The other day, after lunch, I was strolling through the studio of my friend X__, the eminent sculptor. While I was admiring a bust completed from the day before, there was a knock on the door. A small, simple-minded fellow entered with a confident look, long hair, pale complexion, in a classic Abruzzo peasant outfit, and with a suburban accent:

• —Excuse me, m’sieu, don't you need a model?

• —No, not today!

• —What about tomorrow?

• —Not tomorrow, nor the day after, nor the following days.

• —Bad luck!

And he left. Five minutes later, knock, knock on the door.

• —Excuse me, m’sieu, I forgot to ask you if you could lend me a hundred sous?

• —You’re bothering me, leave me alone.

• —That's not very polite! Well, look, can't you give me just fifty cents to smoke a good cigar?

• —Get out of here, I have nothing to give you.

• —Oh well then, if you don't have anything to give me, of course I’ll get out of here, no need to insist. So tell me, anyway, your statues must not bring you much money, if you don't have anything to give me!

• —Scoundrel!!!

• —Okay! Okay! Don't get agitated like that, it could harm you. I’m leaving.

And we went back to talking quietly. Then, the third entry of the street urchin:

• —Excuse me, m’sieu, would you happen to know a rich Kroumir1 who has some cake?

And without further ado, the urchin ran out, the door slamming behind him.

You’re wondering why I’m coming here to talk about a sculptor, a model, a Kroumir, a cigar, or a cake?

Well, here is the “why”: we, too, are looking for the rich Kroumir; we’re longing for the generous Maecenas who will grant us the freedom to work and the means to live.2 Do you know that we can no longer fit in the Conservatory? The place is too cramped—and I’m not talking about its dilapidated state—it's not only made up of rooms too small for the number of pupils in each class, but it doesn't even have the number of rooms necessary for the classes instituted by the new regulations. I asked one of my colleagues:

• —How do you manage to escape suffocation in this limited space, with your twenty-five pupils or auditors?

When I was elected permanent secretary of the Académie des Beaux-Arts on July 18, 1914, I received the following message from Claude Debussy, whom I had known since 1884 at the Concordia Society, when the young composer, who had just won the Grand Prix de Rome with his Enfant prodigue, came as an accompanist warmly recommended to me by Ambroise Thomas: “It was upon returning from London that I learned of your appointment; although expected, it is still very fortunate for the entire music world. Please count me among those whom the news particularly delights, and believe in my affectionate devotion.” I replied to Debussy, “Very touched by your precious fellowship, I would be flattered to act as your sponsor to the Academy and to have you as my successor—with the dispensing of my eulogy; you will be welcomed with open arms. Come and see me tomorrow, if possible.”

Unfortunately, the war had come, interrupting any election to the Institute. It was not until 1918 that the Institute was able to resume its normal life, and on March 17, 1918, Debussy replied to my renewed requests: “My dear Permanent Secretary, since you are willing to help me pass through the doors of the Institute, I will be very happy to enter my name, even now, for the chair that you used to occupy there. In renewing to you, dear maître and friend, the expression of all my gratitude, deem me faithfully yours. Claude Debussy.” Eight days later, alas, Debussy passed away from the illness that was afflicting him. Debussy's two letters of candidacy can be found with those of Mme Debussy in our archives. The first is dated the day after I was elected as permanent secretary, when I left my chair free. The second one is from the end of the war. Debussy's death thus prevented him from taking his place among us.

Two years later, in the same way, Auguste Rodin in his turn passed away and never took his place among us, having obtained twenty-seven votes in a single round. Three days after this memorable election, alas, he died.

Debussy and Stravinsky met in 1910, shortly after a revolution had begun just before the turn of the century in the field of cinema. In fact, so radical was this revolution, and so compatible were early cinema and contemporary music, that certain film techniques quite likely influenced both these composers.

Cinematic Montage

In the history of the early cinema, filmmakers who had experience in both photography and theater were able to quickly explore the technical possibilities now available to them. These included the traveling shot, used exclusively in a Lumière film of 1896 showing a gondola sailing down the Grand Canal in Venice; extreme close-ups, used in the George Albert Smith film Grandma's Reading Glass from 1900; film reversal (so simple an effect that films of all sorts were often shown forward and then again backward for comic effect); enlarging or reducing an image, used in George Méliès's film L’homme à la tête de caoutchouc (The Man with the Rubber Head) of 1901, in which a man's rubber head is inflated until it explodes; and substitution (stopping the camera and changing the scene before restarting it), found in Alfred Clark's The Execution of Mary Stuart from 1895, which contains a convincing depiction of a beheading. As advanced as these camera techniques were, these early films—unsophisticated efforts that were certainly not considered works of art—could not have been expected to influence contemporary musicians. This is because, as film historian David Robinson notes, “by 1900, the film's visual vocabulary had been recognized. Only gradually was the idea of a syntax appreciated, the notion that the essence of cinema is the juxtaposition of shots into an expressive continuity.”

While advances were being made in camera techniques, film continuity was maintained in the simplest way possible, through a single shot of a single scene. Edwin Porter's 1902 film The Life of an American Fireman represented the first step toward the modern conception of cinematic montage. Porter exploited imagery of fire—one of the most popular subjects of early cinema—and built a film around various scenes of fires and firemen while adding some additional material of his own. From this, he constructed a dramatic film that is little-known today but widely discussed in film history, as it was the first to show that “the meaning of a shot was not self-contained but could be modified by joining the shot to others.”

Debussy and Stravinsky first met in 1910, at very different times in their lives. Debussy, at forty-seven, had already composed many of his masterpieces and was recently diagnosed with the cancer that would kill him eight years later; Stravinsky, at twenty-seven, had just burst onto the international stage with the Ballets Russes. The friendship they formed was unclouded up to the premiere of The Rite of Spring in 1913, when Debussy began to snipe at Stravinsky's latest ballet behind his back. This troubled phase of the relationship lasted until Debussy's death in 1918. The friendship may have ended sooner had Stravinsky learned of Debussy's true feelings; however, Stravinsky only mentioned Debussy's critiques of The Rite late in his own life.

Aside from certain key works that the two composers wrote during the years 1910–17, the most obvious sign of this friendship are the photos taken in June 1910 when Stravinsky was in Paris for the premiere of The Firebird. The most famous of these photos depicts Debussy standing next to a sitting Stravinsky (figure I.1).

Here are two giants of twentieth century music: Stravinsky stares directly at the camera while Debussy's eyes are averted, as though his attention has been caught by something off camera. Debussy's love of Asian art is evident in the two prints hanging on the wall, The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Hokusai and an unknown portrait of a geisha. While Debussy and Stravinsky do not look entirely at ease in their photo together, that would quickly change, as the two would soon begin to dedicate works to one another and consult each other about compositions in progress. They would also begin to imitate one another, a fact that lies at the heart of this study. But before proceeding, let us reflect on why the photo of these two composers is so famous.

The image shows two of the greatest composers of the twentieth century, who, even though they were born twenty-eight hundred kilometers and a generation apart, nevertheless became friends. Stravinsky might be the century's most famous composer, but Debussy's role during this period is equally important. Boulez would write that twentieth-century music began with Debussy's Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun), composed from 1892 to 1894.

Cavaillé-Coll had received his early education at the University of Toulouse, where he had only studied science. The Cavaillé family came from Gaillac (Tarn). One Cavaillé had built organs two hundred years ago, not only in the Midi but in the north of Spain. Jean-Pierre Cavaillé had married a Mlle Marie-Françoise Coll in Barcelona. The Cavaillé-Colls were two brothers, both organbuilders. There were Cavaillé instruments and Cavaillé-Coll instruments.

The story of the illustrious Aristide Cavaillé-Coll is no less picturesque. His professor of mathematics at the University of Toulouse, who was delighted with his aptitude for science, went one day to tell his father: “My son is leaving for Paris. I have former classmates from the École Polytechnique, Charles Cagniard de Latour, Félix Savart, etc. Allow your son to accompany mine. It may be very useful to him. At the same time, I will introduce him to all my former colleagues. They may be interested.”

The young Aristide showed up one Monday, a quarter of an hour before a meeting of the Académie des Sciences and handed his letter of introduction to Cagniard de la Tour, inventor of the siren, who read the letter, looked Aristide in the eye, thought he looked intelligent, and said to him: “No doubt you have come concerning the organ of Saint-Denis. Have you drawn up a plan? The competition closes next Friday. Are you ready?” The young Aristide, without being concerned, replied: “I don't know anything about the competition for the organ of Saint-Denis. In any case, I will have to ask Papa's permission.” —“If you have anything in your brain, any new ideas, and are able to express them clearly, and have all this work done by Friday, at seven o’clock, then on Saturday you will ask Papa!”

Aristide Cavaillé-Coll returned home immediately and set to work. As the son of an organbuilder and a student of the faculty of sciences, he had acquired a certain amount of experience and designed a number of new plans for the organ, notably from the point of view of the wind system, mechanism, timbres, pressures, etc. This represented a lot of experience, but he lacked practice. Nonetheless, he knew how to present all of his ideas in a plan—perhaps naively, but clearly—in such a way that the jury, which met the following week, classified his report “No 1.”

Subscription Committee for the Restoration of the Trocadéro Grand Orgue

Gathered under the chairmanship of Maître WIDOR, permanent secretary of the Academy of Fine Arts, the Committee for the Restoration of the Grand Orgue of the Trocadéro,

Considering the ever-increasing state of disrepair of this admirable instrument, estimated at nearly two million [francs],

Considering, moreover, the impossibility in which the public authorities find themselves, given the current economic situation, to make the action impatiently awaited by the French artistic world,

Decides to open, in its collective name, a subscription intended to save from definitive ruin the only official concert Grand Orgue existing in Paris, the masterpiece of CAVAILLÉ-COLL, and to make a strong appeal to the Parisian Public, through the generous voice of the Press.

Mazarin Palace, March 10, 1926

[signed:]

Widor,

From the Institute, Chairman

Marcel Dupré,

Professor at the Conservatory, Vice-Chairman

Émile-Alphonse Leduc,

Treasurer

Édouard Monet,

Secretary

Jean Maciet,

Assistant Secretary

Committee for the Restoration of the Grand Orgue of the Trocadéro

Paris, March 11, 1926

Dear Editor-in-Chief,

The Committee for the Restoration of the Grand Orgue of the Trocadéro, meeting under the chairmanship of Maître WIDOR, has decided to deal urgently with the irremediable by opening a subscription in its collective name.

Presenting a wish very dear to all our French composers, organists, and conductors, the Committee makes an appeal to you, certain that you will know how to attend to it, thus contributing greatly to the work that it is undertaking officially today.

The sum to be subscribed to restore purely and simply our official concert Grand Orgue amounts to 60,500 francs.

At its opening meeting, the Committee found itself in possession of various donations amounting to 19,714.50 francs.

The signatories of this appeal express their gratitude to you now—on behalf of the Members of the Committee—for the valuable collaboration that you will be good enough to bring to it by publishing its appeal and mentioning the address of its devoted Treasurer, Mr. Émile-Alphonse LEDUC, Honorary President of the Chambre Syndicale des Éditeurs de Musique, 3 rue de Gramont, PARIS (2e).

Please accept, Mr. Editor-in-Chief, the assurance of our highest consideration.

The Secretary,

[signed:] Édouard Monet

23 rue Madame 6e

Members of the Subscription Committee

BOARD: President: Widor; Vice-President: Marcel Dupré Treasurer: Leduc; Secretaries: E. Monet and J. Maciet, organists.

Sirs: Firmin Gremier, Joseph Bonnet, G. Bret, A. Cellier, G. Jacob, H. Letocart,

During this time, in order not to forget my first vocation, I was working with Albert Schweitzer on an edition of the Preludes, Fugues, and Chorales by J. S. Bach that the New York publisher Schirmer had requested from us. The five volumes of Preludes and Fugues have been published, each piece with its preface, indications of general feeling, registration, and tempo, that is to say, preceded by three or four large pages in-folio; each Chorale text has been translated, and the translation made by the musician. The Schirmer firm, having gone through some rough times, still exists, but we are still waiting for the edition of the Chorales, the original publishers, alas, having died.

Schirmer not having published the Chorales, I asked Charles Delagrave if he would agree to publish the French translation of the chorale texts in a small book that all French organists could have at hand, each chorale being annotated, studied, and detailed. Unfortunately, this publisher was afraid of getting involved in a venture that would not be sufficiently profitable, and we left it at that. I’m sorry about this, because only a man like Schweitzer can give us the true meaning of this singular work of J. S. Bach, the musician-poet.

The Preludes and Fugues: I don't have to go back over the performance style of Bach, with which many naive musicians have allowed themselves so much license and fantasy. They forget that of all instruments, the only one whose sound can “last forever” is the organ. Its sound gives us the example of perfect breathing, free from any unevenness or fluctuation. As for the articulation of repeated notes, this articulation must have, in a moderate tempo, half the value of the note. What is style? It is the absolute respect of the composer's text, each printed note of which must be rendered as he intended.

When Schweitzer came to Paris in the winter to complete his liturgical studies, he used the opportunity to study organ with me. I myself went every summer to Gunsbach, near Colmar, to finish the chapters that had not been completed in Paris. I stayed in Gunsbach in a charming village inn that lies at the foot of the tragic Hartmannswillerkopf Mountain.

For some twenty years, at each of the public sessions of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, you saw and heard my eminent predecessor read a Notice in which he displayed his tact, clear-sighted knowledge of men, and benevolent authority….

Composer, organist, music theorist, and teacher, he was also in our company not only as an excellent colleague whom we surrounded with our respect and affection, but also as the vigilant, active, and indefatigable permanent secretary who, notably through the founding of the Casa Velázquez, was able to increase the ascendancy of our Academy, and to propagate the peaceful and liberal influence of France.

Let us think of the disconcerting paradox that Widor was for so long an old man without old age. We knew he was over ninety, but we couldn't believe it. An alert and amusing conversationalist, full of jokes and anecdotes, with a keen ear and a mischievous eye, he was nothing like an old man….

Like yesterday's news, he recounted anecdotes from half a century ago with a smile and no trace of melancholy; his memory and picturesque speech gave them the flavor of current news….

As for the Notices written by Widor, they are alert and lively, retaining the ease and spontaneity of his conversation, and containing a wealth of information that will be consulted by future historians….

How many visitors, artists, teachers, students, aspirants to a prize from the Academy, candidates for a Chair in the Academy, and also colleagues of the Institute came to consult him or confide in him a concern, a desire, or a cause for worry.1 People trusted his clear-sighted authority, and he, with the ascendancy given by age, a fine artistic career, and the most fruitful activity in his high office, felt strong enough not to be weakened either by his good grace or his paternal bonhomie. He listened sympathetically to each visitor; then he would introduce a first anecdote that would make the conversation more relaxed; soon a second anecdote would make a smiling diversion; and by the third anecdote, what had at first seemed thorny was dampened and almost forgotten. Even if one had come to visit Mr. Permanent Secretary about an administrative difficulty, he had enough wit to solve it, or at least to elude it, thanks to the charm of a fourth anecdote, totally unexpected and which came from the distant past.

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.

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 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.

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.