When I was appointed organ professor at the Conservatory, I had to leave my residence at [8] rue Garancière and move to the ground floor of [3] rue de l’Abbaye, where I enjoyed a vast living room that was quite suitable to the installation of a grand orgue. Later, the parish priest of Saint-Germaindes-Prés bought the palace and set up an asylum for old women. At his insistence, Eugène Guillaume and I had to give up the place. But we still deeply regret that this historic building had this fate because its architecture has suffered from it, and, since then, even a dispensary was set up there, whereas it would have been interesting to make it a museum.

The Hôtel de Chimay where the Comtesse Elisabeth de Greffuhle was born is inhabited by Mlle de Caraman-Chimay, daughter of the Duke of Caraman-Chimay. Joseph Fouché lived in a house, now demolished, that was part of the group of buildings of the … and the offices of the police headquarters located on the ground floor with a small garden at 7 rue des Saints-Peres where I lived. This garden was connected to the offices. As for the executive at the time, he was in the house of the publisher Garnier. My former house, 7 rue des Saints-Pères, is set back from the street, with a courtyard in front. Under this courtyard is the beginning of an underground passage that connects the two houses, where orders were transmitted under ground.

The beautiful actress Cécile Sorel lived on the quai in the building next to the Hôtel de Bugeaud. It can be said that Sorel has become an important personality. She already had many admirers at that time, including one of our colleagues, the great American architect Whitney Warren, and this is perhaps the reason for many of his stays in Paris. François-Léopold Flameng, Théodore Reinach, Whitney Warren, Gabriele d’Annunzio, etc. were often invited to the beautiful second-floor residence where she lived. Sorel often came to my house with her friends during the war, and she never failed to bring Robert de Ségur, whom she has since married. A curious detail, Sorel was born in the impasse du Maine where Cavaillé-Coll had long had his private villa, as did Antoine Bourdelle.

On the first Sunday of the 1914 war, M. and Mme Pichon came to lunch at Foyot's where I was having lunch in the next room with a very beautiful woman from Rome, the Comtesse de Cossato, of remarkable intelligence and who was returning to Italy the next day. Everyone was very stirred up. Countess Cossato was asking if the English would come to our aid: “But what is the English fleet doing?” —“Yes, yes,” said Pichon, deeply emotional. Countess Cossato remarked to me at one point: “Look at the wife of your minister of foreign affairs; she's crying into her eggs!”

I heard the French mobilization proclaimed by the rural constable in front of the church of Ville d’Avray. I was coming back from Versailles where I had gone to pick up some friends by car.

On September 2, [1914], Étienne Lamy, permanent secretary of the Académie Française came to see me and said, “Raymond Poincaré is asking the permanent secretaries to pack their bags so as not to be taken hostage. I’m leaving tonight,” he added. We deliberated all day. At six o’clock in the evening we held a meeting at Albert Sarraut's place, at the Ministry of Public Education. “I have no orders to give you,” he said, “but the effect of your leaving would be disastrous.” While we were talking with him, there was a sudden burst of heavy platoon fire under our windows; it was one of the first German planes to drop its bombs on the capital, to which the battalion of Zouaves responded from the barracks on rue de Bellechasse. We drew the curtains so that we could hear each other, and in the end we decided not to leave. “As for me,” said the minister, “I am leaving for Bordeaux this evening!”

On the other hand, the minister of the interior gave us seventeen laissezpasser, allowing us to leave Paris. I remember Bonnat's indignation when I brought him one of those passes: “Do you think I’m going to abandon my house, the Beaux-Arts, for which I am responsible, my students, and my collections? Who do you take me for? Get out! Go away!” So we stayed in Paris, which became ominous as soon as night fell; everyone remembers that the shops and restaurants closed early. Maxim's was our refuge.

By March 28, 1918, Big Bertha had been thundering for five days. The Duke of Alba was supposed to come and talk to me about the exhibition. I rushed to his house to tell him that it was dangerous to go out. It was Easter Sunday. From fear of the danger threatening the crowd, the services of Saint-Sulpice had been reduced to a minimum. The very simple evening service lasted only fifteen minutes. For their relative safety, the clergy had set up a dormitory in the vaulted room of the façade—located between the two towers—in which was located the Dauphin's organ that I have talked about elsewhere because of incidents surrounding its history. When the dormitory was removed from this room, which was poorly protected by the windows and not heated, I went to find the parish priest to obtain permission to have the organ moved to prevent it from getting moldy. I had it placed in the Chapelle du Péristyle, which is heated like all the rest of the church. This was done within six months.

The Dauphin's organ is an interesting document because of the limited range of its keyboards, its particular sonorities, and the style of the time. Once a week, Marie Josèphe of Saxony had her musical evening with organ, the Dauphin and their daughters as an audience, and sometimes a singer and a guest, never more than two. Jean-François Marmontel tells in his Mémoires of an invitation to dine at the Dauphin's in strict privacy. The Dauphin and his wife did not say a word, and Marmontel was forced into a monologue during the whole dinner. But the next day he received a visit from an aide-de-camp of the Dauphin who came to apologize for the silence of his masters. He related, “Marmontel's conversation had interested them so much that they had not dared say a word.” He had noticed some unusual movement of the table, wondering what it meant. It was apparently the Dauphin who expressed his delight at hearing Marmontel by giving a kick to the table, as if to say: “Isn't this all charming?”

Cavaillé-Coll modified the organ that had been commissioned for the Église d’Auteuil to install it in the Trocadéro, given the limited time before the 1878 Exposition. I was living on rue Garancière at the time when one fine morning at seven o’clock père Cavaillé came to ring at my door and said: “Get up quickly. Liszt expects us at nine o’clock at the Trocadéro, where I have just finished the organ. He is asking to hear it.” Naturally, I hurried and the two of us arrived at the Trocadéro, where we found Liszt chatting as simply as possible with the voicers inside the instrument, and where he was looking at all the details with the greatest care. Our friendship was to commence there and continue at Madame de Blocqueville’s, where we met frequently.

Liszt was extremely pleasant and had absolutely no kind of arrogance; he always even seemed to be thanking you for anything you could ask of him. He spoke and wrote admirable French, and read everything that was published in our language, all the philosophers and poets. A close friend of Victor Hugo, he used to go donkey riding on country outings with him and his entourage. He was greatly admired in all the salons—political or philosophical— where the Parisian clique reigned. I played the Bach pieces that he asked for, and, having been kind enough to ask me to play my latest work for him, I performed my Symphony no. 3.

He was still keenly interested in the mechanics of the organ, the studies of the wind pressure, and the harmonic schemes of père Cavaillé. Toward noon he invited us both to lunch in one of the Exposition restaurants that was already open. He asked me, “How can I thank you for the time that I have made you waste this morning?” At the word “waste,” I blushed and replied, “I have the honor of living in the century of Liszt and I have never heard Liszt!” —“Well fine, I have a little free time right now. Madame Érard has given to me her place at rue du Mail, and I have taken up residence there. Would you like to come tomorrow at two o’clock? I’ll play whatever you want.” Nearly all week, he played for me all the works of the time, as well as his own.

The American Conservatory of Fontainebleau lasted successfully until the American crisis. As most of the boarders were supported by scholarships, the school was in jeopardy when these scholarships were stopped.

In the aftermath of the Armistice, the American government thought: “We cannot repatriate all our nationals. What do we do with these young people, many of whom were destined for an artistic career?” We had started to found a school of painting and sculpture in Meudon that operated for a season, and we realized that there were also other artists: musicians. It was then, with Saint-Saëns and Walter Damrosch, that we founded the Fontainebleau School [in 1921]. Why Fontainebleau? Because the premises, which had served as a hospital during the war, had been cleaned, refurbished, and were vacant. They could therefore accommodate a conservatory.

An organ was built for the former room of the Jeu de Paume. Most of the study rooms were the former apartments of court guests; the parquet floor is magnificent. This school was a delight for a few years until, alas, the crisis occurred. It currently remains in a reduced state, but we hope that a day will come in better times when it will regain its former vitality. The Conservatory was doubled by an American art school of which Jacques Carlu was the director; it included a painting section and a sculpture section.

I resigned two years ago [1934] when the number of students became completely insufficient. Most of the local citizens of Fontainebleau were quite interested in the Conservatory. They were very high-class, which could be judged by the elegant audiences that flocked to the Thursday concerts in the hall of the Jeu de Paume. I personally went every week to listen to the organists, and to give them a general course in composition and on Bach's works and the appropriate style to maintain for him. We had some very beautiful concerts. Of course, the admission to these concerts was free and always by invitation, since it's never allowed to charge entrance fees to national palaces. We had asked in vain for permission to take up a collection in favor of the Sisters of Saint-Vincent-de-Paul and the poor, but it was impossible. The administration refused.

Pendant le bombardement, avec le bon Waltner, nous nous promenions bravement sur le Pont des Arts, au clair de lune, admirable, à minuit. Le sifflement d’une bombe frôle nos oreilles et je dis à Waltner, “Eh, mais, c’est pour nous!”

During the bombing, the good 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!”

—Ch.-M. Widor

[see Fig. 37]

ACADÉMIE ROYALE

des Sciences, des Lettres et des Beaux-Arts de Belgique.

La Classe des Beaux-Arts de l’Académie Royale, dans sa séance du 9 Janvier 1908 a nommé Associé Monsieur Charles-Marie Widor, compositeur à Paris.

La Classe a décidé en même temps qu’on délivrerait à Monsieur Widor, le présent diplôme revétu de son seau et signé par son Directeur et par le Secrétaire perpétuel.

Fait à Bruxelles, le 6 février 1908.

[Signé:] Le Secrétaire perpétuel, Le Chevalier Edmond Marchal Le Directeur, Edgar Tinel

ROYAL ACADEMY of Sciences, Letters and Fine Arts of Belgium.

The Fine Arts Division of the Royal Academy, at its meeting of January 9, 1908, named Associate Monsieur Charles-Marie Widor, composer in Paris.

The Division decided at the same time that we would deliver to Monsieur Widor the present diploma bearing its seal and signed by its Director and Permanent Secretary.

Done in Brussels, February 6, 1908.

[Signed:] The Permanent Secretary, Chevalier Edmond Marchal The Director, Edgar Tinel

C’est lorsque je sentis vibrer sous mes mains et mes pieds les 6,000 tuyaux de l’orgue de Saint-Sulpice que je me mis à écrire mes quatre premières symphonies d’orgue.

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.

—Ch.-M. Widor

In 1910, I went to Berlin. Our ambassador, Jules Cambon, had organized an exhibition of eighteenth-century French art. Kaiser Wilhelm II had taken a keen interest in it, for he had canvases in Potsdam [at Sans Souci] by Watteau, Fragonard, etc., the authenticity of which he questioned. We initiated a project of exchange between a work of art belonging to him and the restoration of the château sculptures through our colleague Maurice Fenaille. This exhibition was of great interest to the Germans and several exchange agreements with the sovereign to complete his collections or ours were drawn up at that time.

We spent ten days in Berlin and remained in constant contact with the Emperor, who had given his Grand Cordon of the Black Eagle to Léon Bonnat. I was then a member of the Berlin Academy, but not yet that of France. The Emperor came every day, and all day long he hosted us throughout the capital. This is how, with [Louis Bernier]—architect of the Opéra-Comique—he took us to the theater and showed us the old machinery, saying: “We have to rebuild it, but we can't do it without breaking a leg. I’m looking for my minister of finance, but he is never there!”

On Sundays at that time, during the season, people met in Potsdam at the home of [Sophie,] the Princess of Wied. She presided over the most artistic gatherings there, from which protocol was banished. Thus, one day the Empress of Germany was silenced while Lili Lehmann was singing: “Be quiet, she's singing!” they shouted at her. After Lehmann's song, I was quite dazzled by the entrance of a very beautiful young woman with golden hair. I asked who she was, and was told: “She is the niece of Edward VII.” She [Sophie] had married a German staff officer, [Wilhelm,] the Prince of Wied, who had a small German principality [Albania] and was the nephew of Carmen Sylva [Elisabeth of Wied], the Queen of Romania. It was she who was named “queen with an unhappy reign.” I’m referring to [Princess] Maria.

For the first time since 1870, and in fact the only time, an official dinner for one hundred guests at intimate tables was given at the French Embassy in honor of the Berlin court. We had brought in some famous characters from the Comédie-Française.

When the bombardment of Paris came, père Cavaillé padded the exterior of his home, covering the walls with planks. The American flag flew over his door, since Gabriel Reinburg who lived there was Alsatian; like all Alsatians who had not opted for the French regime, he was still under American protection.

During the Commune, I often went in the evening to check on them. From the top of the roof we had a view that stretched over all of Paris. At the time, the Commune newspapers were talking about the demolition of the Vendôme column. We watched it for a number of evenings from the top of our observatory, but suddenly one evening we could no longer see it—it had fallen [May 16, 1871].

Towards the end of the Commune, when Paris was taken by the Versailles Army, I was living in the old Hôtel de Sourdéac, 8 rue Garancière. Every Monday, early in the morning, the cook of a friend from Lyon came to my door and asked me for her week's wages. One Monday morning, she rang my doorbell loudly and exclaimed: “The Versailles troops are in Paris!” From my window, I saw the Trocadéro, black with troops. She continued, “Don't go out, they say we’re going to fight in Paris! I won't be back for about a week.” A quarter of an hour later, I heard a bell-ringing such as I have never heard since: all the bells of the capital were sounding the alarm. As we know, the battle raged for eight days. At night, from the top of my roof, I could see only fires. One evening, I was filled with amazement; I saw the spire of Sainte-Chapelle surrounded by wreaths of flames and I thought I would not see it again the next day. Fortunately, it was only an optical illusion, and Sainte-Chapelle escaped destruction.

Some time later, all the windows in the neighborhood were broken by the explosion of a powder magazine that had been set up in the Luxembourg Garden. General Ernest Courtot de Cissey came with his army corps to occupy the Luxembourg on Thursday. It was only on that day that I was able to leave my house.

César Franck had requested Théodore Dubois on his return from Rome [to be choirmaster at Sainte-Clotilde in 1863]; he then gave up his choirmaster's baton to Dubois and became the organist of Sainte-Clotilde. It was thus at the request of Théodore Dubois that Franck was appointed organ professor at the Conservatory on the [retirement] of François Benoist. Franck had never specially studied the organ, and his real objective was to become a composition professor rather than the organ professor. He was a very good musician, but not a specialist, and he was not especially gifted with the true classicism of an organist. However, when he became organ professor at the Conservatory, père Ambroise Thomas, who was kindness personified, was a bit shocked to see that Franck was soliciting a little in various classes, trying to attract composition students to him.

Franck had aroused the animosity of some of his colleagues at the Conservatory by fishing for students in the classes of his colleagues. Poor Franck was the sole support of his family; he had a son, and he was trying to earn as much money as possible. He worked very hard, but without an organ, which did not prevent him from composing masterpieces. He had no organ at home, and he had never studied organ. Although d’Indy claims the opposite, it is absolutely false that he had ever been an organ student or had ever won any organ prize.

He was a very good man, very noble of heart. He played almost all of his organ compositions at Cavaillé-Coll's one evening after a dinner attended by Saint-Saëns. Among others, I remember the Pièce héroïque that he played with difficulty, as he had had no time to practice because he was giving a lot of lessons. He had a very long hand, hence the difficulty for others of performing his pieces. He was not so much making pure organ music as a musical thought expressed by means of the organ. It was this Pièce héroïque that he played one day for Liszt at Sainte-Clotilde.

Mass at Sainte-Clotilde was at nine o’clock on Sundays, and Mass at Saint-Sulpice was at ten-thirty. Franck was known throughout the neighborhood, from the Institute to Boulevard St. Michel, as the man who ran to save time. He crossed through Saint-Sulpice to shorten his route at the time of the services.

Ambroise Thomas, composer of Hamlet and Mignon, was an excellent musician and a delightful man, modesty personified, and he knew the orchestra thoroughly. A school of amateurs was founded with the aim of taking his place and of dishonoring him, primarily as a musician. Thomas was incapable of defending himself, he was so plain and modest. This school was called the Schola Cantorum, and it only ceased attacking the Conservatory on the day when its head was appointed a professor there.

D’Indy's persecution of Ambroise Thomas and the Conservatory never stopped until the day when the composer of Fervaal was appointed professor of the [orchestra] class.

In his book on Franck, Vincent d’Indy relates that he didn't know to what Franck's appointment as organ professor at the Conservatory was attributable, even though this story is not in doubt to anyone, starting with himself. Franck was [organ] accompanist at Sainte-Clotilde when Cavaillé-Coll built the organ that we hear there every Sunday. Théodore Dubois returned from Rome and was appointed choirmaster, and Franck moved on to the grand orgue that had just been built. On the [retirement] of père François Benoist, organ teacher at the Conservatory, Thomas asked Dubois whom to appoint in Benoist's place. Thus, Franck's appointment was indeed due to Ambroise Thomas [with Dubois's recommendation], despite Vincent d’Indy's assertions.

Furthermore, on the day when d’Indy was finally appointed professor of the orchestra class at the Conservatory, his attacks suddenly ceased. Incidentally, he could not project sufficient authority, and the greatest unruliness reigned in his orchestra class.

Speaking of César Franck's funeral, d’Indy wrote: “The whole Conservatory was present at Franck's funeral except Ambroise Thomas.” He was suffering from an eczema attack, and had sent as his representative Léo Delibes, professor at the Conservatory and member of the Institute. I can still see Delibes and Franck's son shaking hands by the sacristy door. D’Indy's assertions should not be taken seriously.

It is true that during Franck's funeral ceremony two blunders were committed. I will say, however, that the funeral oration of Curé Gardey was very moving:

• 1. The grand orgue, over which a large velum had been stretched, was supposed to be silent, but was heard to everyone's surprise under the fingers of Eugène Gigout, whom no one had asked to play.

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.

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.”