Because the topic of this chapter is musical influence, specifically the musical influence between Debussy and Stravinsky, it is necessary to clarify the meaning of this term, at least as it will be used in this study. The concept of influence here involves the twin concepts of access and similarity and therefore derives from the “influence as generosity” theory exemplified by Rosen and Meyer. In literary criticism, this theory derives most clearly from T. S. Eliot's essay “Tradition and the Individual Talent.” It may be usefully compared with Harold Bloom's “influence as anxiety” theory, which has been applied to music in recent decades, most notably by Joseph Straus. Although they share a similar goal, these two theories of influence rely on radically different methodologies. Indeed, Taruskin has pointed out that Bloom rejects the two points fundamental to the “generosity” theory, namely access and similarity. Bloom considers the former as source study, and the latter, “weak.” This study will not consider Bloom's “anxiety of influence” theory or its revisionary ratios comprehensively and will concentrate instead on access and similarity. There is one exception, however: this chapter as well as chapter 6 discuss the element of competition on Debussy's part, something that lies at the heart of Bloom's theory.

While this study of the relationship between Debussy and Stravinsky is not unique, the issue of musical influence is most often studied from the vantage point of the influence of the older French composer on the younger Russian one. The clearest evidence of influence in this direction is the borrowing in the opening measures of Stravinsky's Le rossignol, which is a nearquotation of the opening of Debussy's “Nuages” (Clouds) from the Trois nocturnes (examples 1.1a and 1.1b). As similar as these two passages are, they may indeed both be indebted to a third, earlier source: Mussorgsky's “Les jours de fête sont finis” (The Holidays Are Over) from Sans soleil (Sunless) (example 1.1c). Stravinsky does not help clarify the true influence in this situation when he refers specifically to these opening measures as a “Mussorgsky-Debussy beginning.” To continue the study of Debussy's influence on Stravinsky, one would need to start with The Firebird and continue with Petrushka and The Rite of Spring, for, as revolutionary as the latter ballet was, Stravinsky said that it owed more to Debussy than to anyone else. This is obviously a very large topic, one left for another study.

On July 14, 1880, I gave an organ performance at the Brussels Conservatory on the Cavaillé-Coll organ that had just been built. To enhance the new hall, the Duke de Caraman-Chimay, director of the Beaux-Arts in Brussels and a friend of François-Auguste Gevaert, had ordered an organ from Cavaillé and asked me to come and inaugurate it. It is an excellent instrument. I had the opportunity to hear it again last year [1935] when a festival was given there in my honor, during which I was presented with the plaque of the royal crown (Grand cordon of the crown?). At the time of the organ's inauguration, Gevaert was director of the Brussels Conservatory. I spent three delightful days with dinners at the home of the minister of the Beaux-Arts, and a dinner that Gevaert gave for us at the “Bois de la Cambre.”

On March 20, 1877, I inaugurated the grand orgue of the Church of Notre- Dame-des-Champs in Paris. It's an excellent organ, but it doesn't have the size of Saint-Sulpice or Notre-Dame. Its titular was an outstanding musician, Auguste Andlauer, who died one Sunday while playing the Magnificat. Suddenly, in the middle of the Mass, a terrible thunder was heard; Andlauer had collapsed onto his pedalboard, with all the stops of the organ being drawn. René Vierne, the brother of Louis Vierne, organist of Notre-Dame, succeeded him.

Cavaillé-Coll was on the parish council of Notre-Dame-des-Champs, and had very close ties with the parish priest, Abbé Joseph Cognat, who had studied at the seminary with Ernest Renan. On the mantelpiece of the holy man, you could see the really curious photograph of Renan, in a cassock, arm in arm with him.

I am a correspondent member of the Academy of Berlin [1907], the Royal Academy of Brussels [1908], and the Academies of Florence [1923] and Bologna [1924].

When I was elected correspondent of the Berlin Academy, Albert Schweitzer hinted to me that I would do well to thank my colleagues on the Spree. I said to him: “Give me a particular text that does not require a large orchestral deployment, one that can be performed in a church gallery.” He then showed me Martin Luther's chorale that the Lansquenets sang with less liturgical words when they were saved from the siege of Francis I.

We know how Luther crafted the lyrics: on his way to the Wartsburg he had taken along his cantor who sang our plainsongs to him, and he repeated the verses phrase by phrase. He would say, “All right, that phrase stays. Well, that phrase doesn't stay!” That's how he made his chorales.

A very well-off farmer was living comfortably in a field by a village. He had money and property, and plenty of corn and millet, and the land was well plowed. His name was Lanzelin, and his wife was known as Gammer Runzela. He did have one problem, and that was the fact that he was forever trying to protect his chickens from Reynard the Fox. His farmyard did not have a proper fence, and he suffered a number of losses, about which he was very unhappy. So Gammer Runzela said to her husband: “Lanzelin, you’re an old fool! I’ve already lost ten of my hens to Reynard, and that makes me really cross and angry.” Farmer Lanzelin had been given a scolding, and he couldn't do anything about it, so he did what Gammer Runzela had told him to do and put up a solid fence, behind which he thought that Chantecler the cockerel—whom Reynard had long wanted to take—and his wives would be well protected.

One day, however, just as the sun was rising, Reynard thought that he could not resist it, and went off to the farmyard with malicious intent—he had a wicked plan in mind about Chantecler. He realized that the fence was too high and thick, so he broke off a splinter of it with his teeth and made sure he was not observed. He was happy to see that there was no one about, so he wriggled through a hedge and managed to lie down quite close to Chantecler. Reynard was the arch-enemy of Chantecler, who was asleep right by the wall. Pinte the hen spotted Reynard and shouted out, “My lord!” and flew up onto a perch, followed by the other wives. Chantecler hurried over to them and told them to go back to the wall where they had been. “You don't have to worry about any animals here in this fenced enclosure, although you should pray to God, my dear ladies, that He might protect me. Truth to tell, I had an extremely unpleasant dream. I dreamt that I was wearing a red fur coat, with bones around the collar, and I’m afraid that that spells trouble.

All these events took place during an established time of peace and the rule of law, imposed, on pain of death by hanging, by a lion named Noble, who held sway over the whole land. No other beast could resort to any kind of violence without being brought to trial before him. Everyone obeyed him, and he was their ruler under God. He was, however, forced to impose the rule of law, because he thought that he was with some certainty facing a grim death. I shall now tell you why.

Noble went to an anthill and told the ants to stand still, and then he informed them, to their surprise, that he was their overlord. They had no intention of becoming his subjects, and this made him very angry. In a rage he leaped onto their fortress and battled with the little animals, because he thought that was the thing to do. More than a thousand of them lay dead, and many more were seriously wounded, but a good number of them survived. Noble took out his fury on them and brought down their fortress to its foundations. He had done them an immeasurable amount of damage, and then he went on his way. The ants bewailed their situation and told of the great suffering inflicted on their people. Their happiness had been destroyed on this most sorrowful of days.

The ruler of that fortress, however, was a fierce and wild ant. When he returned from a trip into the forest he learned with horror of the great pains suffered by his people. “Who did this to you?” he asked. Those who had survived complained bitterly about their distress. “Our loyalty brought this upon us, Noble told us that we were to be subject to him, but we wanted no other ruler than you, and for that we had to suffer. He killed vast numbers of our people, and he destroyed this fortress. If this deed goes unavenged, then we shall be forever dishonored.”

When he came to Paris, King Edward VII always came to dine here at the home of Mme Hélène Standish, née des Cars. These intimate dinners were always attended by the same guests: the King, the Queen [Alexandra], the King's orderly, the Queen's lady-in-waiting, and always the same three French guests: Victorien Sardou, who represented the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres; Édouard Detaille, the Académie des Beaux-Arts, for the painting section; and me, for the music section.

While King Edward VII's sister Princess Christian accepted the hospitality of Baroness d’Erlanger on Avenue Kléber every year, King George V's sister Princess Victoria came here like family. She was very fond of the arts, and I felt very honored to be her escort. For instance, I gladly accompanied her to the theater to see new plays. But one day she said to me: “Instead of going to the theater, would you let me hear the organ at Saint-Sulpice? I’m a little tired of the theater, but what I would especially like is to hear Saint-Sulpice all to myself, in the evening, in the dimly lit church. Is it possible?” Naturally, I said to her: “All alone is a bit difficult because it's impossible for me not to alert the parish priest who would find it very bad not to be informed.” —“Okay! that goes without saying,” she replied. So it was arranged for the next day. The priest told me of his emotion in front of this woman kneeling with her head in her hands, in the full mysticism of this sound wave—the voice of the organ that, if it has a beginning, can have no end, and, by the idea of the infinite, gives us the idea of eternity.

Max Stirner is seen as occupying a minor position in the history of ideas, somewhere between an enfant terrible and the invisible man. This book has attempted to demonstrate that, at least from an unpartisan viewpoint, his ideas constitute an original and valuable contribution to philosophical inquiry and reveal new perspectives in an age of unparalleled skepticism and uncertainty, where the search for an answer to the ancient problem of how to live well is more frenetic than ever. The issue of Stirner's relationship to nihilism is key to an appraisal of his legacy because the orthodox labeling of Stirner as a nihilist, which is so widespread as to have become almost axiomatic, exposes both the crucial themes of his philosophical project and the ideological backdrop to his polarized reception. If, as this study has sought to establish, Stirner's status as a nihilist is doubtful at worst and partial at best, it underlines, among other things, the importance of reevaluating his standing as a thinker and reassessing the substance and significance of his thought.

One of the key findings to come out of this investigation is that Nietzschean or existential nihilism occupies a prominent position in the common (mis-)understanding of Stirner as a nihilist. While Stirner had a limited effect on the development of Russian nihilism, and while moral nihilism may adequately describe Stirner's ethical outlook but not his philosophy as a whole, it is the assumption that he is expounding a doctrine of emptiness, in the sense of meaninglessness, that has continually dogged the debate about Stirner and nihilism, especially since World War II. Stirner's critics in this regard have invariably ignored the fact that his version of nothingness, insofar as the concept plays any significant role in his thought, is meonic, in the form of the “creative nothing” of a transitory individual's life. The equating of Stirner's meonic nothingness with the empty void of existential nihilism is a recurrent misconception in Stirner criticism and one which must be rectified before a coherent picture of his thought can emerge.

Stirner's detractors have also tended to disregard the fact that the central themes of pessimism, like the pernicious effects of the passage of time or the absurdity of human existence, which are a fundamental part of existential nihilism, are entirely absent from Stirner's writings.

On the Left Bank, at the corner of rue Bonaparte and quai Malaquais, lived the daughter of Marshal Davout, the Marquise de Blocqueville, a childless widow and very distinguished woman with a refined mind. She lived nearly the entire century, never leaving her home, and having friends come to pay her court every evening, with a dinner reception on Mondays. She was connected with everyone: the Countess d’Haussonville [Louise de Broglie], mother of Count Gabriel-Paul d’Haussonville; Madame de [Gervais]; Claude Bernard; Digonneau; Louis Diémer; Eugène Guillaume (the sculptor); etc. It was there that I met Liszt, and I will never forget him playing Beethoven's Sonata in C-sharp Minor for us one evening.

The house is historic. It was built by the father of one of the boarders of the Mazarin College who had the building constructed, but left before it was finished. This house became a social club, and girls came there in the evening. It was there that Abbé Prévost wrote his Manon. He had written a volume of short stories, twelve, I believe, but he had only given eleven to his publisher who was anxious to get the twelfth so he could publish the work. Thus, pressed for time, he wrote the twelfth story about the girl Manon, with whom he had lived; he simply wrote about his own love affair with Manon in this gambling-den. This was the very subject of Jules Massenet's Manon, a subject that also appealed to Giacomo Puccini, whose Manon Lescaut includes a striking fourth act in which we see the embarkation of these women for America, a scene that lends itself to wonderfully treated choral developments.

Madame de Blocqueville was haunted by the fear of being evicted from this house by the Beaux-Arts, whose school had already taken over neighboring buildings. She had lived there for about forty years, and in fact did not have to suffer this distress; she died, and the house still exists. There were some fine portraits there, some interesting marble statuary from the Empire period, and on the mantelpiece, in a frame like those that hold our small photographs, a wonderful pencil sketch by Ingres—the head of the Apothéose d’Homère that the master had dedicated to her.

[see Fig. 29]

Shortly after my book Widor: A Life beyond the Toccata was published, Dr. Larry Palmer sent me an email on May 28, 2011, congratulating me on the completion of the biography. He attached the scan of a five-page letter he owns, written by Widor on June 10, 1894. I am grateful for his permission to publish this letter here.

Addressed to an unidentified woman, Widor's letter was in response to her request for a list of his works that were lacking from various publishers’ catalogues. Although the list ends at opus 69, with the impending publication of the Third Symphony, for Organ and Orchestra, it shows Widor's oeuvre as he surveyed it at that date. Interestingly, he omitted many opus numbers, perhaps in the belief that there was no question about them: opp. 7, 10–13, 15, 19–21, 26, 31, 41–42, 46, 50, 57, 62. None of these works is unaccounted for today. See Near, Widor: A Life, Appendix 2: “List of Musical Works,” 408–54.

In five instances, Widor's letter indicates works for an opus number left blank at the time of my compilation in 2011: Lorenzo, op. 27 (an unpublished opera); Psaume 112, op. 38 (unpublished); Salutaris, op. 55 (Hamelle); Jeanne d’Arc, op. 65 (Hamelle); Suite espagnole, op. 67 (unpublished)— this may be the Ouverture espagnole, published in 1897, three years after the letter was written. Also, Widor left opus 23 as (unpublished)—this became Trois motets.

In addition, he assigned an opus number to works differing from their published opus number. Opus 1, Ouverture (unpublished) is certainly the Ouverture portugaise; this opus number was taken over by Variations de Concert sur un thème original, for Piano; a revision of this work became op. 29. Opus 2, Six duos, for Piano and Organ [Piano and Harmonium] became opus 3, and opus 2 was reassigned as Pages intimes for Piano. Opus 2bis (Quatre petits trios, published by Schott) are arrangements of four of the Six duos, and thus would become opus 3bis. Opus 3 (unpublished Trio) is unidentifiable. Opus 33 is given as Concerto for Violin (unpublished); this opus number was taken over by Six valses, for Piano; the Violin Concerto was never reassigned an opus number.

While most kinds of armour appear in the archaeological record long before they can be identified with certainty in written evidence, the reverse is true for quilted armour in Western Europe. This appears in written sources from the twelfth century onwards, whereas the oldest surviving quilted garments and depictions of soldiers in quilted garments date to the thirteenth. Moreover, written sources give detailed lists

This is the first of a planned series of three articles on linen armour. Some of the research in this paper was supported by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council, Canada. of materials, information on construction techniques, prices, and other information that cannot be learned from art or the surviving artifacts. However, these texts are written in a wide variety of languages and call similar garments by a confusing variety of names. Medieval societies were multilingual, so it is necessary to study all languages spoken in a region to understand individual terms. Many terms could be used quite naturally in English, the Romance languages, and Latin. This project lays out the most important known sources from across Catholic Europe with translations, so that texts from the same country in different languages, and texts in the same language in different countries, can be studied side by side.

The sources discussed in this study are drawn from dictionaries (see Appendix 1.1 for a list), research on medieval armour, and reading by the author and fellow enthusiasts. Searchable digital corpora have been a very great help, but so have been the discussion forums and mailing lists of the 1998–2018 era where interested parties could pool their private lists of evidence. When selecting sources for inclusion, I have tried to represent as many languages and regions as possible and preferred sources with technical information to sources which simply mention a gambeson, pourpoint, or aketon. Unless otherwise indicated, translations are my own.

TERMS DISCUSSED

In Western Europe before the Fourth Crusade (1202–4), five families of words can refer to a quilted coat. (For words for quilted garments, see table 1.1.) Aketon, gambais/ gambeson, and pourpoint are relatively easy to interpret, although aketon can also refer to cotton fibre or to cotton cloth (see sources ii.2, ii.9, ii.10, ii.13, below); the etymology of gambeson is disputed; and pourpoint can be anything which is quilted, such as a bedcover or horse cover. Words in the jupe family are more difficult to interpret.

On October 22, 1924, I went to a session at the Dijon Academy to celebrate the promotion to Monsignor granted to Abbé René Moissenet, who has been directing the renowned choir school of Dijon Cathedral for many years. He is the man most suited to plainsong. At the Gregorian congress that took place for the restoration of plainsong before the war, the first meetings were fruitful and happy, but afterwards the influences of the publishers ruined everything so much that one day Abbé Moissenet was going to return to Paris, discouraged. But just as he was about to set foot on the step of his carriage, the Pope summoned him. “They’re stubborn, there's nothing to be done!” Moissenet exclaimed.

When I was complaining to a clergyman about the mutilations to which plainsong had been subjected, he said to me: “It's your fault. Why didn't you protest?” I did protest, but the damage had been done. The publishers immediately published their book profiting from the Imprimatur. You can't change every book in the universe in a few months. It's in old plainsong books that we must look for the true strains. They had been reviewed by Henri Dumont, who had more or less restored plainsong to its true tonalities.

I was organist of the grand orgue of Saint-Sulpice from the beginning of 1870 until the end of 1933. Wanting to thank me for the services rendered to the church over so many years, the clergy of Saint-Sulpice authorized a festival of my works on April 19, 1934. The orchestra of the Conservatory Concert Society was placed on a platform built especially for the occasion under the grand orgue. One of my greatest artistic joys was to conduct my Third Symphony at Saint-Sulpice, with the grandeur of the place and the assistance of the most beautiful of orchestras and the Saint-Sulpice organ.

At this time a group of pilgrims from Germany came there from across the sea and gave the duke a full and honest account of how he was regarded at home. Many of them took back news of him when they returned home. In this way the emperor learned that he was in Jerusalem and was in good health, the news brought to him by a knight who had seen him there. He gave the emperor a full and detailed account of Ernst's strange retinue and of all the adventures he had had, and how he himself had seen and was in a position to report on the amazing creatures and say honestly that they were still with him. The great emperor was pleased to pass on to all of his princes the news that Duke Ernst was alive and well in Jerusalem.

When this became known to the princes, they worried about his life. They said, “He should now be forgiven for what he did, and we must help the noble lord regain the imperial favor, so that his guilt can be wiped out and he can return to the good graces of the emperor.”

By the grace of God and with the intercession of Empress Adelaide, the emperor himself came to regret that he had done Duke Ernst an injustice because Count Henry had slandered him. The mighty emperor ordered, therefore, that he should return in secret to the empire. He wished to restore to him everything that he had taken away, and wanted to forgive the brave warrior everything and bestow great gifts on him. That was what he had in mind. [5705–5756]

To continue with the story, then.

As long as the noble duke was in Jerusalem, the worthy warrior was cherished for his great bravery. He did so much harm to the heathens that they had good cause to bewail their losses. The duke now heard regularly that the great Holy Roman emperor had spoken mercifully of him and had often prayed to the Lord that he might return to his homeland, so that he might hear of all the marvels that had happened.