A few months later, Cavaillé-Coll took me to England to inaugurate the Carmelite organ in Kensington, a heartbreaking memory—the Battle of Sadowa was being fought while I was playing.

In 1867, my faithful patron (Cavaillé) who had just built a small organ of twenty-eight stops—a real gem—next to which was an Érard piano, asked me to come on two separate occasions to spend a month in Paris to give a daily concert. These concerts gradually became very popular. It was at that time that I wrote my Six duos for Piano and Organ, and that I became somewhat of a Parisian, acquiring a certain notoriety, thanks to Cavaillé. In fact, at the same time, he had me play on the Louvre Mondays at the home of Émilien de Nieuwerkerke, Superintendent of Fine Arts, who lived above the Passage Marengo. All the artists of Paris came there. I played my Duos with pianist Alexis-Henri Fissot. The work was very successful and much applauded. Unfortunately, these Duos never brought me a penny. I had them published by [Prévost], who was choirmaster at Saint-Sulpice; but he had no faith in me, and I made a foolish deal with him. Several years later, I was quite surprised when, at the sale of a music business, publisher Henri Heugel told me that he had just paid seventeen thousand francs for the rights to these Duos. I was certainly flattered, but a little upset that I hadn't had a penny of it.

In 1868, the solemn inauguration of the grand orgue of Notre-Dame de Paris took place. I was called upon to perform with Saint-Saëns and Guilmant. I confess that I was very bad. I had wanted to compose a sensational piece for this occasion, but at the last moment I found it so devoid of interest that I naively gave in to doing an improvisation that seemed to me quite ordinary. That did not discourage the builder, and the following Sunday, having asked me to come and play the instrument again, he brought along Charles Gounod who encouraged me and never stopped encouraging me from then on.

In Lyon, between my engagement in Portugal and my appointment at Saint-Sulpice, I embarked on a work in classical style, a Quintet for Piano and String Quartet [op. 7, 1868]. I took the liberty of dedicating it to Gounod who kindly accepted the dedication.

As I have already mentioned, on August 15, [1876], I was in Bayreuth with Baron d’Erlanger for the premiere of the Tetralogy. D’Erlanger had been Richard Wagner's banker, and the latter was not very keen on his presence, which reminded him of this. During the performance we saw Wagner at the entrance to the orchestra seats, but we did not go to Wahnfried. On the day of the Tetralogy's premiere, I noticed that the hall, although of trapezoidal shape [in its seating area], is absolutely square with a large royal box at the back. Kaiser Wilhelm I was surrounded by a number of princes, but not King Ludwig II of Bavaria. He had attended the rehearsal the day before, but had refused to meet the German Emperor who had unified Germany and thus confiscated his State. Very few French people were noticed at this premiere.

Mme Amalie Materna [in the role of Brünnhilde], magnificent on her black mare, descended from the flies above the stage as a consummate horsewoman, without showing any fear. The hall was obviously very clear as far as the acoustics were concerned, as is the case with any rectangular hall. But the orchestra in the low pit caused some disappointment. I remember that the dazzling “Ride of the Walkyries” in Act III did not seem to me any more sonorous than the Prelude to Act III of [Léo Delibes’s] ballet Sylvia, which had just been staged at the Opéra and in which a horn call is somewhat reminiscent of Wagner's famous theme. The Bayreuth performances took place in the afternoon, as everyone knows, and during the intermissions we strolled in the garden surrounding Wagner's theatre. I left the day after the last performance and returned to France via Switzerland, joining my family near Lyon.

There was a consul general of England in Geneva, Sir Daniel Barton, who had settled there. He had married the daughter of Lord Robert Peel; Mrs. [Barton] is still living. After her death, she is leaving her charming house in Sécheron to the city of Geneva. This house is located at the narrowing of the quai, on the left. It's a delightful house by the lake; the water seems to enter the dining room.

Barton was president of the Harmonie Nautique de Genève. Being very wealthy, he had the idea to have a hall built—Victoria Hall—for the rehearsals and performances of the brass band. He installed an organ there, and for the inauguration of his hall he asked me to compose a special work for organ and orchestra. We had a French scientist, Léon Massol, as an intermediary. He was a resident of Geneva where he was in charge of hygiene and public health in the city, and also represented the Pasteur Institute there. A witty old bachelor, he had the most adventurous life in the world. His father [Eugène Massol] had been a great singer, and had close ties to the Paris Conservatory, Saint-Saëns, Bizet, and all that generation.

One day, as François-Adrien Boïeldieu was crossing the Conservatory courtyard, he stopped to listen to a laborer [Eugène Massol] carrying a mortarboard on his shoulder and singing at the top of his voice. Boïeldieu stopped him and said: “Come down, you!” —“Oh no, I can’t!” Boïeldieu repeated: “Come on, get down! Instead of doing this stupid job, wouldn't you rather want to work on your voice?” —“I couldn't ask for more!” Boïeldieu got him into the Conservatory, recommended him, took care of him, and some time later it was he who created the [role of Rodolphe (tenor) in 1829] in Guillaume Tell.

Léon Massol had said to Barton: “Ask Widor to write this piece for you. He is a very special organist, in addition to being a composer. He will do this for you!” Massol was very eccentric and was infatuated with Barton; they had a yacht that they sailed on all the European canals in summer. It was thus for Barton that I went to Geneva to rehearse several times and to test the hall's organ by the Swiss builder Kuhn.

In 1874, Cavaillé-Coll took me to inaugurate the very beautiful Sheffield organ.There were organ recitals for a week, and people came from all over to hear it. Unfortunately, the organ has apparently been spoiled by raising its wind pressure—a mania that is rampant in England. The correct pressure of the Sheffield organ has not been respected, and following the current fashion, under the pretext of forcing the sound, the pressure has been increased to unjustifiable proportions.

The first performance of the Trio in B-flat [op. 19] dates back to March 1874; I played it everywhere with Martin Marsick and Jules Delsart. In 1875, I wrote several cello pieces for Delsart. My first serious work, following the established formula, was the Concerto in F, for Piano and Orchestra [op. 39, 1876], which made a great effect on November 19, 1876, at the Châtelet under the baton of Édouard Colonne and the fingers of Louis Diémer, who was then professor at the Conservatory and endowed with an incomparable technique. It was a great success. Diémer, who had been kind enough to take the risk, was recalled three times. Everyone knows the number of brilliant pupils the maître trained.

I wrote a Violin Concerto [op. 33, 1877] for Martin Marsick, a work that was more mechanical than melodic. This concerto was not published, and since then I have always intended to resume work on it one day according to my fancy. Like the public, I immediately noticed its flaws.

Reynard left his kinsman. Isengrim, covered in blood, was on the point of death and said: “Alas for my life, and even more for my dear wife, who is noble and good and has always behaved decently and shunned any wickedness. Alas, too, for my sons, who will sadly now be fatherless, with only their mother left to bring them up. But I am comforted by the knowledge that my wife will not marry again.”

The tree-goblin Kunin heard this complaint and asked, “What is the matter with you, Lord Isengrim?”

“I have been dreadfully wounded,” he replied, “and I don't think I shall ever recover from this. And my dear wife will die of sorrow.”

“No, she won’t,” said Kunin. “She hasn't been as chaste as you seem to be saying. I saw Reynard between her legs and at it, and this was not as much as a mealtime ago. Or isn't that sex? He was going in and out just like a shuttle.”

Isengrim did not like what he was hearing and collapsed in sorrow, no longer knowing day from night. Kunin thought this was very funny. When Isengrim came to himself again, he said: “Goblin, I have a load of troubles, and now you are making it worse with your lying stories. If I were fool enough to believe them I would tear your eyes out. If you came down here, you wouldn't get up your tree ever again.” But Kunin said, “You’re a cuckold, you old fool!”

Isengrim howled. Suddenly Lady Hirsent appeared, and his sons with her. Isengrim was overjoyed to see them. With tears in his eyes, he said: “I have never been more pleased to see you, my sons, and my wife. I am done for, and that is the fault of Reynard—may he pay for it with his life! And on top of that, Kunin is driving me out of my mind by telling me wicked tales while I am sick—he said that Reynard had shared your bed. That story nearly killed me, although you should never believe what a liar tells you, and I did threaten to tear his eyes out.”

The first-floor Salone of Padua's first civic public building, the Palazzo della Ragione (fig. 4.1), the Palace of Reason, contains a medieval fresco scheme full of complex imagery: trades and skills exemplified by the medieval Paduan workforce, sky constellations, images of the zodiac signs and the planets, a rich assembly of labours associated with each month and season in the tradition of the Labours of the Months, as well as theological and liturgical themes. The scheme is located at the top of the wall where it meets the great wooden whaleback roof and forms a continuous clockwise seasonal narrative painted across three registers and across all four walls (fig. 4.2). While women are represented gathering flowers, accepting marriage proposals, playing musical instruments, or in religious roles, when it comes to trades and labour men take precedence. They harvest wheat, bake bread, and gather grapes. The apothecary, physician, barber-surgeon, and medical astrologer heal the ill when summer heat brings fevers. The skinners and tanners, boatbuilders and stonemasons, knife grinders, boat repairers, and carpenters maintain the material infrastructure of medieval life. Yet winning their place in a scheme where every image was important are seven women busily engaged in crafts which are rarely, if at all, depicted in medieval mural decorations—spinning, sewing, knitting, and making cord. This article focuses on the crafts of these women and their importance in late medieval Padua.

The Palazzo della Ragione, situated in the main square of Padua, has survived for over eight hundred years. However, the building has been altered and the fresco scheme has twice suffered damage. Hence I begin this paper by examining the genesis of the building, the painter and workshop that created the fresco scheme, and the restoration history of the images in order to gain a better understanding of their original appearance. I then focus on the fresco scheme images themselves and the crafts depicted within the frescoes, both functionally and metaphorically. I take into account the position of the craftswomen in the scheme, their clothing, and the work that they undertake.

Philosophy, in attempting to extend the boundaries of human thought, is inevitably divisive, but few philosophers have polarized opinion as much as Max Stirner (1806–1856). This might be thought remarkable considering the fact that he only published one original fulllength work, Der Einzige und sein Eigentum, but this singular book is so explosive in terms of both its style and substance that the strong reactions it has evoked ever since its publication in 1844 are hardly surprising. More so, perhaps, is how little known it remains despite the interest it has attracted from admirers like Max Ernst, Herbert Read, and Benjamin Tucker, as well as from detractors like Marx and Engels, Martin Buber, and Albert Camus. For his supporters, Stirner's lack of standing has often been a matter of bemusement, a disturbing example of the wasted talent in human intellectual evolution, that has been the lot of so many thinkers in history who, like Stirner, swam against what was, or would become, the prevailing tide. Among other things, this study aims to explain some of the factors that have inhibited the popularity of Stirner's ideas, although, it should be pointed out for those who have followed this discussion in more recent times, the emphasis here is on the incompatibility of those ideas with the broad patterns of human development rather than on advancing a theory of coordinated marginalization.

There has been a recurrent tendency in Stirner criticism over the years to view his thought from the contextual perspective of the commentator rather than of Stirner himself. This applies particularly to the time between 1880 and 1914 that encompassed both the flowering of anarchism and Nietzsche's initial, enthusiastic reception in Germany and beyond, as well as to the broad periods of post–World War II existentialism and late twentieth-century postmodernism. This inquiry, conversely, endeavors to assess the staunchly unpartisan Stirner, as far as is possible, on his own terms and in the light of his own historical and sociocultural environment. It is not, however, a general account of Stirner's life and work, but tackles instead the specific question of the relationship between Stirner's thought and nihilism.

There are several reasons for adopting this particular focus.

1 Here and throughout, I follow Brall-Tuchel's use of new subheadings which help considerably to structure the entire text. Those, however, do not exist in the two manuscripts. They are all kept in bold which thus indicates the addition. Helmut Brall-Tuchel, Von Christen, Juden und von Heiden: Der niederrheinische Orientbericht, ed., trans., and commentary by Helmut Brall-Tuchel (2019). His contribution deserves great respect, and I would like to acknowledge his enormous accomplishment. The Middle Low German text is often not easy to understand, even for an expert of pre-modern German, so Brall-Tuchel's translation into modern standard German was a great help. Nevertheless, the original text contained in Ms. W*3, as edited by Anja Micklin (2021, see below) is the basis for this English translation, so I compared carefully how Brall-Tuchel had approached his task, which actually made it possible for me to offer numerous corrections throughout. Many times, I also had to disagree somewhat with the comments in his footnotes based on my own research. Rendering a Middle Low German narrative into modern English represents, to be sure, a very different challenge and charge.

The text has by now been edited critically by Anja Micklin, Der »Niederrheinische Orientbericht»: Edition und sprachliche Untersuchung. Rheinisches Archiv, 163 (Vienna, Weimar, and Cologne: Bohlau, 2021), which has allowed me to examine closely the original two manuscripts for the translation. Micklin offers mostly a historical-linguistic analysis but she is not concerned with the cultural-historical background and framework. See my review in Mediaevistik 35 (forthcoming). Cf. also my encyclopedia entry, “Anonymous: Niederrheinische Orientbericht [Low Rhenish Report about the Orient]” (1720 words), The Literary Encyclopedia. (https://www.litencyc.com/php/sworks.php?rec=true&UID=40912; last accessed on April 12, 2023). For the first edition of our text, accompanied with good background information, see Reinhold Rohricht and Heinrich Meisner, “Ein niederrheinischer Bericht uber den Orient,” Zeitschrift fur deutsche Philologie 19 (1887): 1–86. As to the role of Egypt in this account, see Albrecht Classen, “Agypten im Niederrheinischen Orientbericht: ein spatmittelalterlicher Augenzeuge,” Kairoer Germanistische Studien 25 (2022): 15–27.

2 The author uses the phrase “und van allen landen van over mer” (30: and about all the lands across the sea), which scholarship has regularly called ‘Outremer’ after the French usage, referring to the four kingdoms set up in the Holy Land in the cause of the crusades.

Reynard went back to his lair, afraid that he might get some unwelcome guests. He set up home in a cave in the forest and laid in a supply of food. One day, Isengrim came close to this lair in the forest. He was very unhappy and plagued by hunger, but another unpleasant adventure was in store for him.

Reynard was well provisioned and was in the process of cooking some eels, which Isengrim smelled. “Oho,” he thought, “that must be a really good meal.” The smell led him directly to his kinsman's door. Isengrim crouched down and hammered on it. Reynard, who could pull off amazing tricks, said: “Go away from my door! You must know that no one will come out and no one may come in at this time. What are you thinking of to behave like that! It is past the monastic hour of Nones, and we eremitical monks do not speak a word now, and would not do so even for all the gold of the Nibelungs.”

“Kinsman,” said Isengrim, “are you going to stay here as a monk until the end of your days?”

“Of course,” replied Reynard. “I have no other choice, since through no fault of my own you have withdrawn your patronage and even wanted to take away my life.”

“I will forgive you,” said Isengrim, “for whatever harm you may have done to me, if you will just be my ally.”

“You should indeed forgive me,” said Reynard, “because my life would certainly be at stake if I ever tried tricking you. As a token of thanks, I can give you two pieces of cooked eel that I don't need today.”

Isengrim was delighted by this and opened his mouth wide. Reynard threw in the pieces of eel, and Isengrim, fool that he was, said, “I would be more than happy if I could be the cook here.”

“You could have plenty,” said Reynard, “if you were to join our brotherhood. You could become the chief victualler.”

This was not particularly good advice.

In 1865, the city of Porto opened an Exposition for which a large concert hall was provided. An English organbuilder had been commissioned to build an organ for it. Cavaillé-Coll was asked if he had an organist available to stay in Porto for four or five months to play the organ publicly every day from noon to one o’clock and on Sundays and holidays in open performances.

Cavaillé advised me to give way to the temptation offered by this opportunity, and I accepted, delighted to see that country and to live under such a sky. So, I played every day, and soon I was happy to notice that a small group of enthusiasts, including a certain number of English ladies, came daily to listen to me, even with such diligence that I became somewhat annoyed. I was obliged to vary my programs, so I invented some works, attributing them to this or that composer. I improvised, but let me confess here my embarrassment when by chance one of these works, having pleased one of my female listeners, was requested again by her a week later. Has my deception ever been discovered? I don't think so, but I still feel sincere remorse for it today.

My sojourn in Porto brought me another artistic benefit: that of hearing my music performed by an orchestra for the first time. For the end of the Exposition, I was asked to compose a grand overture for orchestra and organ. I wrote a very plain work, according to my ability. Although it was well received, I did justice to it a few years later by destroying it.

At the same time, summoned by the Exposition, I found in Porto an excellent flutist, Dupuis; an excellent Brazilian pianist, Arthur Napoléon [Napoleão dos Santos]—a former student of the Paris Conservatory, who has since died in Rio; and a consummate cellist, Carlo Casella. I wrote a little Sérénade for them that they premiered and that has been played everywhere ever since.

My sojourn in Porto gave me a certain notoriety. Before my departure, King Luís paid me the honor of giving me the Portuguese decoration of the Order of Christ.

“I’m really thirsty now,” said Isengrim.

“How about some wine, my lord,” said Reynard. “I can let you have a lot.”

“If you can give me enough wine,” said Isengrim, “I shall be your servant for life.”

Reynard set off, with devious intentions, to a monastery that he knew about. Isengrim, the Lady Hirsent, and their sons went with him, and Reynard led them to a wine barrel, where Isengrim got drunk and began to sing in the manner of his forefathers, without thinking of any possible danger. The monks in charge of the wine said: “What's going on? I think we just heard a wolf.” Right away six men came out, all armed with heavy batons, and Reynard quickly ran away. Hirsent and Isengrim now had to pay for the wine with a beating that was dealt out quite unmercifully. “If I get out of this,” said Isengrim, “I swear I’ll never touch a drop of wine again.” They had really made a wrong call this time! The gate was barred, but they managed to jump over the fence and made their shameful escape. Isengrim complained bitterly about the shame and also the pain, since he was bruised all over. His wife had been thrashed, and his sons had had their share, too. They said, “Father, it has to be said that that was an inappropriate song that you sang, and the whole affair was stupid.”

Reynard came back and asked, “What is all this about?” Isengrim told him: “The four of us had to pay dearly for that wine, by God! On top of that my sons have cursed me, and that makes me very angry. I’m done with the pair of them!” Reynard smoothed things over. “Kinsman, calm down,” he said. “I tell you, if one of my godsons has said something stupid, then it is not surprising, because he's still wet behind the ears.” And then Reynard and Isengrim went their separate ways. [499–551]

It was at this time that I wrote Conte d’Avril, [op. 64]. At first, I composed three pieces of incidental music played backstage. Later, the management of the Odéon and Auguste Dorchain asked me to write a full score for orchestra. There had been hardly more than two serenades played from the wings, in accordance with the text. Conte d’Avril in the form of orchestral music was very well received, and it has been performed often since. Dorchain's play, whose scenario is borrowed from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, is now on radio programs.

Concurrently, I composed a whole series of small piano preludes, art songs, and vocal pieces, which were published as they were produced.

After the war, I went to Strasbourg to participate in the first French concert given again in the Palais des Fêtes [Sängerhaus]—the same hall where I had inaugurated the organ before the war with my Sinfonia sacra [op. 81] and that I re-inaugurated in a way with my Symphonie antique [op. 83], a work built on the admirable themes of the Te Deum and Lauda Sion.

Why is it that French organists with a talent for composition do not use more of these old legendary themes? For five centuries, the first Christian bishops carefully sorted out what were the most characteristic of the ancient (Greek) chants. Who were the authors of these melodies? No one can say. One of the most beautiful cries that has ever come from a human chest is the intonation of the Te Deum. Whose is it? Once heard, it cannot be forgotten. A legend has wanted it to be by the greatest poet of all time and has attributed it to Sophocles on the eve of Salamis. He was twenty-one years old, a citharist, chorus master, and lyric poet. Inundated by the horde of Persians ten times more numerous than the Greek army, and stunned by the victory, he would thus have sung: do mi sol la la la sol … exhaling his soul in this sublime cry that belongs to two modes at the same time in the same tonality. What is true about this? We cannot say.

I questioned my colleagues from the Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres on this subject, and their opinion is that the composition of the words of the Te Deum should rather be attributed to another legend, which would give the authorship to Saint Ambrose or Saint Augustine. The same literary text is said to be the work of a fourth-century bishop living on the banks of the Danube, in Teresina, today Nea Palanqua.

What a misfortune for humanity! We have nothing in Saint Augustine's works announcing a music treatise De musica for the good reason that he never wrote it, despite his advertisement for this work. The only treatise we have is one on the prosody of verse. How is it that we have nothing of the popular hymns from Athens, Rome, Egypt, Palestine, or Babylon? At the Louvre Museum we have almost all the old instruments, but no texts.

Soon after Reynard had escaped from this dangerous situa-tion, he met the wolf, Isengrim, and as soon as he saw him, this is what he said: “God give you good day, my lord! Whatever service I may offer to you and to milady your wife, just ask and you may be sure I shall do it. In fact, I came here to warn you because I have heard that you are widely hated. Will you accept me as a companion? I am clever, you are strong, and you would find me very useful. With your strength and my cunning we should be unbeatable. I could conquer us a castle!”

Isengrim consulted his wife and two sons on the matter, and they all agreed that the wolf should take him in as part of the family, something that he later came to regret quite con-siderably. Reynard was head-over-heels in love with Hirsent, Isengrim's wife, and she was the one he really wanted to serve. Isengrim had acquired, therefore, an evil companion who would cause a great amount of damage. [385–412]

On the occasion of the Albert Hall concert, I had orchestrated my Symphony in G Minor, which I played with two Bach pieces. In the same concert, the Duke of Edinburgh, brother of the future Edward VII, played the violin in the Prelude to Gounod's Ave Maria that was sung by a singer who was much loved by the public at the time, [Marie Roze]. In the middle of the Prelude, the Prince was seized with stage fright and his hand began to tremble; the ten thousand people in the vast hall were dismayed by a tremendous burst of laughter that came from the royal box where the wife of the unfortunate Duke of Edinburgh was laughing out loud.

I got to know Arthur Sullivan at that time. He was the composer of charming operettas, such as the Gondoliers. I stayed a week for the rehearsals and dined two or three times at the Duke of Edinburgh’s.

Saint-Saëns, having been asked by Liszt to come and direct the rehearsals of Samson et Dalila in Weimar where he was a great master of music, asked me to fill in for him at La Madeleine. It was during Christmas week in 1869. Naturally, I was quite young and happy to replace my illustrious friend at the keyboards of his beautiful instrument. One evening, while the Adeste fideles was being sung, one of the cantors whispered to me: “Lefébure-Wély, the organist of Saint-Sulpice, has just died; the succession is vacant.” This was very emotional for me, since Cavaillé wanted me at Saint-Sulpice. I was soon to feel the hostility of many organists in Paris, directed against a newcomer whom influential people wanted to appoint as organist of one of the most beautiful posts—of the most beautiful and largest organ in France and in Europe at that time. The famous German organist Adolf Hesse, who had the opportunity to play it, said it was the most complete and most perfect organ in the world.

A veritable cabal was thus directed against me—a cabal with which Cavaillé-Coll, Saint-Saëns, and Gounod refused to be associated. I will never be able to express sufficiently my gratitude for the devotion of the man I called “père Cavaillé,” who from morning to night tirelessly led me to visit one or another politician, member of the clergy, scholar, and artist. Didn't we go and surprise Léon Foucault, Baron Thénard, and Jules Lissajous, who then taught physics at the Collège de France, etc.?

The parish priest of Saint-Sulpice, Abbé Hamon, was a man of great distinction. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about music. Faced with the insistence of his organbuilder, he was naturally very impressed, but not enough to commit himself fully. Hence my provisional appointment on January 13, 1870, which I realize today was never made official. However, a few days later, on January 16, I took possession of the grand orgue, on the occasion of the patronal feast.

At that time, père Cavaillé made it a point of honor to present me in my different aspects as pianist, composer, and organist. I was an excellent pianist, having been well trained under the tutelage of Giuseppe Luigini, the conductor of the Grand Théâtre de Lyon.