Delsarte System of Oratory by Various

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The artist became an inventor; he took out letters-patent for various
discoveries, among others for an instrument of precision applicable to
astronomical observations. Competent persons have recognized the great
value of this invention, conceived without previous study, and which
remains hidden among the papers of some official.

Only one of his mechanical conceptions was ever really put to practical
use, that of the _Guide-accord_; it gained him a gold medal at the
Exhibition of 1855; Dublin awarded it the same praise.

Berlioz wrote of this invention, in his book entitled, "_A Travers
Chants_:"

"M. Delsarte has made piano tuning easier by means of an instrument
which he calls the _phonopticon_. Any one who will take the trouble to
use it will find that it produces such absolute correctness, that the
most practiced ear could not attain to similar perfection. This
_Guide-accord_ cannot fail to gain speedy popularity."

On reading these lines, one is tempted to say: Here is an open-hearted
writer; one likes this outburst in regard to a man who was in some sense
his brother-artist. But what are we to think of this critic, when we
reflect that in this same book, where he exalts the inventor, he never
seems to remember Delsarte the revealer of a law, the creator of a
science, the distinguished teacher, the famous artist. "He has rendered
all pianists a great service by inventing this instrument," says the
author of "_A Travers Chants_," and that is all. And he calls him
_Monsieur_ Delsarte, as if he were some unknown musical instrument maker
or dealer! Had the author of "William Tell" or "Aida" vexed him, he
would have spoken of them as M. Rossini, M. Verdi!

And yet he knew all about the man whom he seemed anxious to extinguish,
for it was he who, in a musical criticism, wrote, among other praises:
"It is impossible to imagine superior execution;" and elsewhere: "He
renders the thoughts of the great masters with such brilliancy and
strength, that their masterpieces are made accessible to the most
stubborn intellect and the most hardened sensibilities are roused by his
tones."

What had happened to make the author of the "Pilgrims' March" so
oblivious of his own admiration? I have heard that the two musicians
quarreled as to the interpretation of a passage by Gluck, and that a
correspondence much resembling a literary warfare, followed. Could this
justify defection? Perhaps a desire to stifle this glory, thereby to
lend more lustre to some _meteor_ or _star_, had some share in this
supposed motive.

At any rate, the affair is not to the honor of Berlioz. We should never
deny, whatever may happen, the just judgment which we have uttered.
Direct or indirect, the rivalries of artists are to be regretted for
the sake of art itself, which lives on noble sentiments and high
thoughts. Although we may laugh at the inconsequence of a critic who
extinguishes with one hand that which the other hand brought to light,
we cannot repress a deep feeling of sadness when we see upon what
reputation too often depends, and when we ask ourselves how much we are
to believe of the opinions of certain chroniclers.

The fact which I have just quoted is the more surprising, inasmuch as
Berlioz often drew his inspiration from the method of, and from certain
modes of expression peculiar to Delsarte.

Chapter XVIII.

Delsarte before the Philotechnic Association.[8]

It was in 1865 that Delsarte was heard in public for the last time. The
meeting took place at the Sorbonne where the lectures of the
Philotechnic Society were then given.

I see him before me now with his strong personality, his captivating and
persuasive speech, his mind with its incisive flashes; but a visible
melancholy swayed him and was to follow him through the variety and
contrasts of the subjects on his program.

And first, he takes pleasure in proclaiming to all the tale of his
mistakes. Still young in heart and in mind, it seems as if in giving up
hope on earth, he tolled the knell of all the enchantments that were
passed and gone; that creative head fermenting with the ardor of
discovery seems to doubt the future and bow beneath the burden of a
sombre submission.

And yet he is surrounded by picked men who admire him, by women, young,
beautiful, brilliant, eager to hear him, as of old; but he is not
deceived by all this. A magic spell has vanished; sympathy is not denied
him, but perhaps he feels it to be less tender, less _affectionate_
than in the radiant days of his youth.

This explains how, in the course of that evening, a recrudescence of
Christian feeling more than once tore him away from the undeniable
assertions of science, not to drag him down to the puerilities of the
letter, but to draw him up into the clouds of theology, whence hope of a
future life, the consolation of farewell hours, smiled upon him.

But if Delsarte appeared depressed, he was not to be conquered. His
restless spirit betrayed him to those whom his mystic fervor might have
misled.

"Many persons," he said, "feel confident that they are to hear me recite
or sing.

"Nothing of the sort, gentlemen; I shall not recite, and I shall not
sing, because I desire less to show you what I can do, than to tell you
what I know."

Soon a wonderful change passed over him. It seemed as if he had been
covered with ashes for an instant, only to come forth in a more dazzling
light. Hardly had his audience felt a slight sense of revolt at the
words: "I shall not sing," than they found themselves in the presence of
an orator not inferior to the greatest in the force of his images, and
who, with all his serious and pathetic eloquence, never forgot the
studied touches of the poet, or the dainty style of the artist.

But I will not delay my reader to listen to me! It is Delsarte himself
who should be heard. I will give a few extracts:

"I count," he said, "on the novelty, the absolute novelty, of the
things which I shall teach you: Art is the subject of this conversation.

"Art is divine in its principle, divine in its essence, divine in its
action, divine in its aim.

"Ah! gentlemen, there are no pleasures at once more lasting, more noble
and more sacred than those of Art.

"Let us glance around us: not a pleasure which is not followed by
disappointment or satiety; not a joy which does not entail some trouble;
not an affection which does not conceal some bitterness, some grief, and
often some remorse!

"Everything is disappointing to man. Everything about him changes and
passes away. Everything betrays him; even his senses, so closely allied
to his being and to which he sacrifices everything, like faithless
servants, betray him in their turn; and, to use an expression now but
too familiar, they go on a strike, and from that strike, gentlemen, they
never return.

* * * * *

"The constituent elements of the body sooner or later break into open
rebellion, and tend to fly from each other as if filled with mutual
horror.

"But under the ashes a youthful soul still lives, and one whose
perpetual youth is torture; for that soul loves, in spite of the
disappointments of its hard experience; it loves because it is young; it
loves just because it is a soul and it is its natural condition to love.

"Such is the soul, gentlemen. Well! for this poor, solitary and
desolate soul, there are still unutterable joys; joys not to be measured
by all which this world can offer. These joys are the gift of Art. No
one grows old in the realms of Art."

After a pungent criticism of the official teaching of art as hitherto
practiced, Delsarte explained the chief elements of aesthetics. He said:

"AEsthetics, henceforth freed from all conjecture, will be truly
established under the strict forms of a _positive science_."

But, as in the course of his lecture he had more than once touched the
giddy regions of supernaturalism, this formula seemed a contradiction to
certain minds, yet enthusiastic applause greeted the orator from all
parts of the hall.

One paper, _L'Union_, said in this connection:

"M. Delsarte is a spontaneous soul, his mind is at once Christian
and free, his only passion is the proselytism of the Beautiful, and
this is the charm of his speech....I do not assert that everything
in it should be of an absolute rigor of philosophy," etc.

The same paper says elsewhere:

"All these theories are new, original, ingenious, in a word,
_felicitous_. Are they undeniably true? What I can affirm is that
none doubt it who hear the master make various applications of them
by examples. Delsarte is an irresistible enchanter."

The opposition of principles with which he is reproached, these doubts
of the strength of his logic, will be greatly diminished if this point
of view be taken: that Delsarte traced back an assured science, that he
deduced from the faculties of man the hypothesis that these faculties
are contained in essence and in the full power of their development, in
an archetype which, to his mind, is no other than the Divine Trinity.
Plato's ideal in aesthetics and in philosophy was similar although less
precise.

There is a saying that Italians "have two souls." In Delsarte there were
two distinct types, the theistic philosopher and the scientist.

Now, the philosopher could give himself up to the study of causes and
their finality, that faculty being allotted to the mental activity; he
could even, without giving the scientist cause for complaint, make, or
admit, speculative theories regarding the end and aim of art, provided
that the scientific part of the system was neither denied nor diminished
thereby.

And is there not a certain kinship between science and hypothesis which
admits of their walking abreast without conflicting?

Delsarte, as we have seen, rarely left his audience without winning the
sympathy of every member of it. At the meeting of which I speak, he
vastly amused his hearers by an anecdote. He doubtless wished to clear
away the clouds caused by that part of his discourse which, by his own
confession, had a good deal of the sermon about it.

I will repeat the tale, a little exaggerated perhaps, but still very
piquant, which doubtless won his pardon for those parts of his speech
which might have been for various reasons blamed, misunderstood or but
half understood!

The story was of four professors who, having examined him, had each, in
turn, he said, administered upon his [Delsarte's] cheeks smart slaps to
the colleagues by whose advice he had profited in previous lessons.

The following lines were the subject of the lesson:

"Nor gold nor greatness make us blest;
Those two divinities to our prayers can grant
But goods uncertain and a pleasure insecure."

"The first teacher to whom I turned declared there was but one way to
_recite them properly_, and this single method, you of course perceive,
gentlemen, could be only his own.

"'Those lines,' said he, 'must be recited with breadth, with dignity,
with nobleness. Listen!' Upon which my instructor began to declaim in
his most sonorous, most magisterial tones. He raised his eyes to heaven,
rounded his gestures and struck a heroic attitude.

"'Show yourself,' he resumed (after this demonstration), 'by the
elevation of your manners, worthy of the lessons I have given you.'

"'Ah!' I exclaimed, 'at last I possess the noble manner of rendering
these fine lines.'

"Next day, having practiced the noble manner to the utmost of my
ability, I went to my second professor, fully persuaded that I should
hear nothing but congratulations. Well!... I had hardly ended the
second line, when a shrug of the shoulders accompanied by a terrible
burst of laughter, very mortifying to my noble manner, closed my mouth
abruptly.

"'What do you mean by that emphatic tone? What is all this bombastic
sermon about? What manners are these? My friend, you are grotesque.
Those lines should be repeated simply, naturally and with the utmost
artlessness. Remember that it is _the good La Fontaine_ who speaks!
[accenting each syllable] _the-good-La-Fon-taine_--do you hear? There is
but one way possible to render the lines faithfully. Listen to me.'

"Here the professor tapped his snuff-box,--compressed his lips, dropped
the corners of his mouth in an ironical fashion, slightly contracting
his eyes, lifting his eyebrows, moving his head five or six times from
right to left, and began the lines in a firm and somewhat nasal tone.

"Ah!" I cried, amazed, 'there is no other way ... what wonderful
artlessness, simplicity and truth to nature!'

"So I set to work upon a new basis, saying to myself: 'Now, at last, I
have got the natural style which fits the spirit of this charming work.
I am very curious to know the impression which I shall make to-morrow on
my third teacher.'

"The moment came. I struck an attitude into which I introduced the
elliptic expressions shown to me the day before, and with the
confidence inspired in me by a sense of the naturalness with which I was
pervaded, I began:

"'Nor gold nor great....'

"'Wretch!' cried my third professor. 'What do you mean by that senile
manner, that tart voice! What a Cassandra-like tone! You disgrace those
beautiful lines, miserable fellow!'

'"But, sir....'

"'But, but, but. I will drop you from the list of my pupils, if you dare
to utter a remark! You can do very well when you wish! But every now and
then you are subject to certain eccentric flights. You sometimes imitate
X---- well enough to be mistaken for him; then you are detestable, for you
change your nature, and I will not permit it. Besides, it is a vulgar
type. Stay, you looked like him just then, and it was hideous.

"'Now, listen, and bear my lesson well in mind: _there is but one proper
way of reciting those lines_, do you hear? _There is but one way_, and
this is it.'

"Here, my professor took a pensive attitude: then, as if crushed by the
weight of some melancholy memory, he cast slowly around him a look in
which the bitterness of a deep disappointment was painted. He heaved a
sigh, raised his eyes to heaven, still keeping his head bent, and began
in a grave, muffled and sustained voice:

"'Nor gold nor greatness....'

"'See,' said my master, 'with what art I manage to create a pathetic
situation out of those lines! That is what you should imitate!'

"'Ah! my dear master, you are right; that is the only reading worthy of
that masterpiece. Heavens, how beautiful!' I said to myself; 'decidedly,
my _noble_ teacher and my _natural_ teacher understood nothing about
this work. What an effect I shall make to-morrow at my fourth
professor's class!'

"Alas! a fresh disappointment awaited me at the hands of my fourth
master. He was, perhaps, even more pitiless than the others to all the
meanings that I strove to express.

"'Why, my poor boy,' said he, 'where the deuce did you hunt up such
meanings?' What a sepulchral tone! What is the meaning of that cavernous
voice? And why that mournful dumb show? Heaven forgive me! it is
melodrama that you offer us! you have done no great thing. You have
completely crippled poor La Fontaine.'

"'Alas! alas!' said I to myself, 'is my dramatic teacher as absurd as
the other two?'"

After the three preceding imitations, just as the audience had reached
the height of merriment, the story-teller stopped.

"I will excuse you, gentlemen, from the reasonings of my fourth
professor, for I do not wish to prolong my discourse indefinitely."

If this retreat was an orator's artifice--which may well be,--it was a
complete success.

There was a shout: "_The fourth! the fourth!_"

"Well, gentlemen, the fourth, like the other three, claimed that his was
the _only correct style_: I made no distinction between verse and prose,
thus following the false method recently established by the
Theatre-Francais. To his mind the cadence of the verse and the euphonic
charm should outweigh every other interest. The pauses which I made
destroyed its measure. I had no idea of caesura, my gestures destroyed
its harmony, etc., etc. His pedagogic manner had nothing in common with
that of his brethren."

This episode was not a mere witticism on Delsarte's part; he intended it
to prove his constant assertion--and with persistent right,--that
previous to his discovery, art, destitute of law and of science, had had
none but chance successes.

Delsarte closed this session by a summary of the law and the science
which I have set forth in this book; but I must say it was at this
moment especially that he seemed anxious that his religious convictions
should profit by his artistic wealth; all outside the sphere of rational
demonstration is treated from a lofty standpoint, it is true, and is
freed from the commonplaceness of _the letter_, but we can recognize
none but a poetic and literary merit in it.

It is to this latter period of his existence that many will doubtless
try to fasten the synthesis of this great personality; but if any one
wishes to gain an idea of Francois Delsarte, of his ability, the extent
of his views, the power of his reason, the graces of his mind, his
artistic perfection, it is in his law, in his science, in the memories
which his lectures and his concerts left in the press of the time, that
such an one must seek to understand him.

Chapter XIX.

Delsarte's Last Years.

Before concluding these essays, my homage to the innovating spirit, the
matchless art, the sympathetic and generous nature of Francois Delsarte,
I make a final appeal to my memory, and, first, I invoke afresh the
testimony of others.

_La Patrie_, June 18, 1857, says in an enthusiastic and lengthy article:

"His deep knowledge, his incessant labors, his long and fatiguing
studies, have not allowed his life to pass unnoted; but although great
renown, attached in a short space to his name, has sufficed for the
legitimate demands of his pride, it has done nothing, it must be owned,
to provide for the wants which the negligences of genius do not always
foresee."

Then, apropos of Gluck and other unappreciated composers of genius, the
author of the article, Franck Marie, goes on:

"With the confidence to which I recently referred, Delsarte has
undertaken the reform. Sure of the success which shall crown his bold
undertaking, he began almost unaided, a movement which was no less than
a revolution. Between two snatches from Romagnesi or Blangini, the
majestic pages of Gluck appeared to the surprise of the auditor. The
heroes of the great master took the place of Thyrcis and Colin, the
songs of Pergolese and Handel, coming from the inspired mouth of the
virtuoso, at once aroused unknown sensations. Lully and Rameau,
rejuvenated in their turn, surprised by beauties hitherto unsuspected."

Earlier still (in the _Presse_ for December 6, 1840) in an article
signed Viscount Charles Delaunay are these lines:

"We are, to-night, to hear an admirable singer (Delsarte). He is said to
be the Talma of music; he makes the most of Gluck's songs, as Talma made
the most of Racine's verses. We must hasten, for his enthusiastic
admirers would never pardon us if we arrived in the middle of the air
from 'Alcestis;' and if all we hear be true, we could never be consoled
ourselves, for having missed half of it."

March 14, 1860, we read in the _L'Independance Beige:_

"Among the many concerts announced there is one which is privileged to
attract the notice of the _dilettanti_. We refer to that announced,
almost naively, by the two lines: Concert by Francois Delsarte, Tuesday,
April 4.--Nothing more! These two lines tell everything! Why give a
program? Who is there in the enlightened world who would not be anxious
to be present at a concert given by Delsarte? For, at _his_ concert, he
will sing--he who never sings anywhere, at any price. Observe what I
say: _never anywhere, at any price_, and I do not exaggerate."

This assertion, which shows the indifference of Delsarte to the
speculative side of art, is not without a certain analogy to the fact
which follows. At one of his concerts he was to be aided by one of the
great celebrities of the time; Rachel was to recite a scene from some
play.

The actress failed to appear. Some few outcries were heard. Delsarte
considered this a protest: "I beg those who are only here to hear
Mademoiselle Rachel," said he, "to step to the box-office. The price of
their tickets will be returned." Applause followed these words, and the
artist sang in a way to leave no room for regret.

I quote the following lines from an article published by the "_Journal
des Villes et des Campagnes_" in reference to a lecture given in the
great amphitheatre of the Medical School, March 11, 1867:

"Should I say lecture? It was rather a chat--simple, and wholly free
from academic forms. In somewhat odd, perhaps, but picturesque and
original form, M. Delsarte told us healthy and strengthening
truths:--'The misery of luxury devours us, but the truth makes no
display; it is modestly bare.'.... 'Art may convince by deceit; then it
blinds. When it carries conviction by contemplating truth, it
enlightens. Art may persuade by evil; then it hardens. When it persuades
by goodness, it perfects.' These are noble words. Orator, poet,
metaphysician, artist, M. Delsarte offers new horizons to the soul."

The sources whence I draw are not exhausted, but I must pause.

Thus all have hailed him with applause! Save for some few interested
critics, without distinction of opinions, political, religious or
philosophical, all differences were silenced by this admirable harmony
of the highest aesthetic faculties: the spirit of justice conquered party
spirit.

But whatever may have been said--and whatever may still be said,--those
who never heard Delsarte can never be made to comprehend him: in him,
feeling, intellect, physical beauty and beauty of expression formed a
magnificent assemblage of natural gifts and of acquired faculties. In
this distinguished personality nature became art, to prove to us that
outside her limits, as outside the limits of science, arbitrary
agreement and the caprices of imagination can create nothing noble and
great, persuasive and touching.

With this artist there was never anything to betray the _artificiality_
of a situation; interpreted by him, the creation, the invention, became
real. 'From his lips a cry never seemed a studied effect. It was the
rending of a bosom. A tear seemed to come straight from the heart; his
gesture was conscious of what it had to teach us; in all these
applications "of the sign to the thing," there was never an error, never
a mistake. It was _truth_ adorned by _beauty_. In his singing, roulades
became true bursts of laughter or true sobs.

Yes, all these things surpass description.

But what any and every mind may appreciate, is the lovable, loving and
generous nature which invested these transcendant qualities with
simplicity, with charm and with life. Delsarte had a wealth of
sentiment which overflowed upon the humble and the outcast, as well as
upon those favored by nature and by fortune. Without the riches which he
knew not how to gain, disdainful as he was of petty and sinuous ways, he
was benevolent in spite of his moderate means.

He gave, perhaps, oftener than he accepted payment for them, his time,
his knowledge and his advice to all who needed them. He admitted to his
classes pupils whose beautiful voices were their only wealth, and who
could pay him only in hope.

We may say of Francois Delsarte, that so sympathetic a nature is rarely
seen in this world of ours, where still prevail--tyrants to be
destroyed--so much antagonism, jealousy and rivalry. If some few of the
weaknesses natural to poor humanity may be laid to his charge, no one
had a greater right to redemption than he.

He once distressed a fashionable woman by speaking severely to her of
one of her friends. She was much troubled, but out of respect, dared not
complain. Delsarte saw tears in her eyes. He instantly confessed his
fault, and acknowledged, with the utmost frankness, that he spoke from
hearsay, and very lightly. He added that this mistake should be a lesson
to him, and that he would think twice before becoming the echo of evil
report.

If, touching his science and his art, this master often made assertions
which might seem conceited, aside from those convictions which, to his
mind, had the character of orthodoxy, he used forms of speech of which
judges without authority would never have dreamed. I have heard him say:

"I cannot be much of a connoisseur in regard to pianists, for I only
like to hear Chopin."

He was always ready to praise the amateurs who came to him for a
hearing, even if they were the pupils of other masters, finding out
among all their faults, the little acquirements or talent which he could
from their performance; sure, it is true, to correct them if he
afterward became their instructor.

Honors and fortune seemed within his grasp when he neared his end.
America offered him immense advantages, with a yearly salary of $20,000,
to found a conservatory in one of her cities. A street in Solesmes was
named for him. The King of Hanover sent him, as an artist, the Guelph
Cross, and, as a friend, a photograph of himself and family; it was to
this prince, the patron of art, that Delsarte wrote regarding his
"Episodes of a Revelator:"

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