Delsarte System of Oratory by Various

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"I am at this moment meditating a book singular for more than one
reason, which will be no less novel in form than in idea.... I know not
what fate is in store for this work, or if I shall succeed in seeing it
in print during my lifetime."

He did not realize this dream.

It was at about this same time that Jenny Lind took a long journey to
hear him and to consult him about her art.

At the period of the war of 1870-1871, Delsarte took refuge at
Solesmes, his native place. He left Paris, with his family, Sept. 10,
1870. Already ill, he lived there sad, and crushed by the misfortunes of
his country. Nevertheless, during this stay, he developed various points
in his method, and there his two daughters wrote at his dictation the
manuscript, "Episodes of a Revelator;" his intellect had lost none of
its vigor, but his nature was shadowed.

Francois Delsarte returned to Paris March 10, 1871, after his voluntary
exile. He soon yielded to a painful disease, doubtless regretting that
he had not finished his work, but courageous and submissive.

As far as it lay in my power, my task is done. I have furnished
documents for the history of the arts; I have aroused and tried to fix
attention upon that luminous point which was threatened with oblivion.

Now I call for the aid of all, that the work of memory may be
accomplished.

There are still among us many admirers of Francois Delsarte, many hearts
that loved him; a sort of silent freemasonry has been established
between them; when they meet in society, at the theatre, at concerts,
they recognize each other by mutual signs of regret or disappointment.
His name is pronounced, a few words are interchanged.

"Oh! those were happy days. Will his like ever be seen again?"

To these I say: Let us unite to assure him his place in the annals which
assert the glories of the artist and the man of science! Why should we
not combine soon to raise a statue on the modest grave where he lies?
Why should we not do for the innovator in the arts what the country
daily does for mechanical inventors and soldiers?

Part Fifth.

The Literary Remains of Francois Delsarte.

Translated by Abby L. Alger.

Publisher's Note.

_Part Fifth contains Francois Delsarte's own words._

_The manuscripts were purchased of Mme. Delsarte with the understanding
that they were all she had of the literary remains of her illustrious
husband. They are published by her authorisation._

_The reader will probably notice that at times Delsarte talks as if
addressing an audience. This he really did, and some of the manuscripts
are headings or draughts of his lectures before learned societies or of
talks at his own private sessions._

_These writings are given to the public in the same fragmentary
condition that Delsarte left them in. They were written upon sheets of
paper, scraps of paper, doors, chairs, window casements and other
objects. A literal translation has been made, without a word of comment,
and without any attempt at editing them. The aim has been to let
Delsarte speak for himself, believing that the reader would rather have
Delsarte's own words even in this disjointed, incomplete form--mere
rough notes--than to have them supplemented, annotated, interpreted and
very likely perverted by another person._

_Edgar S. Werner._

[Illustration: Francois Delsarte.]

Extract from the Last Letter to the King of Hanover

I am at this moment meditating a book, singular for more than one
reason, whose form will be no less novel than its contents. Your majesty
will read it, I hope, with interest.

The title of this book is to be: "My Revelatory Episodes, or the History
of an Idea Pursued for Forty Years."

It will be my task to connect and condense into a single narrative all
the circumstances of my life which had as logical consequences the
numerous discoveries which it has been granted me to follow up,
discoveries which my daily occupations left me neither time nor ability
to set forth as a whole.

I know not what fate is reserved for this book. I know not whether I
shall succeed in seeing it in print during my lifetime. The minds of men
are, in these evil days, so little disposed to serious ideas, that it
seems to me difficult to find a publisher disposed to publish things so
far removed from the productions of the century.

But, however it may be, if I succeed in getting at least some part of my
work printed, I crave, sire, your majesty's permission to offer the
dedication to you. This favor I entreat not only as an honor, but also
as an opportunity to pay public homage to all the kindnesses which your
majesty has never ceased to lavish upon me.

Francois Delsarte.

Episode I.

The subject in question was a scene in the play of the _Maris-Garcons_.
The young officer, whose part I was studying, met his former landlord
after an absence of several years, and as he owed him some money, he
desired to show himself cordial.

"Ah! how are you, papa Dugrand?" he says, on encountering him. This
apostrophe is, therefore, a mixture of surprise, soldierly bluntness and
joviality.

At the first words I was stopped short by an almost insurmountable
difficulty. This difficulty was all in my gesture. Do what I would, my
manner of accosting papa Dugrand was grotesque; and all the lessons that
were given me on that scene, all the pains I took to profit by those
lessons, effected no change. I paced to and fro, saying and resaying the
words: "How are you, papa Dugrand?" Another scholar in my place would
have gone on; but the greater the difficulty seemed to me, the higher my
ardor rose. However, I had my labor for my pains.

"That's not it," said my instructors. Good heavens! I knew that as well
as they did; but what I did not know was _why_ that was not it. It seems
that my professors were equally ignorant, since they could not tell me
exactly in what my way differed from theirs.

The specification of that difference would have enlightened me, but all
remained, with them as with me, subject to the uncertain views of a
vague instinct.

"Do as I do," they said to me, one after the other.

Zounds! the thing was easier said than done.

"Put more enthusiasm into your greeting to papa Dugrand!"

The greater my enthusiasm, the more laughable was my awkwardness.

"See here; watch my movements carefully!"

"I do watch, but I don't know how to go to work to imitate you; I don't
seize the details of your gesture." (It varied with every repetition.)
"I don't understand why your examples, with which I am satisfied, lead
to nothing in me."

"You don't understand! You don't understand! It's very simple! Really,
your wits must have gone wool-gathering, my poor boy, if you are unable
to do what I have shown you so many times. Watch closely now!"

"I am watching, sir, with all my eyes."

"You certainly see that the first thing is to stretch out your arms to
your papa Dugrand, since you are so pleased to see him again!"

I stretched out my arms to their utmost extent; but my body, not
following the movement, still wanted poise, and recoiled into a
grotesque attitude. My teacher, for lack of basic principles to guide
him, was unable to correct my awkwardness; and, vexed at his inability
which he wished to conceal, fell back on blaming my unlucky intellect.

"Fool," said he finally, "you are hopelessly stupid! Why are you so
embarrassed? Are my examples, then, worthless?"

"Indeed, sir, your examples are perfect."

"Well, then, imitate them, imbecile!"

"I will try, sir."

In this, as in all preceding lessons, I could give only a blind
imitation, which had not the small merit of being twice alike, even in
my own eyes, for every time I reproduced them I observed marked
variations which the master did not perceive.

I went to my room, as I had done many times before, with tears in my
eyes and despair in my heart, to renew my useless efforts, vainly
turning and returning in all lights my unfortunate papa Dugrand.

This cruel ordeal lasted five months without the least progress to
lessen its bitterness.

Heaven knows with what ardor I cultivated my papa Dugrand! I thought of
him by day, and I dreamed of him by night. I clung to him with all the
frenzy of despair, for I was determined not to be beaten. I was bound to
triumph at any cost, for it was life or death to me. I resolved not to
give up papa Dugrand, even though he should resist me ten years!

My unceasing repetitions of (to them abominable) papa Dugrand caused my
comrades to call me a bore. In short, I became disagreeable to all
around me. Alas! all this study, all these efforts, could not overcome
the stubborn resistance of papa Dugrand. My teachers were at their wits'
end, and finally refused to give me another lesson on the subject. But
nothing could daunt the ardor of my zeal.

One day I was measuring the court-yard of the Conservatory, as usual, in
company with papa Dugrand, and repeating my "how are you?" in every
variety of tone, when, all at once, having got as far as: "How are you,
pa--," I stopped short without finishing my phrase. It was interrupted
by the sight of a cousin of mine, whose visit was most unexpected.

"Ah! how are you?" I said; "how are you, dear cou--"

Here my words were again interrupted by a surprise; but this surprise
was far greater than that caused by the appearance of my cousin. Struck
by the analogy between this greeting and the unstudied attitude which I
had assumed under the action of a genuine emotion, I cried in a
transport of joy which bewildered my innocent cousin: "Leave me--don't
disturb me--I've got it--wait for me--stay where you are--I've got it."

"But what is it that you've got?"

"The dickens, papa Dugrand!"

Thereupon I vanished like a flash, to run to my mirror and reproduce to
my sight papa Dugrand, Judge of my astonishment: not only my gesture,
until now so persistently awkward, seemed suddenly metamorphosed and
became harmonious and natural; but, stranger yet, it did not correspond
in the least to what had been prescribed. However, it was nature herself
that had revealed this to me. Then, the movements of my body, but a
moment before so discordant in my eyes, had acquired, under the
influence of this gesture inspired from above, an ease and a grace that
filled me with surprise. Without doubt, I now possessed the truth. An
emotion, spontaneously produced and so deeply felt, could not result in
an error.

This is what had happened under the action of a natural surprise:

My hands were not extended toward the object of my surprise--not the
least in the world. By an anterior extension of the arms, they were
raised high above my head, which, far from being uplifted with the
exultation which I had hitherto simulated, was lowered to my breast; and
my body, stranger yet, instead of bending toward the attractive object,
bent suddenly backward.

What a blow nature had given to my masters! What an overthrowal of all
conjectures! My reason, before this sovereign decision, was humbled and
dumbfounded. What arguments could my instructors invoke in the face of
truth itself?

"What," thought I, "are my masters absolutely ignorant of the laws of
nature?"

"What, does their reason, as well as mine, know nothing of all this?
How is it that this much-praised reason has inspired me with effects
precisely opposite to those that were prescribed? What is reason? Is it,
then, a blind faculty?"

Let us first see what these strange phenomena, whose importance I cannot
deny without denying nature herself, signify.

I was in the midst of these reflections when the recollection of my
cousin came into my mind.

"Good heavens," thought I; "I had forgotten all about my poor cousin;
what will he think? I will hurry down, and, lest my precious ideas take
flight, send him away, and return to my reflections.

"Wretch that I am; I think only how to get rid of him, when he has so
enriched me! This is a lesson to me. Poor boy! What opinion will he have
of me? Ah, that is he whom I see stretched out on that stone bench. He
has been patient, indeed. I believe that he is asleep!"

"No, I am not asleep," said he, rising; "I am furious! Explain, if you
are not too insane to be rational, the extraordinary manner in which you
received me. Do you know that I have been waiting here for you more than
an hour?"

"Ah, my dear cousin," said I, embracing him warmly, "you do not know
what a service you have rendered me. I embrace you now, my good friend,
for the wonderful lesson you have given me. Without you I should never
have found it out, and, rest assured, I shall never forget it."

"What? Who? What is it?"

"Zounds, papa Dugrand! I freely acknowledge that I have learned more
from you in one second than from all my masters during four years."

"Are you in your right senses?"

The matter was finally explained. My cousin then told me about my home
and my family; but I must confess that I paid little attention to the
good news that he brought me, so excited and preoeccupied was my mind.
Even then I could not help thinking of the fragility of the heart in its
affections. We soon separated, and I hurried to my room, which seemed to
me on this day-paradise itself.

I gave myself up to my interrupted course of reflections.

I had proved the impotence of my own reason, and also that of my
masters. Now, as it was not probable that all my teachers and myself
were more stupid than the rest of mankind--the common herd--I concluded
that reason is blind in the matter of principles, and that all her
instructions would be powerless to guide me in my researches. But, from
another side, it was evident to me that without this reason I could not
utilize a principle. What is human reason, that faculty at once of so
little avail and yet so precious? What role does it play in art? I feel
that this is most important for me to know.

The answer to this question must spring from the study of the phenomena
of instinct. Let us examine, then, what nature offers us freely.

If these phenomena are directed by a physiological or a spiritual
necessity, a necessity on which instinct is based, I am forced to admit,
here, a reason that is not my reason; a superior, infallible reason in
the disposition of things; a reason that laughs at my reason, which, in
spite of itself, must submit under pain of falling into absurdity. I
feel that it is only by this absolute submission of my reason that it
can rise to the reason of things, since, of itself, it would know
nothing. [See definition of reason.]

Let us seek, then, without prejudice, the reason of the things that
interested me, in order that my own reason may be raised to a higher
plane. And when it shall be illumined with the light that must break
upon it from the superior reason, I feel that my reason can generalize
instruction, and will be all-powerful in arranging the conclusions that
it may deduce. I am aware, from the utter impotence of my reason, that
all principles must be accepted humbly, in order to understand the
deductions. My reason does not know how to lead me to principles of
which it is ignorant; but it knows how to guide me back. In other words,
it is a blind person _a priori_, it is a luminary _a posteriori_. Though
it may not know at first, once shown, it readily recognizes; though it
may not divine, it learns by study; though it may not seize, it
retains, masters and generalizes.

Reason, then, is a reflex power, and as such, if, in a matter of
principle, it recognizes itself as impotent and even absurd _a priori_,
it knows that once in possession of the principle, it borrows from its
light and becomes identified with it--an incomparable power of
generalization.

Let the reason of the attitudes that I had observed be once shown me,
and my individual reason would possess the Archimedean lever with which
I might open unknown worlds.

My reason! Ah! I will identify it with the reason of things!
Henceforward this shall be my method, this shall be my law.

But the reason of things--who will give it to me? Is it not my reason
itself? Oh, mystery! I will follow thee to the depths of thy abyss. Thou
shalt have no more secrets from me, for God has said that He hides only
from the wise and prudent man, but reveals Himself to the simple and to
children. Yes, these things shall be given to me through my reason, if
it will bow itself and be attentive and humble; if it will patiently
await the teachings of a mute and persevering observation; if it will
subordinate itself to the intuitive lights that constitute genius; and,
finally, if it knows how to estimate things other than itself.

Thus my reason, established, inflamed, consumed by the charm of its
contemplation, will be transfigured in order to be more closely united
to the sovereign reason toward which it ever reaches out.

The first fruit of my observation consists in making me recognize, in
the facts examined, the proof of a superior and infallible reason, and
then to arm against my individual reason and all its errors. Another
thing yet more strange, but easily comprehended on reflection, is that
to this defiance, this contempt of self, I owe the boldness and the
power of my investigations.

Let us see, now, from which observations the preceding thoughts are the
direct result.

In the phrase, "How are you, etc.," my reason dictated this triple,
parallel movement: Advancing the head, and the arms, with the torso on
the fore-leg. Now, the similar phrase, "How are you, dear cousin,"
although uttered in a situation identical with that of papa Dugrand,
produced phenomena diametrically opposed to those that my reason had
said were the only ones admissible. Is it not reasonable to suppose that
the sight of an agreeable or loved object will excite in us a genuine
feeling that before we had vainly striven to simulate? Does it not seem
natural to extend the hand to a friend when, with affectionate surprise,
we exclaim: "How are you, dear friend?" And should we ever think of
drawing the body away from the object that attracts us? Finally, does it
not seem that the head should be raised, the better to see that which
charms us?

Ah, no! All these things, apparently so true and so perfectly clear,
are radically false. Facts prove this beyond a doubt, and with facts
there can be on discussion, no argument. We must admit them _a priori_
or renounce the truth. Here, as in all questions of principle, _the
greatest act of reason consists in an act of faith_. This is absolutely
undeniable.

In the phrase, "How are you, papa Dugrand," the arms should be raised,
the head lowered and the torso thrown back, supporting itself on the
back leg. This was indeed a blow to the presumption of my poor reason,
but should it complain? No, for it has gained even from its confusion
most fruitful instruction.

Let us see. In questioning the effects and the analogy, we shall
doubtless explain their reason of being. Why should the head become
lowered? I do not see all at first sight; but let us generalize the
question and probably it will specify itself.

When does a man bow his head before the object which strikes his eye?

When he considers or examines it.

Does he never consider things with head raised?

Yes, when he considers them with a feeling of pride. It is thus that he
rules them or exalts them; and also when he questions them with his
glance; in fine, when what he sees astonishes or surprises him.

This last statement contradicts the example in question, and seems to
condemn it. Not the least in the world. How is this? Thus: when the
astonishment or the surprise is not intense enough to shake the frame,
the head wherein all the surprise is concentrated, is lifted and
exalted. But so soon as that surprise is great enough to raise the
shoulders and the arms, as by a galvanic shock, the head takes an
inverse direction, it sinks and seems anxious to become solid to offer
more resistance to that which might attack it, for the first instinctive
movement in such a case is to guard against any unpleasant event; then
if the head is lifted to look at that which surprises it, it is because
it has no great interest in the recognition of that which it considers;
but as soon as that interest commands it to examine, to recognize, it is
instantly lowered and placed in the state of expectation.

O, now it becomes clear.

Now, how does surprise cause us to lift our arms?

The shoulder, in every man who is agitated or moved, rises in exact
proportion to the intensity of his emotion.

It thus becomes the thermometer of the emotions. Now, the commotion that
imprints a strong impression, communicates to the arms an ascending
motion which may lift them high above the head.

But why do not the arms, in an agreeable surprise, tend toward the
object of that surprise?

The arm should move gently toward the object that it wishes to caress.
Under the rapid action of surprise, therefore, it could only injure or
repel that object.

This it does in affright.

But instinct--that marvelous agent of divine reason--in that case turns
the arms away from the object which they might injure by the rapidity of
their sudden extension, and directs them toward heaven, leads them to
rise as if expressing thanks for an unexpected joy, so true it is that
everything is turned to use and is modified under the empire of our
instinct. Certainly, there is no similarity between this and the
superfluous action, the inconsequent movements determined by the working
of a rule without a reason. And this is so because in all that instinct
suggests, it is the Supreme Artist himself who disposes of us and acts
in us, while whatever is suggested by a reason insufficiently inspired
by the contemplation of the divine handiwork is fatally incoherent, for
we thus pretend to substitute ourselves for God, and God thenceforth
leaving us to ourselves, surrenders us to all the discordant effects of
an inconsequential and vain conception.

It remains to find the justificatory reason for this retroactive
movement of the body, which seems illogical at first sight.

Let us inquire in what case and under the action of what emotions a man
may shrink from the object which he is considering.

In the first place, he shrinks back whenever it inspires him with a
feeling of repulsion. He shrinks from it particularly when it inspires
him with fright. This is a matter of course and self-evident.

In what case does the body take an inverse direction to the object
which attracts it? This we must know before we can explain the
phenomenon in question.

We move away from the thing which we contemplate to prove to it,
doubtless, the respect and veneration that it inspires. In fact, it
seems a lack of respect to that which we love to approach it too
closely; we move away that we may not profane it by a contact which it
seems might injure its purity.

Thus the retrograde movement may be the sign of reverence and
salutation, and moreover a token that the object before which it is
produced is more eminent and more worthy of veneration.

A salutation without moving shows but little reverence, and should only
occur in the case of an equal or an inferior.

In justification of the actual fact, let me give another observation of
quite another importance.

When a painter examines his work, he moves away from it perceptibly. He
moves away in proportion to the degree of his admiration of it, so that
the retroactive movement of his body is in equal ratio to the interest
that he feels in contemplating his work, whence it follows that the
painter who examines his work in any other way, reveals his indifference
to it.

The picture-dealer usually proceeds in quite another manner. He examines
it closely and with a magnifying-glass in hand. Why is this? Because it
is less the picture which he examines than the handiwork of the painter,
the actual work which is the chief object of his survey.

But why does the artist move away from the work which he contemplates?
The better to seize the total impression. For instance: if it be a full
length portrait and the artist studies it too closely he sees, I will
suppose, the nose of his portrait and nothing more. If he moves a little
farther off he sees a little more, he sees the head; still farther and
he sees both the head and the torso which supports it. Finally, moving
still farther away, he gets a view of the whole and thus seizes its
harmonious relations. This inspection may be called synthetic vision,
and in opposition to this, direct vision, which I assumed before
instinct taught me better, is but short and limited.

To sum up: If instinct did not lead us to retroact, to examine an object
unexpectedly offered to our gaze, each surprise would expose us to
error.

Now we must retroact to see an object as a whole and not expose
ourselves to error, and then, too, does not the love which a creature
inspires within us naturally extend to the medium which surrounds him,
and in this way does it not seem as if all that touched him partook of
his life and thus acquired some title to our contemplation?

Thus my mind, tortured by one preoccupying thought, had, thanks to the
fixed idea which swayed it, found wondrous lessons in the simple
incident of my cousin's return, otherwise so devoid of interest; and I
may truly say that the lesson learned from meeting my cousin taught me
more than all those I had received in the space of three years. In
short, I had learned how vain is advice dictated by the caprice of a
master without a system! I had learned the inanity of individual reason
in a matter of experience. I knew that certain laws existed, that those
laws proceeded from a Supreme Reason, an immense centre of light, of
which each man's reason is but a single ray. I knew without a doubt how
ignorant my masters were of those laws to the study of which I meant to
devote my life. I possessed facts which I saw could be applied in
countless ways, luminous doctrines radiating from the application.

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