etter known and more popular than Cesar Franck
himself. Since then twenty years have passed, and I still see M. d'Indy
as I saw him that evening; and, whatever may happen in the future, his
memory for me will be always associated with that of the grand old
artist, presiding with his fatherly smile over the little gathering of
the faithful.

Of all the characteristics of Franck's fine moral nature, the most
remarkable was his religious faith. It must have astonished the artists
of his time, who were even more destitute of such a thing than they are
now. It made itself felt in some of his followers, especially in those
who were near the master's heart, as M. d'Indy was. The religious
thought of the latter reflects in some degree the thought of his master;
though the shape of that thought may have undergone unconscious
alteration. I do not know if Franck altogether fits the conception
people have of him to-day. I do not want to introduce personal memories
of him here. I knew him well enough to love him, and to catch a glimpse
of the beauty and sincerity of his soul; but I did not know him well
enough to discover the secrets of his mind. Those who had the happiness
of being his intimate friends seem always to represent him as a mystic
who shut himself away from the spirit of his time. I hope at some future
date one of his friends will publish some of the conversations that he
had with him, of which I have heard. But this man who had so strong a
faith was also very independent. In his religion he had no doubts: it
was the mainspring of his life; though faith with him was much more a
matter of feeling than a matter of doctrine. But all was feeling with
Franck, and reason made little appeal to him. His religious faith did
not disturb his mind, for he did not measure men and their works by its
rules; and he would have been incapable of putting together a history of
art according to the Bible. This great Catholic had at times a very
pagan soul; and he could enjoy without a qualm the musical dilettantism
of Renan and the sonorous nihilism of Leconte de Lisle. There were no
limits to his vast sympathies. He did not attempt to criticise the thing
he loved--understanding was already in his heart. Perhaps he was right;
and perhaps there was more trouble in the depths of his heart than the
valiant serenity of its surface would lead us to believe.

His faith too.... I know how dangerous it is to interpret a musician's
feelings by his