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Alice Duer Miller - "The Happiest Time of Their Lives "

Various - "The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, Vol. 14,"

Various - "Atlantic Monthly Vol. 3, No. 16, February, 1859"

W.W. Jacobs - "The Changing Numbers"

'Da Vinci Code' publisher one of two execs leaving Random House
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Delsarte System of Oratory by Various

V >> Various >> Delsarte System of Oratory




Once, in reply to one of his vehement attacks against the age, in which
he used very unparliamentary expressions, he drew upon himself the
following answer from a woman: "But, sir, I should think that in the
ardor of your recent convictions, your first act of faith should have
been to make an _auto-da-fe_ of all the books signed Michel Raymond."

I repeat, this writer, although of undoubted intellectual merit, could
not annul Delsarte's native tendencies; he could never have led Delsarte
into any camp which the latter had not already decided to join; but when
they met on common ground, he influenced, excited and sometimes threw a
shadow over him.

When they had fought together against the nearest rebel, long and lively
discussions would often arise between them, but they always agreed in
the end: the artist's good-nature so willed it.

If dissension continued, if the fiery friend had given cause for
reproach, Delsarte merely said: "Poor Brucker!" But how much that brief
phrase could be made to mean in the mouth of a man who taught an actor
to say, "I hate you!" by uttering the words, "I love you," and who could
ring as many changes on one sentence as the thought, the feeling, the
occasion, could possibly require.

Do not suppose, however, that Delsarte abused his power. Contrary to
many actors who carry their theatrical habits into their private life,
he aimed at the most perfect simplicity outside of the roles which he
interpreted. "I make myself as simple as possible," he would say, "to
avoid all suspicion of posing." But still he could not entirely rid
himself, in conversation, of those inflections which illuminate words
and are the genuine manifestation of the inner meaning.

Be this as it may, the relation between our two converts assumed the
proportions of friendship, doubtless in virtue of the mysterious law
which makes contrast attractive.

Hegel says: "The identical and the non-identical are identical;" and
this proposition passes for nonsense. Perhaps if he had said: "May
become identical," it would be understood that he meant to speak, in
general, of that reconciliation of contraries which united the calm
genius of Delsarte and the bristling, prickly spirit of Raymond Brucker.

One motive particularly contributed to the union; Brucker was
unfortunate in a worldly sense. Delsarte, improvident for the future and
scorning money, still had, during the best years of his professorship, a
relatively comfortable home. He loved to have his friend take advantage
of it. Large rooms, well warmed in winter, a simple table, but one which
lacked no essential article, were of no small importance to one whose
scanty household had naught but sorrow and privation to offer.

How many evenings they spent together in dissertations which often ended
in nothing--and how often the dawn surprised them before they were
weary!

For Brucker it was a refuge, but for Delsarte, what a waste of time and
strength taken from his real work! That wasted time might have sufficed
to fix and produce certain special points in his method. Then, too, his
health demanded greater care.

Take it for all in all, this intimacy was perhaps more harmful than
helpful to Delsarte. Yet I have been told that Raymond Brucker urged the
innovator to elaborate his discovery, and often reproached him with his
negligence in pecuniary matters. It was he who said: "Francois
Delsarte's system is an orthopedic machine to straighten crippled
intellects."

I have also heard in favor of Raymond Brucker, that that mind so full of
bitterness, that inquisitor _in partibus_, was most tender toward a
child in his family, and that he bore his poverty bravely. I desire to
note these eulogies side by side with the less favorable reflections
which I considered it my duty to write down here. I recall a short
anecdote which will serve to close the Brucker story.

As we have said, they were seldom parted. One day Delsarte had agreed to
dine with the family of a pupil. As he was on his way thither, he met
his inseparable friend. From that moment his only thought was to excuse
himself from the dinner; but his hosts were reluctant to give up such a
guest; they insisted"--they were offended.

"Pardon me," said Delsarte; "I really cannot stay! I had forgotten that
Brucker was to dine with me."

"But that can be arranged! M. Brucker can join us. Suppose we send and
ask him?"

"You need not," replied the master; "if you are willing, I will call
him; he is waiting for me below at the corner."

They had acted as children do, when one says to the other on leaving
school:

"Wait a minute for me, I'll ask mamma if you can come and dine with us."

Brucker, who after all knew how to be agreeable when he chose, took his
place at the table, and all went well.

This proves yet once again the extent to which Delsarte possessed that
charming simplicity so well suited to all distinction.

In the dissertations upon religious subjects incessantly renewed about
Delsarte, it was sometimes declared that "great sinners were surer of
salvation than the most perfect unbelievers in the world."

A young man, who doubtless felt himself to be in the first category,
once said to the master:

"My friend, the good God has been too kind to me! I disobey him, I
offend against his laws.... I repent, and he accepts my prayer! I
relapse into sin--and he forgives me! Decidedly, the good God is a very
poltroon!"

This seems to exceed the unrestrained ease and confidence usual toward
an earthly father; but we must not forget that the inflection modifies
the meaning of a phrase, and that _poltroon_ may mean _adorable_.

This penitent, now famous, carried his provocation of the inexhaustible
goodness very far. At one time in his life he tried to blow out his
brains! By a mere chance--he probably said, by a miracle,--the wound was
not mortal; but he always retained the accusing scar. I never knew
whether this unpleasant adventure preceded or followed Mr. L.'s
conversion, or whether it was coincident with one of the relapses of
which that repentant sinner accused himself.

Another very religious friend was no less fragile in the observance of
his firm vow. Becoming a widower, he swore eternal fidelity to the
"departed angel." Soon after, he was seen with another wife on his arm!

"And your angel?" whispered a sceptic in his ear.

"Oh, my friend!" was the reply, "this one is an archangel."

Another figure haunted Delsarte and afforded yet another proof of his
tolerance. The Italian, C----, shared neither his political ideas nor
his religious beliefs; he was one of those refugees whom the defeats of
the Carbonari have cast upon our soil, and whose necessities
France--does our neighbor remember this?--for years supplied, as if they
were her own children. However, she could offer them but a precarious
living.

Signer C., to give some charm to his wretched existence, desired to add
to his scanty budget a strong dose of hope and intellectual enjoyment:
hope in--what came later--the independence and unity of Italy. By way of
diversion, this stranger gratified himself by indulging in a whim; he
had dreams of a panacea, a plant whose complex virtues should combat all
the evils which fall to the lot of poor humanity; but this marvel must
be sought in America. And how was he to get there, when he could barely
scrape together the necessary five cents to ride in an omnibus! The
Isabellas of our day do not build ships for every new Columbus who
desires to endow the world with some wonderful treasure trove! And yet
this man was not mad; he was one of those who prove how many insane
ideas a brain may cherish, without being entitled to a cell in Bedlam or
Charenton.

While awaiting the realization of his golden dreams, poor C. spent his
time in perpetual adoration of the Talma of Music--for so Theophile
Gautier styled Delsarte; he never missed a lecture; he took part in the
talks which lengthened out the evening when the parlor was at last
cleared of superfluous guests.

Among his many manias--how many people have this one in common with
him!--the Italian cherished the idea that he was of exceptional ability,
and that in more than one direction. He proclaimed that Delsarte went
far beyond everything that he knew--equal to all that could be imagined
or desired in regard to art--but as for himself, C., was he not from a
land where art is hereditary, where it is breathed in at every pore,
from birth? And more than the mass of his countrymen, did he not feel
the volcanic heat of the sacred fire burning within him?

One evening, he made a bold venture. He had prepared a tirade written by
some Italian poet. All that I remember of it is that it began with the
words: "_Trema--Trema!_" [Tremble--Tremble!]

The impromptu tragedian recited several lines in a declamatory tone
accompanied by gestures to match. Delsarte listened without a sign of
praise or blame. Then he rose, struck an attitude appropriate to the
text, but perfectly natural, and, in his quiet way, said:

"Might not you as well give it in this key?" Then, in a voice of
repressed harshness, his gestures subdued but expressive of hatred, he
repeated the two words: "_Trema--Trema!_"

The listeners shuddered. Delsarte had produced one of those effects
which can never be forgotten. The smouldering ashes did not burn long;
four syllables were enough to extinguish the flame.

Following, not the chronological order, but that of circumstances and
incidents calculated to throw light on my subject, I must once more
retrace the course of years.

C.'s persistency went on before and after 1848. During the second
period, all minds were greatly agitated by the state of politics. C., in
spite of his undoubted liberalism--he spent a great part of his leisure
in making democratic constitutions--thought, like every other claimant,
that he had _duties to perform_; and that he might as well, to
facilitate his task, make an ally of the Emperor, without scruple; but
access to royalty was no less impossible than landing on the American
shore where his panacea grew. He hit upon the following plan:

A number of ladies were to go in a body and implore Napoleon III to
pardon certain exiles: for the same calamities always follow civil war,
and there are always women ready to beg for justice or mercy.

C., who knew their purpose, said to one of the petitioners: "How are you
going to make the Emperor understand that I am the only man capable of
saving the situation?"

The petition was not presented; and the world remains to be saved!

Our Italian had another specialty: he was perpetually in search of some
notorious somnambulist. It is a well-known fact that the mental
agitation caused by governmental crises is very favorable to these
pythonesses of modern times. Each wishes to outrun the future and to
afford himself at least an illusion of the triumph of his party. The
oracles varied according to the opinion of the person who magnetized
these ladies, and, often, according to the presumed desire of the
audience.

Delsarte allowed himself to be drawn into these mysteries. He had time
for everything. It afforded him relaxation, and a means of observation.
On one occasion, he followed the refugee to a garden where a person of
"perfect lucidity" prophesied. The sibyl was a _believer_ as well as a
_seer_ and pretended to communicate with God in person. I do not know
exactly what supernal secrets the woman revealed, while she slept, but
the result was ridiculous.

They had forgotten to fix the hour for the next sitting: so, to repair
the omission--by means of a few passes--the somnambulist was restored to
sleep and lucidity. Then in a corner of the garden, in a familiar tone
and--to use the popular expression--in which, as may well be imagined,
the voice of Jehovah was not heard:

"My God, what day shall we return?"

"He says Wednesday," announced the lady.

"Thank you, God!"

If the Italian went into ecstasies over this irreverent trifling,
Delsarte did not disdain to caricature it, and gave us a most comical
little performance. Here again we see how he could transform everything,
and make something out of nothing!

Among the frequenters of his lectures was an artist whom I would gladly
mention for his talent if I did not fear to annoy him by connecting his
name with an incident concerning him. I relate it in the hope of
somewhat diverting my readers, to whom I must so often discourse of
serious things.

Mr. P. painted a portrait of Delsarte as a young man. The features are
exact, the pose firm and dignified, the eye proud. The painter and the
model were on very good terms and sympathized in religious matters. It
must have been the master who brought him over. He still burned with the
zeal peculiar to recent converts; to such a point that even on a short
excursion into the country, he could not await his return to Paris to
approach the stool of repentance. This desire seemed easily satisfied;
what village is without a father confessor!

So, one fine day, the artist rang at the first parsonage he could find.
The priest's sister opened the door--offered him a seat--and told him
that her brother was away. But, after these preliminaries, the lady
seemed uneasy. She inquired what the stranger wanted.

"To speak with the priest."

What could this stranger have to say to him? Such was the question which
floated in her eyes, amidst the confused phrases in which she strove to
gain an explanation. Mr. P. finally told her that he had come to
confess.

"My brother will not return till very late," said the poor girl, unable
to disguise her distress.

"I will wait!" replied the traveler.

"Oh, sir, I hope you will not!"

He thought he heard her mutter: "We read such things in the papers!"

The visitor at last perceived that she took him for a thief, and he
could not depart quickly enough.

One more anecdote:

Francois Delsarte called himself a bad citizen, because he disliked to
undertake the duties entailed by reason of the national guard--a dignity
long demanded by the advanced party of the day, but of which they soon
wearied.

I think that the artist's infractions were often overlooked, and his
reasons for exemption were never too closely scanned. And yet, the
soldier-citizen was one day arraigned before a council of discipline,
which, without regard for this representative of the highest personages
of fiction, condemned him to three days' imprisonment.

It was as if they had imprisoned saltpetre in company with a bunch of
matches--but he restrained his rebellious feelings; he would not give
his judges the satisfaction of knowing his torment. He soon thought only
of procuring consolation: he summoned his friends, who visited him in
throngs. Then he made the acquaintance of his companions in misfortune.
There was one especially, who, alone, would have made up to him for all
the inconveniences of his forced arrest.

The first time that this prisoner entered the room where the other
prisoners were assembled, he looked at them with the most solemn air,
put his hand to his forehead, made a military salute, and in grave
tones, as if beginning a harangue, he uttered these words:

"Captives--I salute you!"

It was strangely pertinent. Delsarte was not behindhand in comic
gravity. This little scene enlivened him.

Another compensation fell to the lot of our _captive_. One of the
prisoners sang him a song, one stanza of which lingered in his memory. I
transcribe it:

"I was born in Finisterre,
At Quimperlay I saw the light.
The sweetest air is my native air,
My parish church is painted white!
Oh! so I sang, I sighed, I said,--
How I love my native air,
And parish church so bright!"

These lines, written by some Breton minstrel, inspired one of those
sweet, plaintive airs which the drawling voice of the drovers sing as
they return at nightfall; one of those airs which seem to follow the
brook down the valleys, and which repeat the echoes of the mountains, in
the far distance.

Oh! how Delsarte used to murmur it; it made one homesick for Brittany!




Chapter XIV.

Delsarte's Scholars.



To get one's bearings in that floating population (where persistency and
fidelity are rare qualities) which haunts a singing-school, it is well
to make classifications. In Delsarte's case, the novelty of his
processes, his extraordinary reputation among the art-loving public, the
length of time which he insisted was necessary for complete education,
all combined to produce an incessant ebb and flow of pupils.

Therefore, I must distinguish.

First, there were those, brought by Delsarte's generosity, whose only
resource was a vocation more or less favored by natural gifts. He would
say: "Come one, come all." But, of course, many were called, and few
were chosen, the majority only making a passing visit.

Then there were the finished artists. They took private lessons, coming
to beg the master to put the finishing touch to their work, hoping to
gain from him something of that spiritual flame which consecrates
talent. I shall not undertake to speak of all, but I must quote a few
names.

One winter day, says _La Patrie_ for June 18, 1857, a woman, beautiful
and still young, visited Delsarte, begging him to initiate her into the
mysteries of Gluck's style:

"You are the greatest known singer," she said; "no one can enter into
the work of the great masters and seize their most secret thought as you
do; teach me!"

"Who are you?" asked Francois Delsarte.

"Henrietta Sontag," replied the stranger.

Madame Barbot had a moment of great triumph, and was summoned to Russia
at the period of her success in Paris. She was perhaps the master's best
imitator; she had somewhat of his tragic emotion, his style, his
gesture; then what did she lack to equal him? She lacked that absolute
_sine qua non_ of art and poetry--_personality_. She added little of her
own.

Even among those who could neither hear his lectures nor follow his
lessons, Delsarte had disciples. A great singing-teacher, whom I knew at
Florence, was eager to learn everything concerning the method. I often
heard him ask a certain young girl, as he read a score: "You were
Delsarte's pupil; tell me if he would have read this as I have done?"

Even the famous Jenny Lind made the journey from London to Paris,
expressly to hear the great singer.

At his lectures were seen from time to time: M. and Mme. Amand Cheve,
Mlle. Chaudesaigues, M. Mario Uchard--who, after his marriage, asked for
elocution lessons for his wife (Madeleine Brohan),--Mlle. Rosalie
Jacob, whose brilliant vocalization never won the renown which it
deserved, Mme. Carvalho, who was not one of the regular attendants, but
who trained her rare talent as a light singer, there, before the very
eyes of her fellow pupils,--Geraldon, who was very successful in Italy,
under the name of Geraldoni.

Then, there was Mme. de B----, who appeared at the opera under the name
of Betty; a beauty with a fine voice. This artist did not perfect her
talents, being in haste to join the theatre in Rue Lepelletier, under
the shield of another master. Although well received by the public, she
soon gave up the profession.

A memory haunts me, and I cannot deny it a few lines.

Mme. M. may have been eighteen when she began to study singing with
Delsarte, together with her husband, who was destined for a similar
career. She had an agreeable voice, but a particularly charming face,
the freshness of a child in its cradle, a sweet expression of innocence.
In figure she was tall and slender. The lovely creature always looked
like a Bengal rose tossing upon its graceful stalk. These young students
considered themselves finished and made an engagement with the manager
of a theatre in Brazil.

"Don't do it," said Delsarte to the husband, knowing his suspicious
nature, "that is a dangerous region; you will never bring your wife back
alive."

He prophesied but too truthfully.

Soon after, we heard that the fair songstress had been shot dead by the
hand of the husband who adored her. I like to think that she was
innocent of more than imprudence. The story which reached us from that
distant land was, that M. M. threatened to kill his wife if she
continued to associate with a certain young man.

"You would never do it!" she said.

She did not reckon on the aberrations of jealousy. It was said, in
excuse for the murderer, that she had defied him, saying:

"I love him, and I do not love you!"

After the catastrophe, the unfortunate husband gave himself up to
justice. No case was found against him, but how he must have suffered
when he had forever cut himself off from the sight of that enchanting
creature!

Three figures stand preeminent in the crowd: Darcier, Giraudet, Madame
Pasca.

I will proceed in order of seniority.

The first named did not attend the lectures when I did, but I often
heard him mentioned in society where he attracted attention by his
rendering of Delsarte's "Stanzas to Eternity," Pierre Dupont's "Hundred
Louis d'or," and many other impressive or dramatic pieces. I know the
master considered him possessed of much aptitude and feeling for art.

They met one evening at a large party given by a high official of the
day. Darcier sang well, in Delsarte's opinion; but it was perhaps too
well for a public made up of fashionables, not connoisseurs.

"It takes something more than talent to move them," thought the real
judge, annoyed; and with that accent familiar to well-bred people, which
transfigures a triviality, he said to the singer:

"Let them have _the bread!_"

He referred to a political song ending with these lines:

"Ye cannot hush the moan
Of the people when they cry: 'We hunger ...'
For it is the cry of nature,
They want bread, bread, bread!"

The guests were forced to give the attention which it demanded to this
cry which aroused the idea of recent seditions, and the performer came
in for his share.

This artist may still be heard, but his talents are displayed in so
narrow a circle that his reputation is a limited one. Yet it is said
that his compositions and his mode of singing them attest to great
vigor.

Darcier, it seems, always retained a strong feeling of devotion for his
master. He has been heard to say: "I fear but two things--Delsarte and
thunder."

Alfred Giraudet joined the grand opera as _primo basso cantante_. He was
warmly received by the press, and had already won a name at the Opera
Comique and at concerts. In this singer may be noted the firmness of
accent and scholarly mode of phrasing, always in harmony with the
prosody of the language, which are part of the tradition of the great
school. He always bears himself well on the stage, and the sobriety of
his gesture is a salutary example which some of his present colleagues
would do well to imitate.

He, too, was a loyal soul; he always regarded it as an honor to bear the
title of _pupil of Delsarte_, the latter always writing to him as _my
dear and last disciple_. I owe many of the memories and documents used
in this volume to his kindness.

Alfred Giraudet always took his audience captive when he sang Malherbe's
verses--music by Reber--of which each strophe ends with the following
lines:

"Leave these vanities, put them far behind us,
'Tis God who gives us life,
'Tis God whom we should love."

The broad, sustained style, so appropriate to the words of the melody,
finds a sympathetic interpreter in the young artist.

Delsarte gave this with great _maestria_. The finale, particularly,
always transports the listeners.

If any one can revive the tradition of the master's teachings, it is
certainly Giraudet, who understands the method and appreciates its high
import.

Madame Pasca was one of the latest comers; her advent was an event.
There were pupils in the school who were destined for the theatre, and
there were women of society; the future artist of the Gymnase partook
of both phases. She had the advantages of a vocation and of a careful
education; her fortune allowed her to dress elegantly, with the
picturesqueness imparted by artistic taste.

Chance, or a presentiment of speedy success, led her to take her place,
on the first day, very near the master, in a peculiar seat--a sort of
small, low easy chair which inspired one with a sense of nonchalance.
She was in full sight. Her gaze, profound and sombre at times, roamed
over the room with the natural air of a meditative queen. She inspired
all beholders with curiosity and interest. The feeling which she aroused
in her fellow-pupils was less distinct. Her rare advantages caused a
vague fear in those who hitherto had securely held the foremost rank;
her beauty created a sense of rivalry, unconscious for the most part,
and yet betrayed by countless signs.

There was a flutter of excitement throughout the school. This increased
when the young woman confirmed, by her first efforts, all that her
agreeable appearance and fascinating voice had promised. She declaimed a
fragment from Gluck's "Armida" which other pupils sang; a word sufficed
to change interest to sympathy.