Jeux has been approached by a number of theorists seeking to find unity in the work by looking at various individual parameters, including motives, intervals, instrumentation, and pitch-class sets. Unity is so difficult to find in this composition that even Debussy, when corresponding with Gabriel Pierné, an early conductor of the ballet, was unable to put it into words, writing that he “felt the various episodes lacked homogeneity! The link between them may be subtle but it exists, surely? You know that as well as I do.”

Interest in the ballet was not immediate: it was eclipsed by the premiere of The Rite of Spring two weeks later (Koechlin would later write that Khamma was the superior ballet). However, the ballet was embraced by the Darmstadt group of composers, several of whom published their own analyses of the work. Jonathan Kramer finds that the Darmstadt musicians’ attraction to Jeux was due to “the often fragmentary nature of the material, the frequent changes of tempo, the non-developmental form, the transformation of material, [and] the discontinuities.” Because of these features, the Darmstadt school traced their concept of moment form back to this score, although Kramer quickly points out that Jeux does not fit this description since its sections are not all static. As I have noted previously, the theory behind moment form and Stravinsky's use of it is predicated on the juxtaposition between thematic events that produce a discontinuous texture. Because Debussy's works discussed thus far have featured a continuous texture—with the exception of “Ondine”—the term stratified form has been used rather than moment form. It is also why I sidestepped the mountain of literature devoted to moment form and discontinuity and allowed Debussy's works to speak for themselves.

In the infamous debate between Forte and Taruskin over whether an approach that was strictly based on music theory could provide results as compelling as another approach that used both music theory and music history, Taruskin clearly won the argument. Following Taruskin's example, this survey of Jeux relies on both analysis and history: it is analytical as it identifies procedures that Debussy borrowed from Stravinsky and historical in that Debussy's development can be deduced from the chronology linking The Rite, the prelude “Feux d’artifice,” and Jeux.

When the monks had gone, Isengrim crept back into the forest and began to howl. When Lady Hirsent heard this, she hurried to him with his two sons, and Isengrim complained bitterly: “My dear sons, my dear wife,” he said, “because of Reynard my life is worthless. In God's name let it be a cause of anger to you. It is Reynard's fault that I am lacking a tail, and without any provocation from me his trickery led me toward my death, and I have been beaten and battered because of his extreme disloyalty.”

The companionship with him was at an end, and now Reynard's former patron was an enemy. The wolves all wept bitterly, and Isengrim was distressed by this. “Lady Hirsent,” he said, “my dear wife, this mars your great beauty. Your tears cause me pain, so for God's sake, desist!”

“Alas, I cannot go on. It is great sorrow to me that my husband no longer has a tail! How can I survive, poor creature that I am!”

And so the great feud began. Isengrim trotted off to look for Reynard. He took up a position where he could lie in wait, because anyone who starts an open feud without preparation will need a lot of cunning to save himself.

This is how the feud got under way. A lynx soon heard about it, and he was affected by this quarrel, because he had strong ties to both sides, to the wolves and to the fox. The lynx, therefore, was worried and said to Isengrim: “My kinsman, Lord Isengrim, of what are you accusing my cousin? You are both related to me, and I could act as an arbitrator if you will explain your complaint about what Reynard has done. Then we can set a trial date, and he can answer for it in court.”

“Listen, my dear kinsman,” said Isengrim, “it is a long story, because I have a lot to complain about with all the things Reynard has done to me. It is down to him that I am deprived of a tail, and he has been trying it on with my wife. If he were at least innocent of that, I would let him off for the other matters. But I agree with you—I want a day in court.”

Reynard has told a great many lies, but today he is going to be tricked himself, although his innate cunning did get him out of a lot of trouble. He set off toward a monastery, where he knew they kept chickens, but things were, God knows, not as simple as all that for him, because the place had a very effective wall around it. Reynard had a look around and saw that by the gate was a large and deep well. He peered in, something he regretted later, because he saw his reflection in it, and now a very surprising thing happened. The creature whose cunning had worked wonders in the past now made a fool of himself. Reynard thought that what he was looking at was his wife, whom he loved more than life itself, even if he was unable to resist the urge to take a mistress (the pursuit of love is, after all, a delight for the soul, and this made her all the more desirable). Reynard smiled down, and the reflection moved. He was very thankful for this, and out of pure love he jumped into the well. He did this through the power of love, and for that he got wet to the ears.

He swam around in the well until he found a stone and rested his head on it. If you don't believe me, that's your problem!

God knows, Reynard thought that he had jumped to his death.

At this point, Lord Isengrim appeared (minus tail) out of the forest and headed for the monastery. He hadn't eaten, and I should say that he was keen to steal a sheep. By accident, then, he came by the well—something that would prove perilous for him!

Isengrim peered into the well, and I shall tell you what happened next. He saw his reflection in the water and he thought that his beloved wife, Hirsent, was down there. He pulled his head out and put it in again and the reflection on the water did the same, and this confused him completely. He began to complain to Lady Hirsent of all his pains and woes with loud howls, and as an answer his voice echoed in the hollow.

My earliest childhood memories take me back to Lyon, to the house at 17 rue de Bourbon. I was born there, on the first floor, and I can still remember perfectly the garden onto which our windows opened and through which I could see Monsieur Boniface de Castellane walking every day after dinner in the full uniform of a Marshal of France, an outfit he always wore even in the least solemn circumstances. The sight of this pageantry excited my childish imagination to the highest degree, and I would shout to him, brandishing my wooden sword: “Marshal, Marshal, I have a sword as beautiful as yours.” The great man smiled and sent his secretary a few moments later to bring me a barley candy. Every morning, de Castellane went to the nine o’clock Mass at the nearby church of Saint-François. When he came out, his uniform attracted the neighborhood kids. With a broad gesture, the Marshal freed himself from their tumultuous admiration by throwing handfuls of pennies to them.

This neighborhood and this illustrious example might have awakened in me a military vocation. But atavism and paternal authority, as much as my own personal tastes, were to decide otherwise. My father was in fact organist of the grand orgue of the church of Saint-François in Lyon. Born in Rouffach, Alsace, during part of his life he associated his artistic gifts with the work of the organbuilder Joseph Callinet—whose reputation had conquered the entire eastern region—and he played the instruments of the famous craftsman on the occasion of their inauguration. Thus, he inaugurated the grand orgue of Saint-François, of which he was to become the organist.

I was barely four years old when my father put my hands on the organ keyboards for the first time, beginning my musical education. Later, I went every evening to practice on the instrument of Saint-François, tackling with ardor the difficult technique of the organ and filling myself with the incomparable grandeur of my art under the vaults of the church.

When I was eleven, my parents enrolled me in secondary school [the Lysée Ampère de Lyon]. At that time the State, which had not yet separated from the Church, granted two free scholarships: one was awarded to the drummer, the other to the organist of the institution. I easily got the second one.

At this time, 1878, I finished my Symphony no. 6 in G Minor for Organ [op. 42, no. 2], and I played it for Lemmens, as he was passing through Paris, while introducing him to an organ he did not know. Lemmens approved of my symphony, as did François-Auguste Gevaert who accompanied him. At the end, he [Lemmens] leaned over to Cavaillé-Coll and said: “Widor is becoming a serious artist!”

On the occasion of the inauguration of the organ at Saint-François-Xavier, I composed my Psaume 112, for Organ, Orchestra, and Choirs. I have not yet, however, judged it fit to publish.

By chance, the music critic of the Times [London] was present, and he wrote so highly of it in his review that the London Philharmonic asked me to compose an orchestral work that would deal with a somewhat fantastic subject, for example from Goethe's Faust, proposing three movements: a violent piece, a sort of ride; a somewhat lunar, melancholy piece; a bacchanal. I was naturally interested in this work, and I composed La Nuit de Walpurgis (Walpurgis Night) [op. 60, 1880/revised 1888]. At that time, my cousin Paul Bourget had just published in the Revue des Jeunes Poètes two hundred extremely poetic verses on the appearance of Hélène to Faust. Instead of choosing the German subject, I preferred the ancient subject treated by a Frenchman, so I took the following verses from part two as a theme:

Consequently, I went to London to direct the performances, and I admit that the work was very well received. The premiere took place at the Queen's Hall.

The king was saddened by their complaints, and at the same time he was feeling ill, but mostly he was very angry. He asked the boar for his opinion on the right way to proceed, now that the envoys Bruin and Tibert had been so unjustly mis-treated. The boar was equally incensed. “He should be stripped of his honor and property, and he should be banished, his wife declared a widow and his children orphans.” “I agree!” said Isengrim. The king then asked everyone—wise or unwise—if they were in agreement.

Grimbard the badger did not hide his thoughts. “Most noble Majesty,” he said, “if Sir Bruin lost his scalp without it being the fault of my relative, then your anger is misplaced. Tibert, too, may also be in the wrong, because he hates Reynard. Therefore, it is clear that no one should make such a judgment, because it might damage your own esteem or weaken the power of the court by making it a laughingstock. There must be no corruption. My kinsman must be summoned one more time.” “You must go yourself,” said the king. “I give you this commission on your life. If God will, then your kinsman may accept you as an envoy.”

Everyone laughed, but Grimbard was not particularly worried, and went quickly off to the forest in search of his kinsman.

The story gets really strange and interesting here, and it is being told to you in all truth by a storyteller named Heinrich, who put together the book of Isengrim's struggles. If you don't believe all this, then you can keep your money. But now let's go back to where we left off.

Grimbard made his way to Reynard's fortress, and the fox was very pleased to see him. He said, with a laugh, “Welcome, my kinsman! Come and tell me what I am being accused of at court.”

“The mighty king is threatening with dreadful penalties,” replied Grimbard. “He has heard a lot of complaints against you, and if you don't appear before him this very day, you will have to flee the country, or you’ll die. But if you do turn up in court, and Isengrim sees you, you will be condemned by everyone.”

The king gave orders to his chaplain, Sir Bruin, to go and find Reynard. He was inclined to refuse for fear of danger, but did what the king had commanded, and went looking for him in the forest. Reynard's cunning, however, was boundless, and the whole of the land suffered for it. Bruin found Reynard by his lair, a cave in a stony cliff, where he was safe from his enemies. The cave is still to this day called “The Hell-Hole.”

Reynard knew how he should receive the great king's chaplain. “Welcome, most noble cleric,” he said. “Come, tell me how things are at court. I know that you are one of the king's counselors.”

“Heavy charges have been laid against you. If your honor means anything to you, then come to the court and answer to them. This is what the great king has ordered.”

“Sir Chaplain,” replied Reynard, “let us have something to eat, and then we shall be better prepared to go to the court.” Reynard's honesty here was somewhat questionable. “I know a tree full of the best honey.”

“Right, let's go! That's always my favorite.”

Sir Bruin went off with Reynard, who took him to a place where a farmer had hammered a wedge into a split tree trunk. It was devilish to take Bruin there. “Sir Chaplain, my dear friend, you may help yourself, but be careful—there are lots of bees.”

Unconcerned about the bees, the bear just stuck his head into the split trunk. Reynard pulled out the wedge, and the sides snapped together and trapped the chaplain. This was going to be a long meal!

“Ow!” shouted Sir Bruin. “What's the matter?” asked Reynard. “I did warn you, and now the bees are going to get you. Enjoy your dinner! The king is so powerful that he’ll probably be able to get back at me.” And off he went.

The court chaplain bewailed his situation, but then he heard the sound of a wagon coming, which frightened him, and he pulled backward hard to try to escape. When the wagoner spotted him, he kept very quiet until he was back in the village.

Isengrim believed that this was true and did not worry too much about his hair and skin but said, “Kinsman, now that we are God's children, the eels must be communal property, so that anyone who denies me some would be in trouble with the Cistercians.”

Reynard replied: “Of course. All that we have is available to you in fraternal love. We have, however, run out of fish. If you would care to come with me to where we have a fishpond, there are more fish there than can be counted. The brothers have stocked the pond.”

“Let's go,” said Isengrim.

They set off peaceably to the fishpond, which was frozen over. They had a look at the ice and discovered that a hole had been made in order to draw water. This would soon cause problems for Isengrim.

His supposed brother monk hated him with a passion, and Reynard was delighted to find a bucket that someone or other had left behind, and he tied it to Isengrim's tail.

“In nomine patris,” said Isengrim, “what is that for?

“You have to lower the bucket into the hole, and I’ll start the search. Just keep nice and still and we’ll soon have loads of fish—I can see them through the ice.” Reynard was crafty, and Isengrim was not very bright. “Tell me, my brother in God's love, are there eels in there?”

“I’ve seen thousands of them!”

“Excellent. Let's catch them.”

Isengrim was so dim-witted that he sat there, and his tail froze in. It was a cold and clear night, and his brother monk failed to warn him—Reynard didn't possess a scrap of loyalty— and so Isengrim's tail froze more and more securely in the ice.

“That bucket is getting heavy,” said Isengrim.

“I’ve counted thirty eels in it already,” replied Reynard. “This will be a profitable trip. If you just keep still, we can get a hundred of them.”

Toward daybreak Reynard said: “I tell you, I’m afraid we shall have to abandon our greed for eels. I’m sorry to say that we have so many in the bucket that I can't catch any more.

The American Conservatory organ, Fontainebleau, 1925

After the Commune, Adolphe Thiers was named President of the Republic. The Thiers household moved the presidency of the Republic to the prefecture of Versailles. Mme Élise Thiers, a woman of great heart and merit, had the idea of organizing musical matinées in the Chapel of the Palace of Versailles for the benefit of her relief works. Since the competition of Saint-Denis, Cavaillé-Coll had remained in contact with the eminent statesman. Mme Thiers sent for Cavaillé, and thus the three of us felt the pain of finding the mechanism of the chapel organ completely out of order, wormeaten, and most of the pipes corroded from dampness. What could be done? Cavaillé said to her, “There's a very simple way, Madame; allow me to build a makeshift keyboard and refurbish a dozen stops, so that we can accompany the singers whose voices will be enveloped by the resonance of the magnificent chapel.” We had concerts with Saint-Saëns and a young Romanian woman, Mlle Anna de Belocca, endowed with a splendid voice. During the ceremony on February 21, 1873, Saint-Saëns played a few pieces by Bach, as much as the instrument allowed, and I collaborated with the ensembles.

The resonance of the Versailles Chapel is absolutely wonderful. Today, unfortunately, even from the makeshift means employed by Cavaillé-Coll, nothing remains workable. As the chapel has not been heated for countless years, three-quarters of the pipes have been eaten away, a salt has been deposited on what remains of the pipes, and on this light layer of salt one can distinguish scratches from the teeth of the rats, which are very fond of it. Moisture has eaten away at what was left of the leadwork, and as for the mechanics, they are absolutely rotten and gone.

There are two organs that are a disgrace in their current state: the organ of the Chapel of Versailles and the organ of the Chapel of Les Invalides. Located in two incomparable historical monuments, they are thus more exposed to the attention and woeful appraisal of foreigners.

The organ of the Chapel of Versailles has always been an accompanying organ used for choral Masses in the great ceremonies of former times.

When I had not returned home, quai Conti, as the bombing was beginning, the good women who lived at the Institute were intensely afraid and imagined that my presence would ward off the bombs. What is true is that there remains a witness not of the influence of my presence, but of my concern for Mme Waltner (a woman sculptor), for example, who lived above me, and some other women. I had a bench made for their benefit because there was nothing for them to sit on in the underground passages—the bench still exists under the plaster cast of the Parthenon in the vestibule. On the days of bombardment, the women taking refuge were seated there. One day, five bombs were intended to strafe the Mint. They actually exploded nearby and miraculously neither the Mint nor the Institute was hit. During the bombing, the good Waltner [le bon 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!” It was the first of the bombs that fell, not on our place but next door at 5 rue Bonaparte, on the house of the future Marshal Hubert Lyautey. That night, the Luxembourg basin was hit by a bomb that punctured the bottom of the artificial lake, which was dry for months.

I was a member of the Superior Council of Public Education which meets three times a year. In the June 1918 session, I was next to Lucien Poincaré, brother of the president of the Republic, a very charming man who died prematurely. During a break between two meetings, I asked him: “Is it indiscreet to know what the opinion of the Elysée Palace is on the outcome of the war? People are a little worried around me.” Poincaré replied, “There is no indiscretion. We are on the right track. We are receiving today, as every day, American forces boat by boat, which means that around September 1st at the latest we will have the happy resolution.” And as we were talking about the bombings that were continuing, he said to me again: “Raymond Poincaré, my poor brother, and my sister-in-law came to the Sorbonne only once to have dinner there.

The Definition of Moral Nihilism

Moral nihilism is defined, simply, as the denial of absolute values and is the type of nihilism which, since the first publication of Der Einzige, has been most frequently used by Stirner's critics to discredit him. Laska goes so far as to view it as the fulcrum of Stirner defamation and demonization: “Whoever labeled Stirner the most extreme, radical, systematic advocate of atheism, immoralism, subjectivism, individualism, egoism, solipsism or the like, meant, even if he did not say so explicitly, that vague concept of ethical nihilism, to which belongs essentially, as already with Jacobi, Hegel, and Rosenkranz, the horror vision of the destructive and apocalyptic, the evil, demonic and satanic.” The justification for the accusation of moral nihilism is to be sought, naturally enough, in Stirner's numerous pronouncements on morality, ethicality, and good and evil (Moral, Sittlichkeit, gut und böse), but before proceeding with their evaluation, it is necessary, once again, to address the familiar issue of terminological ambiguity. Unlike with Russian nihilism, there are no historical figures who readily confess to being moral nihilists, which makes it all the more difficult to identify the term's full range of meanings and connotations.

There is both the implicit and explicit imputation of moral nihilism in much of the censure of Stirner described in chapter 4 above. It is implicit in Bernstein's distinguishing of Stirner's nihilism from Russian nihilism and in Keben's concept of the nihilistic hangover that Stirner's philosophy allegedly engenders. A more recent reference to Stirner's moral decadence (though without mention of the word nihilism), can be found in Helms's Marxist critique of Stirner as a petty-bourgeois proto-fascist. The explicit association of Stirner with ethical nihilism first appeared in Karl Rosenkranz's diary entry concerning the recently published Der Einzige, which included the line: “Theoretically, such nihilism in relation to all ethical pathos cannot develop into anything.” Similar declarations have appeared ever since, as in Laas's description of Stirner's thought as “this nihilistic-Promethean abandonment of all that is moral”; Ströbel's assessment of “Stirner's moral nihilism”; and Schröder's remark about Stirner's “outspoken moral nihilism.”

French Empire.

Diploma of Bachelor of Arts.

In the Name of the Emperor.

The Minister Secretary of State for the Department of Public Education and Religious Affairs,

In view of the certificate of aptitude for the degree of Bachelor of Arts granted on August 12, 1852, by the Professors of the Faculty of Letters of Lyon, Academy of Lyon, to Sieur Widor, Charles-Marie-Jean-Albert, born in Lyon, Department of the Rhône on February 21, 1844.

In view of the approval given to this certificate by the Rector of the said Academy,

Ratifying the above-mentioned certificate,

Hereby grants to the aforementioned Sieur Widor the Diploma of Bachelor of Arts, to enjoy the rights and privileges attached to it by laws, decrees, and regulations.

Done in Paris under the seal of the Ministry of Public Education and Religious Affairs, February 15, 1863.

Signed: The Minister Secretary of State for the Department of Public Education and Religious Affairs

The Secretary General

For certified copy: The Head of the Division of Higher Education

Issued by the Rector of the Academy of Lyon on November 13, 1863

Signature of the Grantee

March 2, 1918: At the audience granted to us by Alfonso XIII during our first trip to Spain in 1916, the sovereign told us: “Above all, you must be well received here by the Spanish people, whom you will visit a little from the north to the south and from the east to the west. Now, I would like you to hold an exhibition of good contemporary French painting in Madrid.”

So, here I am, returning to Paris a few weeks later and responsible for finding the money to build a palace as well as collecting the best paintings for the exhibition of contemporary French art. I did not hesitate to speak to the minister of foreign affairs, who was then Stephen Pichon. Immediately, Pichon asked his colleague from the Beaux-Arts to lend us the best paintings from the Luxembourg Museum, and he had the sum of forty thousand francs allocated to us. I approached the most famous collectors in Paris. This exhibition had to be worthy of France; our success down there was going to depend on it. I remember that I collected nearly two hundred paintings that I grouped in the Musée de Caen while waiting for Chenue's cars, which were supposed to take charge of the transport. You must get some idea of my anxiety at the idea that a bomb could fall on these canvases. There were Sarah Bernhardt [1879] and Edward VII [1879–80] by Bastien-Lepage, and Oxen Ploughing in Nevers [1849] by Rosa Bonheur.

You can imagine my anxiety during the nights of bombing! Fortunately, we did not suffer any damage, and we got through the bombings. We were able to hang these paintings in Madrid, where we had the good fortune to inaugurate the exhibition of our great painters from the Romantic period. It was very successful, and several canvases exhibited by their painters were bought by art lovers in Madrid.

From Archives Clairfayt. A facsimile of this “Letter from Charles-Marie Widor to Jacques-Nicolas Lemmens, Brussels, July 15, 1863,” is reprinted in “Charles-Marie Widor: Autobiografische herinneringen; Souvenirs autobiographiques,” Orgelkunst 36 (December–February, 2013): 190.

One day [April 26], in 1916, at the end of one of our meetings, Jules Cambon, on the small mezzanine of the Institute, asked me to leave the following week for Spain. I hesitated, thinking that I was not well suited to fulfill this mission. But he insisted: “I will send Pierre Imbart de La Tour to you tomorrow.” I only knew him by name. He said to me: “After the services rendered by Cambon in Berlin, can you say ‘no’ to him? We must leave with Henri Bergson, Edmond [Perrier], director of the Museum, Étienne Lamy and yourself. Do you know Spain?” I said no, to my great regret. “Then,” he said, “come with us; it would be inexcusable to refuse!” So, I gave a talk in Madrid at the Ateneo on the old Spanish contrapuntists. But when I came to the end of my talk, I didn't know how to finish it. I looked at Bergson, concerned. Suddenly, I simply let myself go and spoke personally to the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, I have been in Madrid for six days. I have spent six mornings admiring the riches of your wonderful museums. How is it that our Rome prize winners don't pass through Madrid! I will ask about it when I get back.” These words were greeted with long applause. The King, having learned about it, was delighted, and told me so: “They take us for uncultivated people! I’ll try to find some land; you find the money to build!” And that was the origin of Casa Velázquez.

I had met King Alfonso XIII on his first trip to Paris [1905], during the seven-year term of President Émile Loubet, at the time of the attack on rue de Rohan. The King told me: “My mother recommended me to Loubet to prevent me from doing stupid things and to try to conduct myself well in Paris.” Just as the horse of a mounted soldier was struck by bomb shrapnel, the King put his hand on Loubet's knee and shouted to him: “Come on, hold on tight!” And, of course, he was used to “holding on tight,” since he had already escaped an attack at his wedding.

I played the organ for him at Notre-Dame, when he visited the Treasury. He knelt down in the Chapelle de la Vierge at the back of Notre-Dame.

INTRODUCTION

The British naval presence in the Western Hemisphere in 1917 was almost minimal. British strength had been run down following the general rapprochement with the United States between 1895 and 1903 and as a result of Admiral Fisher’s policy of concentrating the Royal Navy’s strength in the North Sea. Further slimming had taken place under the pressure of war and the C-in-C North America and West Indies, Vice-Admiral Browning, was left with a handful of superannuated cruisers and armed merchant cruisers. The South American squadron was similarly stretched and diluted. Attempts had been made, with little success, to persuade the Canadian Government to raise substantial naval forces for general imperial defence and Browning doubled as Naval Advisor to Ottawa. Despite this token presence, the British nevertheless sought to control all neutral and Allied shipping sailing from eastern seaboard and Caribbean ports, British naval officers installed in these ports acting as routing, and later as convoy, controllers. When the United States entered the war, the Navy Department was naturally desirous of controlling all shipping emanating from US ports and made approaches of this kind to the Admiralty at intervals. All were resisted by the Admiralty, supported by Sims, on the grounds that the British organisation was complete, experienced, efficient and effectively co-ordinated with that of the Admiralty itself [334, 335, 338, 413]. The Americans did not help their cause by resisting the introduction of convoy, thereby compelling the British to establish their own organisation (based on existing routing offices) in North American ports [338]. More palatable to the Admiralty was the American request for a British convoy officer to be attached to the Navy Department; with this, the Admiralty happily conformed [349–50, 353–4].

Most of the early contact between the British, French and American navies was entirely without friction and devoted initially to the solution of the surface raider problem (though unknown to the coalition, this was a declining problem as Germany channelled its resources increasingly into the U-boat campaign). Local commanders came to amicable agreements and friendly working arrangements on patrols and zones of responsibility, as well as the control of shipping should U-boats appear in these waters [336,337], 345–6, 348, 355, 361].

The extent of the U-boat threat in the Western Hemisphere was for some months a matter of dispute between Benson and the Admiralty and Sims.