Those who loved Roger-Ducasse both need to speak of him and fear to do so. The joy of having known him, the pain at having lost him, are too strong.

They feel too small, overcome by their heavy pain, and aware of being incapable of evoking as they would wish the memory that is so dear to them.

I believe I act as their spokesperson in first thanking the mayor of Bordeaux, who was determined, in this city where Roger-Ducasse was born and which he loved so much, to give to this commemoration all of its solemnity; and I also thank those who have done me the honour of asking me to represent here the friends of Roger-Ducasse.

Fifty-five years joined the two of us in an unfailing friendship, during which I saw him bestow his treasures all around him; for he dispensed of his heart, his intelligence, his devotion, his great culture, his vibrant spirit, without keeping score. He enriched all of us, without ever impoverishing himself—one might say that his gifts were inexhaustible. His enthusiasm, his never-ending work, his boundless curiosity, renewed him endlessly.

The years got the better of his physical strength—and the ravages of illness weakened his body and emaciated his beautiful face. His suffering was cruel—but nothing had altered the quickness of his mind, his astonishing memory, his deep and constantly alert sensitivity.

And his letters kept their incomparable style, their strength of thought, their vivacity, their youthfulness, their spontaneity, as well as their rigor.

His conversation remained brilliant: his remarks would burst forth mercilessly when it was a question of unmasking hypocrisy, vain stupidities, cold calculations; they were exquisite when they evoked a flower, a landscape, a beautiful verse, a beloved face, or his dear Maison des Champs, the house of his childhood, to which he dedicated his Nocturne de printemps.

In this powerful and lively mind, whose intelligence never rested, tenderness for others and for things, hidden by an exquisite humility, was always present, even when he seemed to be unleashing another volley of barbs.

This game, at which Roger-Ducasse excelled (and which never fooled his friends), gave him a reputation for being caustic and rendered him formidable to many—nothing escaped him, in fact, and masks fell quickly before his lucid gaze.