(Born at Paris, March 27, 1852;[34] died at Paris on December 2, 1931)

Vincent d’Indy’s music has often been charged with the atrocious crimes of austerity and aloofness; it has been called cerebral. It is true that d’Indy uses his head, not loses it, in composition; that his music will never be popular with the multitude; it lacks an obvious appeal to those who say, with an air of finality: “I know what I like.” It is not sugary; it is not theatrical. To say that it is cold is to say that it is not effusive. D’Indy does not gush. Nor does he permit himself to run with a mighty stir and din to a blatant climax, dearly loved by those who think that noise shows strength. He respects his art and himself, and does not trim his sails to catch the breeze of popular favor. There is a nobility in his music; there is to those who do not wear their heart on their sleeve true warmth. There is a soaring of the spirit, not a drooping to court favor. And no one has ever questioned his constructive skill.