he knew there was a gin trap— this was a wicked act from a so-called friend. It was a narrow track he had to run down. “Now let me see how strong you are, off you go, my dear fellow!” said Reynard. Tibert, however, knew all about the trap and said to himself, “May Saint Gallus preserve me from Reynard's dirty deeds!” He jumped over the trap and ran hard. When he reached the turnaround marker, Reynard said to him: “There isn't an animal faster than you, my dear friend, but let me teach you an extra trick. You have to be able to jump really high, because otherwise it could be the end of you if you were being chased by a savage dog—and I know what I am talking about there!”

“You don't need to tell me,” replied Tibert. “Just run after me and I’ll demonstrate the finest jumps possible.” Each of them was intending to deceive the other. Reynard ran after his friend, who did not keep very far in front. Tibert leaped over the trap, then stopped stock-still, which made his companion cannon into him so that—as he so richly deserved—his foot went into the trap. With this, Tibert took his leave, commenting before he made a rapid escape that the devil takes the hindmost.

Reynard was in very considerable trouble and thought that he would meet a grim death. At this point he saw the hunter who had set the trap. Reynard needed now more than ever to use his cunning. He laid his head over the trap just as the hunter, a farmer, ran up to it. Reynard's throat was as white as snow, and the hunter felt certain of getting a bounty of five silver pieces, maybe even more.

Reynard now had to run away, because a hunter and his dogs were on his trail, and this situation did not please him. The hunter set four dogs after the fox, and they soon found him. He even had to abandon the cheese, so his friend Dizelin could claim his right to it after all. The dogs were nearly on him, and Dizelin did what he could to cause him problems, shouting at him in fury, “They tell me that dirty deeds can be paid back in full, and that's what has happened to you—friend!” Reynard twisted away from the dogs, but the crow didn't lose interest in the matter but pointed the dogs toward Reynard's tail. This was not the best thing that could happen to him, and the dogs tore at him while the hunter egged them on. It was time for some clever trickery; Reynard spotted a fallen tree trunk and slipped under it, the dogs all jumped over it, with the hunter after them, and Reynard escaped into the forest. [285–312]

When the bombardment of Paris came, père Cavaillé padded the exterior of his home, covering the walls with planks. The American flag flew over his door, since Gabriel Reinburg who lived there was Alsatian; like all Alsatians who had not opted for the French regime, he was still under American protection.

During the Commune, I often went in the evening to check on them. From the top of the roof we had a view that stretched over all of Paris. At the time, the Commune newspapers were talking about the demolition of the Vendôme column. We watched it for a number of evenings from the top of our observatory, but suddenly one evening we could no longer see it—it had fallen [May 16, 1871].

Towards the end of the Commune, when Paris was taken by the Versailles Army, I was living in the old Hôtel de Sourdéac, 8 rue Garancière. Every Monday, early in the morning, the cook of a friend from Lyon came to my door and asked me for her week's wages. One Monday morning, she rang my doorbell loudly and exclaimed: “The Versailles troops are in Paris!” From my window, I saw the Trocadéro, black with troops. She continued, “Don't go out, they say we’re going to fight in Paris! I won't be back for about a week.” A quarter of an hour later, I heard a bell-ringing such as I have never heard since: all the bells of the capital were sounding the alarm. As we know, the battle raged for eight days. At night, from the top of my roof, I could see only fires. One evening, I was filled with amazement; I saw the spire of Sainte-Chapelle surrounded by wreaths of flames and I thought I would not see it again the next day. Fortunately, it was only an optical illusion, and Sainte-Chapelle escaped destruction.

Some time later, all the windows in the neighborhood were broken by the explosion of a powder magazine that had been set up in the Luxembourg Garden. General Ernest Courtot de Cissey came with his army corps to occupy the Luxembourg on Thursday. It was only on that day that I was able to leave my house.

Reynard the doctor was so wicked that he very soon betrayed the king. He had a great many malicious tricks up his sleeve. “My lord,” he said, “I shall give you a drink that will restore you completely.” “Do so,” replied the king. But what he brewed was death to the king. Reynard the red fox was evil, and he now made it very clear indeed: he poisoned his lord.

No one should protest about this too much. What, after all, did anyone expect of Reynard? God knows, it is disgraceful that at court there are plenty of scoundrels who are held in greater esteem than those who have never acted dishonorably. If a ruler dies because of needlessly following someone like that, then that is all to the good. Unfortunately, wicked deceivers seem to come to the fore every time, and the honest ones are left outside.

When the king had taken the drink, Reynard left, saying he had to go and search for herbs and roots. He had simply done as he always did. He took the hand of his dear kinsman Grimbard and said: “I want to tell you something. The king cannot be cured, and we should not stay here any longer.” Together they hurried off into the forest, where Reynard saw Sir Bruin the chaplain wandering around without his bearskin. I’ll tell you what the fox said when he saw him. “Most noble cleric, was your fur so heavy that I must see you skinless? Quite honestly, I should think that if, come winter, you have to represent anyone in court, you’ll have to borrow a fur coat. No one can deny that you certainly need one. Oh dear, who took your skin away?”

Sir Bruin was so angry that he could not say a word. He was less than happy to see Reynard, and his fury was palpable. He growled and bared his teeth, and Reynard left Sir Bruin there and went back to his lair.

The king was in a great deal of pain. “Where is Doctor Reynard?” he said. “Send for him to come quickly. Something horrible is happening to me—I have no idea what—but it is piercing me to the heart. He will be able to sort it out, with his wonderful herbs. He is a most excellent physician.”

This study, as mentioned in chapter 1, has used the traditional method of identifying influence, the twin concepts of access and similarity. This method is related to the “influence as generosity” theory, one that in literary criticism descends most clearly from T. S. Eliot. This is not the only theory to use for the study of influence; I chose to rely on it because the “anxiety of influence” theory, one originated by Harold Bloom and applied to music most notably by Joseph Straus, can sometimes lead to misleading results. There is, however, one element of this latter theory that is especially appropriate for the investigation into Stravinsky's influence on Debussy: the element of competition and Debussy's reaction to it.

Debussy was enthusiastic about The Rite between his sight-reading of the score in June 1912 and its premiere a year later. His opinion of the work changed, however, for he described the ballet on the day of its first performance as “primitive music with all modern conveniences.” His criticism quickly became more cutting, for on the day after the premiere he remarked, “C’est tout de même pas comme ça qu’on fera de la musique française.” Finally, after the outbreak of war in 1914, Debussy told Ernest Ansermet:

Debussy's attitude toward The Rite was no doubt affected by the contrast between the riotous premiere of Stravinsky's ballet and the cool reception given to Jeux just two weeks previously. Stravinsky seems to confirm as much when he writes that “Debussy, who might well have been upset by The Rite was, in fact, much more upset by the success of it a year later.” Whatever the reason, the result was that Debussy's competitive spirit seems to have been broken. Faced with a score as revolutionary as The Rite, which Stravinsky said owed more to Debussy than to anyone else but which obviously carried his ideas to new extremes, Debussy must have realized that he had been eclipsed as the leading music figure in Paris. This change in status is reflected in the letter with which Debussy thanked Stravinsky for the score to this ballet.

The Political Focus

The three medieval German texts translated here are all political in that they each demonstrate just how precarious even a supposedly rigidly organized society—such as the Holy Roman Empire—can be. All three of them are designed to entertain, and they do it well, but in addition, they all instruct. Two of them are adventure stories, in different styles, but both with a message about the care needed to prevent the escalation of violence that can lead any society into a descent into chaos. The third is a bleak illustration of how things can be manipulated by the unscrupulous and can end in disaster. The three works are in very different styles. The first, Duke Ernst, begins with a political conflict but develops into what is almost a fantasy novel as the central character goes (most certainly boldly) to strange places outside the known world and meets (sometimes fights with, but also learns from) strange and alien creatures before returning to the world from which he set out. The second, Henry of Kempten, is ostensibly a novella about chivalric bravery, but it is set in a prechivalric period and is really about the ease with which an initially apparently trivial incident can escalate toward a major disaster that is here only just avoided. The third is an animal fable, part of an extensive tradition as far as genre and theme are concerned and involving the fox we know as Reynard; it is comfortably familiar for the first part, at least, but it develops into a very dark political tale indeed and ends with the death of a king.

The first two works in particular have at their center the concept of empire, rîche, and it is perhaps necessary to comment here that these are medieval texts and that the notions of empire and imperialism (and the overlaps with colonialism), not to say the very word Reich, have in recent centuries acquired overtones that they did not have in the medieval context. This does not mean that the presentation of these texts implies a defense in the modern world of medieval or of any other autocratic rule, and the emperors in the first two works are themselves, interestingly, very far from perfect;

César Franck had requested Théodore Dubois on his return from Rome [to be choirmaster at Sainte-Clotilde in 1863]; he then gave up his choirmaster's baton to Dubois and became the organist of Sainte-Clotilde. It was thus at the request of Théodore Dubois that Franck was appointed organ professor at the Conservatory on the [retirement] of François Benoist. Franck had never specially studied the organ, and his real objective was to become a composition professor rather than the organ professor. He was a very good musician, but not a specialist, and he was not especially gifted with the true classicism of an organist. However, when he became organ professor at the Conservatory, père Ambroise Thomas, who was kindness personified, was a bit shocked to see that Franck was soliciting a little in various classes, trying to attract composition students to him.

Franck had aroused the animosity of some of his colleagues at the Conservatory by fishing for students in the classes of his colleagues. Poor Franck was the sole support of his family; he had a son, and he was trying to earn as much money as possible. He worked very hard, but without an organ, which did not prevent him from composing masterpieces. He had no organ at home, and he had never studied organ. Although d’Indy claims the opposite, it is absolutely false that he had ever been an organ student or had ever won any organ prize.

He was a very good man, very noble of heart. He played almost all of his organ compositions at Cavaillé-Coll's one evening after a dinner attended by Saint-Saëns. Among others, I remember the Pièce héroïque that he played with difficulty, as he had had no time to practice because he was giving a lot of lessons. He had a very long hand, hence the difficulty for others of performing his pieces. He was not so much making pure organ music as a musical thought expressed by means of the organ. It was this Pièce héroïque that he played one day for Liszt at Sainte-Clotilde.

Mass at Sainte-Clotilde was at nine o’clock on Sundays, and Mass at Saint-Sulpice was at ten-thirty. Franck was known throughout the neighborhood, from the Institute to Boulevard St. Michel, as the man who ran to save time. He crossed through Saint-Sulpice to shorten his route at the time of the services.

Ambroise Thomas, composer of Hamlet and Mignon, was an excellent musician and a delightful man, modesty personified, and he knew the orchestra thoroughly. A school of amateurs was founded with the aim of taking his place and of dishonoring him, primarily as a musician. Thomas was incapable of defending himself, he was so plain and modest. This school was called the Schola Cantorum, and it only ceased attacking the Conservatory on the day when its head was appointed a professor there.

D’Indy's persecution of Ambroise Thomas and the Conservatory never stopped until the day when the composer of Fervaal was appointed professor of the [orchestra] class.

In his book on Franck, Vincent d’Indy relates that he didn't know to what Franck's appointment as organ professor at the Conservatory was attributable, even though this story is not in doubt to anyone, starting with himself. Franck was [organ] accompanist at Sainte-Clotilde when Cavaillé-Coll built the organ that we hear there every Sunday. Théodore Dubois returned from Rome and was appointed choirmaster, and Franck moved on to the grand orgue that had just been built. On the [retirement] of père François Benoist, organ teacher at the Conservatory, Thomas asked Dubois whom to appoint in Benoist's place. Thus, Franck's appointment was indeed due to Ambroise Thomas [with Dubois's recommendation], despite Vincent d’Indy's assertions.

Furthermore, on the day when d’Indy was finally appointed professor of the orchestra class at the Conservatory, his attacks suddenly ceased. Incidentally, he could not project sufficient authority, and the greatest unruliness reigned in his orchestra class.

Speaking of César Franck's funeral, d’Indy wrote: “The whole Conservatory was present at Franck's funeral except Ambroise Thomas.” He was suffering from an eczema attack, and had sent as his representative Léo Delibes, professor at the Conservatory and member of the Institute. I can still see Delibes and Franck's son shaking hands by the sacristy door. D’Indy's assertions should not be taken seriously.

It is true that during Franck's funeral ceremony two blunders were committed. I will say, however, that the funeral oration of Curé Gardey was very moving:

• 1. The grand orgue, over which a large velum had been stretched, was supposed to be silent, but was heard to everyone's surprise under the fingers of Eugène Gigout, whom no one had asked to play.