One day it so happened that Isengrim took his two sons, and they set off into the country to look for plunder. He took his wife by the hand and impressed upon her that Reynard was loyal and honorable. Reynard, however, wanted to woo his kinswoman, and Lord Isengrim had indeed taken on a wicked chamberlain.

The story gets very interesting at this point.

Reynard said to the lady: “My kinswoman, would that you could see the great sorrow that I have. The great love I feel for you is a pain that is hard to bear.”

“Be quiet, Reynard,” replied Isengrim's wife. “My lord is strong and handsome, and I can do without taking a lover. And anyway, if I did, you would be too much of a weakling for me.” To this Reynard answered, “Milady, if I were favored, I would be more loving to you than a king who sought your love but tried to gain it in an unworthy manner.”

At this point her husband, Isengrim, came back, and Reynard the courtier behaved as if they had not been speaking about anything much. Isengrim had returned empty-handed, and hunger had left him disconsolate. He told his wife how difficult it was to get hold of anything out in the fields. “I’ve never known it to be so bad,” he said. “Every shepherd has a dog with him.” [413–448]

When the men saw daylight again, the walls began to widen, and before too long they came out into a broad plain. The duke and his companions were delighted and steered to the bank, where they left their raft. The bold and valiant war-riors soon came to a thick wood, where they found a group of forest dwellers, whose language they did not understand. They ran toward them, but when the others saw the travelers they fled, men, women, and children alike. The warriors found enough bread, however, to feed themselves and stave off hunger, because they had again been weakened. They set off farther into the forest, and God brought them to a very fine land. It was a kingdom in which they could see a number of fine citadels, and we are given to understand that the name of this country was Arimaspi. The duke was very pleased indeed to be there, now that the warriors had arrived in the territory of an important ruler who had built a magnificent citadel. You should know that it was large and strong-looking. The people who lived there, however, were unusual, and it cannot be denied that they looked quite fearsome. They only had one eye, in the middle of the forehead, and are called “Circle-Eyes,” or cyclops in Latin.

By now the warriors had come closer to the strongly built citadel and were very anxious about how they would be received here, how they would manage, and what would happen next. The duke said, “We shall go there trusting in the mercy of God,” and they soon became aware of the lord of that city taking his ease with his knights by the gates. This lord received the men courteously and with honor and conducted them to a richly appointed palace. Their host was very friendly toward them, although they did not understand his language. The lord of the city indicated with gestures that they could take off their armor. Things were going well.

This lord was a good host. He treated his guests courteously and offered them what the knights greatly needed; namely, all kinds of food and clothing, and all to their tastes.

The duke and his companions, the noble pilgrims, were sailing into the jaws of death and would face many tribulations on the face of the ocean, but—as I shall now tell you—many of their sins were washed away.

It is said that on the twelfth day they came very close to land, where the warriors saw a high mountain in the sea, and their ship made for it. This place was called Magnet Rock. As you may imagine, they were very pleased to come in sight of it. Then they saw the masts of many ships, as thick as a forest. The bold warriors were delighted by this and believed that all their troubles would now be over. They imagined that they would find cities and people in that country, just as they had in Grippia. They were still a good way off, however. As I have said, they saw the masts towering up over the ships, but they were white as snow, bleached by the wind and weather, stripped and bare.

The warriors did not hesitate but sailed cheerfully onward on these unknown seas, the good men thinking that all would be well. But then one of the crew climbed to the crow's nest while the current was pulling them strongly toward the harbor. The sailor was shocked when he recognized the mountain, and in fear and horror he called down to the warriors on the ship. “Most noble fighters, prepare yourselves for eternity! We are lost, and we shall have to stay here forever. That great rock in front of us is in the Sea of No Return, and unless God saves us, we shall all die here. We are being driven onto the rocks, and I have heard tales about them. In true penitence you should turn to God and repent in your hearts of any wrongs you have done. Warriors, I shall tell you about the power of these rocks and what they can do. Any ship that sails within thirty miles of them will quickly be pulled toward them—yes, it is true. If it has iron rivets, a ship will be pulled there helplessly. We saw the ships there beneath the dark mountain, and there we shall die of starvation. There is nothing we can do—the same thing has happened to all those who have sailed here.

Some Alsatian waifs—refugees in Paris from sacred choral societies in Strasbourg—had asked me on several occasions to conduct a concert for the sake of their works. I practiced conducting choirs and the orchestra on account of this request, and then one day they had the idea of sending their directors to me: Edmond and Henriette Fuchs, both Alsatians. The husband was a very distinguished engineer, and his wife was a musician of the first order. They came to tell me: “We want to permanently reconstitute our former Strasbourg society in Paris. Most of us are Protestants. The Reformed Consistory occupies a house, rue du Louvre, in which there is a large meeting room. Would you be willing for us to form a Society that will be called, as formerly, the Concordia, of which you will be the conductor under the patronage of Gounod?” I accepted with great eagerness as the concerts, in which we had performed a few cantatas by Bach and some interesting pieces by Schumann, had taught me a little about the primary elements of my profession as a conductor. Also, the suggestions of Gounod, who came to hear a rehearsal on the Saturday of the Institute's centennial, had taught me some things of which I was absolutely ignorant: the art of singing Palestrina— that is to say, the art of voices articulating with a certain vigor and not slurring the sounds, the art of making sound carry in a large room, and how to restore clarity to the vocal text when it was being lost with tied and slurred sounds.

We had a series of very fine performances that for the most part took place in the hall of the Conservatory (or Consistory?). We sang the B-Minor Mass, the [Saint-Matthew] Passion, and quite a number of cantatas, with my colleague Alexandre Guilmant at the organ. The Society lasted nearly twenty years and only came to an end because Mme Fuchs, who was its prima donna, had reached the age when her voice no longer had its former freshness; also, the death of her husband caused her profound grief.

(Lyon Municipal Archives: 1844 birth records, no. 700)

Le vingt-deux Février mil huit cent quarante-quatre, à neuf heures du matin, par-devant vous Maire de Lyon a comparu Sieur françois-Charles Widor, âgé de trente-trois ans, organiste à l’église de Saint-François,— demeurant rue Sala, n° 19; lequel a présenté un enfant mâle, né hier, à deux heures du soir, dans son dit domicile, de lui comparant et de demoiselle françoise-Elisabeth Peiron, son épouse; auquel enfant on a donné les prénoms Charles-Marie-Jean-Albert. Présents Sieurs: Benoit-Joseph Simon, âgé de vingt-huit ans, pharmacien, demeurant rue St. Joseph, n° 3,—et Jean-Meichel Bildstein, du même âge, rentier, place de la Charité, n° 3, lesquels, ainsi que le père, ont signé avec vous le présent acte, après lecture faite.

The twenty-second of February, eighteen hundred and forty-four, at nine o’clock in the morning, before you, Mayor of Lyon, has appeared Mr. François-Charles Widor, aged thirty-three years, organist at the church of Saint-François,—residing rue Sala, no. 19; who has presented an infant male, born yesterday, at two o’clock in the afternoon, in his said residence, being born to him and to damsel Françoise-Elisabeth Peiron, his wife; to which infant is given the first names Charles-Marie-Jean-Albert. Sirs present: Benoit-Joseph Simon, aged twenty-eight years, druggist, residing rue St. Joseph, no. 3,—and Jean-Meichel Bildstein, of the same age, property holder, place de la Charité, no. 3, who, as well as the father, have signed with you the present document, after being read.

The left-hand margin reads:

Marié le vingt-six avril mil neuf cent vingt à Charchigné (Mayonne) avec Delle de Montesquiou-Fezensac Mathilde Marie Anne Elisabeth. Lyon le 4 Mai 1920. L’Adjoint délégué [signature]

† à Paris, le 12–3-1937.

Married the twenty-sixth of April, nineteen hundred and twenty, in Charchigné (Mayonne) with Mademoiselle de Montesquiou-Fezensac, Mathilde-Marie-Anne-Elisabeth. Lyon, May 4, 1920. Acting Assistant [signature]

† in Paris, March 12, 1937.

“Ondine” is Debussy's most perfect realization of stratified form. The sharp disjunctions between musical events, the single scale devoted to each of the five lines, the audible synthesis between two lines as either octatonic or whole tone emerging from a diatonic setting, and the discontinuous yet similar material that forms the interlock: all these things point to a perfect fit between musical form and theoretical construct. This chapter introduces other works that are also written in stratified form and seeks to arrive at some sense of where “Ondine” fits into Debussy's output. In other words, did Debussy perceive the prelude to be a starting point from which to develop, or did it only come into being after a great deal of development had already taken place?

The dating of Debussy's works during this time clarifies this issue, but only a little. Because we will be looking in this chapter at a prelude from book 1, it is necessary to examine its dating as well as that of the second book. The first book of preludes was composed between 1907–1910. All the preludes in this book have dates of composition on them save for three, one of which is “Ce qu’a vu le vent d’ouest,” which is the one we will examine. However, Roy Howat has suggested that the date for these three undated preludes is between December 1909–January/February 1910. The composer worked on Le martyre de saint Sébastien between February and May 1911 and then went to work on the little-known ballet Khamma between December 1911 and April 1912. At the time that he began work on Khamma, Debussy also created a sketch for “Brouillards,” which makes this prelude the first to be worked on in book 2. Unlike the first book, we do not have completion dates for each of the preludes, but two works, “Les tierces alternées” and “Feux d’artifice,” were most likely finished in early January 1913, making them the last to be completed.

One feature of “Ondine” not yet mentioned was the opposition between diatonic and chromatic harmony, which is to say between tonal and post tonal elements. This extensive use of diatonic, whole-tone, and octatonic scales is perhaps the central feature of Debussy's stratified works. Indeed, each musical line in these works is generally accountable to a single collection, which clearly marks the recurrences of this line.

The mistresses of the house had their own salon in those days, so we were sure to meet them. In my neighborhood, for example, there was the salon of the Trélats (Dr. Ulysse [and Marie] Trélat), and that of the Marquise de Blocqueville, daughter of Louis-Nicolas Davout. They naturally had very different political opinions; that of the Trélats was Republican—his father [also Ulysse] Trélat having been a minister in 1848. His son, having remained the friend of his father's political friendships and gifted with a great talent as an orator, campaigned against the Empire at its end. For example, he was very close to the two brothers Jules and Charles Ferry, a friend of Émile de Girardin, Ernest Renan, Léon Gambetta, and Jacques Bardoux (father of the senator [Agénor Bardoux]). His wife [Marie Trélat] was a consummate musician who played the piano perfectly and sang with great talent, though with only a small voice.

The salon was most interesting; every Monday evening there was dinner and a performance. Auguste Vaucorbeil, director of the Opéra, Agénor Bardoux, minister of public education, Émile de Girardin, Georges Bizet, and Camille Saint-Saëns met there regularly. As for me, I had only become acquainted with the Trélats when I was first appointed organist of Saint-Sulpice. Mme Trélat had come to see me there, announcing herself unassumingly and introducing me to the two Ferry brothers. To thank me for my welcome, she graciously invited me to come to her Monday evenings. I remember one particularly well, when Bizet played excerpts from Carmen, which he had not yet completed.

It was at the Trélats that I first met Vaucorbeil and Bardoux. I had put myself at the beck and call of Bardoux, a charming man, for several charity events. Vaucorbeil had composed one or two cantatas and several piano pieces that I had put under my fingers.

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 (published together by Maho). I didn't seek any particular style or form. I wrote feeling them deeply, asking myself if they were inspired by Bach or Mendelssohn. No! I was listening to the sonorousness of Saint-Sulpice, and naturally I sought to extract from it a musical fabric—trying to make pieces that, while being free, featured some contrapuntal procedures. My first four Organ Symphonies appeared original although being classical in style.

At the same time, I published my First Sonata for Piano and Violin. Durand also published my First Symphony in F for Orchestra [op. 16, 1872], which was partially performed at a Conservatory concert on November 6, 1872, when the Andante and the Scherzo were played. Today, I judge them quite amateurish and naive from an orchestral point of view.

Ms. W*3, fol. 116r–117r (ed. Micklin, pp. 241–43; with permission by the publisher, Böhlau. This is the very first part of the text; see Brall-Tuchel, pp. 30–31. I spell the long-shafted ‘s’ this way for pragmatic reasons)

DAr na dat geschreuen is Van dem heilgen lande Vnd van allen landen van ouer mer vnd van Burgen ind van steden, de da ynne gestanden inde noch steint, Nu volget her na, wat Coninge, vursten ind heren vnd patriarchen, Busschouen, ebde, Canoniche vnd paffen ind moniche vnd wilcher hande lude da hant gewont vnd noch wonnent bis vp desen dach, vnd van yrme gelouuen ind partien vnd van all yrme wesen, van krijsten, Joden vnd van heiden.

zo dem eirsten dat Conickrich van Jherusalem liget mytz in der werelde, als man he spricht, vnd dat hat van alders gewest der Joden, vnd dar na was it der krijsten, vnd nu is it der heiden, Mer in dem Conickrich wonnent alre meist krijsten.

Vort van deseme Conickrich intgain dat oisten, da sint alle de Conickrich van Jnida, da is here ouer preister Johan, vnd alle de lude, de da ynne wonnent, de sint krijsten.

Vort intgain dat suyd oyst by Jndia Sint alle Conickrich van Nubien vnd dat Conickrich van Tharsin, vnd de lude sint ouch krijsten, Jnd danne waren Melchior ind Balthasar, zwein van den heilgen drin Coningen, de vnsem heren den offer brachten zo Bethleem.

Vort intgain dat Norden oyst liget dat Conickrich van Georgien vnd dat Conickrich van Abcas, vnd de lude, de da ynne wonnent, sint vrome starcke krijsten.

Vort liget intgain dat norden dat Conickrich van Grecken vnd dat Conickrich van Armenien, vnd de lude, de da wonnent, sint ouch krijsten.

Vort alle dese lude, de in desen Conickrich wonnent, de sint alle krijsten, Mer sy en sint neit al gelich gude krijsten, Sy sint myt etzlichen artikelen ind punten gescheiden vnd gedeilt, als her na geschreuen steit.

Vort alle dese Conickrich sint ere yecklich wale so mechtich als der Soldain, Mer dat ir eyn dem anderen neit gelegen en is vur wasser vnd woistenien vnd ander hindernisse.

INTRODUCTION

The Mediterranean was a perennial problem for the Allies, yet there was no good reason why this should have been the case, as their combined navies enjoyed a substantial numerical superiority in practically all classes of warship over the Central Powers and an infinitely better strategic position. Even after the disconcerting episode of the escape of the Goeben and Breslau and Turkey’s subsequent entry into the war, there was little to fear from enemy surface forces, as they could be confined to the Dardanelles and the Adriatic. The chief threat arose from the German and Austrian Uboats, of which there were ultimately about ‘50. They roamed the whole Mediterranean and caused heavy losses. The Allies failed to contain them, despite possessing numerous anti-submarine craft, extensive sea and air patrols and mine and net barrages, notably that across the Straits of Otranto. Though convoys were instituted in 1917, escorts were generally weak and losses continued at a depressingly high rate until the end of the war. In many ways, the Allies’ problems were of their own making, for they failed utterly to coordinate their naval activities and thus nullified their paper and geographical superiority. Mutual jealousies and suspicions, often of ancient lineage, combined with ambitions to be satisfied at the peace conference to frustrate genuine Allied co-operation at the highest levels. The British and French agreed that the Italians were only in the war for what they could get out of it (a charge of which they, too, were not innocent), and considered that the Italians were therefore determined to maintain their fleet in idleness, and thus intact. The Americans prided themselves on having no territorial or other material designs on the Mediterranean; it was a distinctly secondary theatre for them and their military commitment remained small, though the Italians in particular agitated for more assistance from the US Navy. The Italians remained sceptical about American protestations of clean hands and felt that Wilson intended to deprive them of the gains promised to them by the Treaty of London (1915). When American vessels arrived in the Mediterranean, they joined a veritable league of nations fighting the Central Powers there: Britain, France, Italy, Portugal, Greece, Serbia, Romania and Japan. America found herself in some difficulty, for she had declared war against Germany alone and she never went to war with Bulgaria or Turkey.

J’étais à peine âgé de quatre ans lorsque mon père me mit, pour la première fois, les mains sur les claviers de l’orgue, commençant mon éducation musicale.

I was barely four years old when my father put my hands on the organ keyboards for the first time, beginning my musical education.

—Ch.-M. Widor

INTRODUCTION

Since the 1890’s British naval policy had been based on a two-power standard, a navy equal to the two next largest fleets, though the scale of the German challenge had reduced the standard to a sixty per cent superiority in capital ships over the High Seas Fleet. The United States Navy, in third place in 1914, was not seen as a threat by the Royal Navy, as its strength was in seas only lightly tenanted by British sea power, and since 1895 there had been a developing rapprochement between the two powers which led to a British policy decision, arrived at around 1900, that war with the United States was unthinkable. Under the Roosevelt and Taft administrations (1901–13), the Americans seemed content with local supremacy in the Western Pacific, Caribbean and Western Atlantic; they offered no challenge to the Royal Navy’s global predominance. That supremacy was an article of faith among British statesmen, seamen and citizens. The imperative needs of Imperial defence, the security of the home base, the flow of trade, the blockade of enemies and distant water operations on their flanks, as well as deeply-ingrained national tradition and pride, seemed to dictate resolute adherence to British naval supremacy, however small the margin.

When Woodrow Wilson came to power in 1913, the Panama Canal was about to open. American naval strategy centred round this artery, now firmly under Washington’s control, for it permitted the United States to maintain a single powerful battlefleet which could be switched from one ocean to another almost overnight. In normal peacetime conditions, the American public would not sanction a naval budget for mighty fleets in both oceans. Wilson, essentially a domestic reformer, was ‘Uninterested in military matters’ and his nomination of Daniels as Secretary of the Navy underlined the fact, as ‘the Right Hon. Josephus’, as his critics delighted in calling him, was at least as pacifically inclined as the President. For two years the Wilson administration’s naval policy permitted only modest appropriations for new ships and Daniels offered immediate support for Winston Churchill’s call in 1913 for a naval holiday. The outbreak of World War I produced no significant increase in the naval budget.

Other Americans, however, were disturbed by the outbreak of global warfare and America’s comparative defencelessness. Well-todo business, professional and rentier groups on the eastern seaboard formed America’s ‘Establishment’.

When I composed La Korrigane, Franck said to me: “I have just composed an opera, Hulda, and there is a ballet in it. Are there some choreographic necessities of form, substance, movement, and contrast that are essential? I have been guided by the choreographer Louis Mérante, who showed a bit of the way to me, but I’m unsure. In any case, either at your place or mine, I’m at your disposal to tell you in detail the things that have been imposed on me.” Three weeks went by without me meeting Franck, so I wrote to him: “I’m still waiting for you.” In response to this letter came the following reply: “I don't need your advice anymore, I don't want to bother you.” I wrote to him again: “Have you met with Delibes?” —“No, but I don't need advice. My ballet is very danceable. The other day I had my piano moved into my bedroom, and there, in a nightshirt, I set the rhythm of my ballet by following the music that Mme Franck was playing on the piano!”

When my studies were completed, my father, who was a very close friend of Aristide Cavaillé-Coll, decided, on his advice, to send me to Brussels to perfect my music studies with two illustrious masters of whom he was the friend: one, Jacques Lemmens, professor of organ; the other, François-Joseph Fétis, professor of composition and director of the [Brussels] Conservatory. I was to stay for a year in Brussels, from 1862 to 1863. This year of study decided my career.

After teaching composition at the Paris Conservatory, Fétis was called to become director of the new Brussels Conservatory. He was a first-class musicologist and also a contributor to the Gazette musicale. All musicians know his remarkable Dictionnaire des musiciens. From the teaching at his Conservatory, you can judge his authority and the reputation that he made for this outstanding establishment.

Subjected to the strict discipline of Fétis and Lemmens, my every moment was devoted to work. Every morning, Fétis gave me a fugue subject that I had to work on during the day and take back to him the next morning. Since I practiced the organ all day, I spent two or three hours in the evening writing my daily four-part fugue. I didn't try to be original, but my fugue had to be impeccably correct. The next morning at seven o’clock I would knock on Fétis's door, and he would correct my work. When the students of the Conservatory arrived in their turn around eight o’clock, the maître would read it to them, commenting on it. As for myself, I was a private pupil of Fétis, as were two other young men, one of whom was a very gifted Alsatian named Sieg, who died prematurely.

I had little time left for recreation. Only on Sundays did I join a small club of musicians at a town pub, where I had been introduced by Alphonse Mailly, a pupil of Lemmens. There, I met a nursery of remarkable violinists in Brussels at the time, notably Henri Vieuxtemps, Hubert Léonard, César Thomson, and the young Eugène Ysaÿe.

In Brussels, I also knew Charles-Auguste de Bériot, who had married Maria Malibran; her sister Pauline Viardot inspired Camille Saint-Saëns. I also knew Peter Benoit, director of the Antwerp Conservatory, who later came to perform his oratorio with organ and orchestra at the Trocadéro.

The king summoned Tibert and told him to go and find Reynard. “My lord,” he said, “I can legitimately refuse to do so, because he is a cherished kinsman.” “You cannot refuse this commission on any grounds,” declared Randolt. “After all, you are not all that fond of him.” The king ordered him to do it on his life, and Tibert said, “Well, it's time to go,” and he set off hurriedly.

In the forest he met his kinsman Reynard, that master of all kinds of wickedness, and I’ll tell you what Reynard said when he saw Tibert. “Welcome, my blood brother and relative! It pains me to the heart that you have been avoiding me. Never have I had a more welcome guest.”

“Thank you,” replied Tibert. “I thought, too, that it had been a long time. The king sent me to you, and he swore a solemn oath that you will have to leave the country if you do not present yourself before him. Everyone is making complaints about you, and you did indeed do very wrong when you sent the court chaplain back after he had been scalped.”

“My friend,” replied Reynard, “in all truth I have not laid eyes on Sir Bruin at all this year except once, when Isengrim was on my heels. But what do you say to this, friend and kinsman—come with me and I will share with you all that I possess. I have a house here in the neighborhood that is empty, and in which I keep a supply of mice for my guests, so please help yourself to the best of them!”

It was a bright and clear night, and Reynard was about to trick the tomcat. He led him to that house, and Tibert was most eager to eat. In the house there lived a priest, on whom Reynard had played many of his tricks, and now Tibert would be paying for them.

The priest had put a noose of cord as a trap around an entry-hole—people still do that quite often—and it was intended for Reynard, although it would put his friend in peril. Tibert was eager to get in and fell straight into the trap.