Music: The Great Moulinié Hoax

The musty old basilica of St.-Denis, burial place of French kings, had seldom seen such polite excitement. As part of Paris' celebration of its 2,000th birthday last year, diplomats, dignitaries and celebrities turned out to hear a performance of old French music which was also being broadcast across Europe and to the U.S. Highlight: a recently discovered coronation mass billed as the work of 17th century Composer Etienne Moulinié.

The distinguished audience sat entranced as trumpets sounded from the heights of the basilica and Father Emile Martin's crack St.-Eustache choir gave full throat to the music. With the final rousing chorus of Vivat Rex in Aeternum, the critics were aglow with Gallic pride.

The Honor of France. Marcel Schneider of Paris' highbrow daily Combat, who had already heard the mass in Paris' church of St.-Roch, where Father Martin's choir first performed it, found it "even more beautiful and imposing . . . Perhaps the foreign visitors . . . were able to feel what the Kingdom of France once meant." The Nouvelles Litteraires' Jean Wenger found the mass "marked with the seal of the 17th century, so fertile in its greatness." All in all, France felt proud of a glorious relic of its past—until the bubble burst, two weeks later. The mass, Musicologist Felix Raugel harrumphed to his astounded colleagues, was a fraud and a hoax.

Grey mustache abristle, Scholar Raugel hauled out his proofs. Composer Moulinié, he declared, had never written a mass, much less one for a French king. Moulinié was court composer to Gaston-Jean-Baptiste d'Orléans, Louis XIll's brother and enemy, and was persona non grata at Louis' court. Moreover, trumpets were not used as musical instruments until the 18th century, and Vivat Rex was never sung at the end of a mass; it was shouted three times before the mass began. Raugel had suspected Father Martin's "discovery," but had not been stirred to investigate until the spectacle at St.-Denis. That, he said, "was too much. The whole world was listening. The honor of France was at stake."

The Same Initials. Last week, after a performance of the mass at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees which Paris' red-faced critics conspired to ignore, chubby, red-cheeked Father Martin, 37, chewed on a cigar and told his story.

Except for one 14th century theme, the mass was his own invention. He had composed it in his spare time, and, partly in playfulness and partly for fear he would never get it performed otherwise, had decided to give it at least a nominal touch of antiquity. He had come across a manuscript by Etienne Moulinié and liked the name—and after all, Moulinié's initials were the same as his own. After the first performance in the fall of 1950, the critics had jumped for joy, and he was stuck. Said he: "What could I do? I was a prisoner of success."