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Delsarte System of Oratory by Various

V >> Various >> Delsarte System of Oratory




The examples in virtue of which I saw the errors of my masters,
unanimously proclaimed the tenuity of the voice to be in proportion to
its acuteness.

Now this formula is, in letter as in spirit, the reverse of the
prescription upon which, by a caprice whose cause I have just explained,
all the masters of art agree.

I then perceived that my first affirmations were no better founded than
those of the masters, whose theories I had attacked. The truth of the
matter is that ascending progressions may arise from opposite shades of
meaning. "Therefore," said I to myself, "it is equally inadmissible to
exclude either affirmation."

The law is necessarily complex: let us bring together, that we may seize
them as a whole, both the contrary expressions and the circumstances
which produce them.

Vulgar and uncultured people, as well as children, seem to act in regard
to an ascensional vocal progression in an inverse sense to
well-educated, or, at any rate, affectionate persons, such as mothers,
fond nurses, etc.

No example has, to my knowledge, contradicted this remark.

But why this difference? What are its motive causes?

"Ha!" I cried, as if struck by lightning, "I've found the law! As with
the movements of the head, _sensuality_ and _tenderness_, these shades
of the voice may be traced back to two distinct sources: _sentiment_ and
_passion_. It is sentiment which I have seen revealed in mothers; it is
passion which we find in uncultured persons."

Sentiment and passion, then, proceed in an inverse way. Passion
strengthens the voice in proportion as it rises, and sentiment, on the
contrary, softens it in due ratio to its intensity. It was the confusion
of these different sources which caused a momentary obscurity in my
understanding.

Let us now formulate boldly the law of vocal proportions.

Given a rising form, such as the ascending scale, there will be
intensitive progression when this form should express passion (whether
impulse, excitement or vehemence).

There will be, on the other hand, a diminution of intensity where this
same form should express sentiment.

This law even seems regulated by a quantitative expression, the form of
which appeared to me like a flash of light. This is the formula:

Under the influence of sentiment the smallest and most insignificant
things that we may wish to represent proportion themselves to the degree
of acuteness of the sounds, which become softened in proportion as they
rise.

Under the influence of passion, on the contrary, the voice rises, with a
corresponding brilliancy, in proportion to the magnitude of the thing
it would express, and becomes lowered to express smallness or meanness.
Thus an ascending scale being given, it must be considered as a double
scale of proportion, agreeing alternately with an increasing or
decreasing intensitive progression, increasing under the influence of
passion and decreasing under the influence of sentiment.

Thus we would not use the same tones for the words: "Oh, what a pretty
little girl!" "What a lovely little flower!" and: "See that nice, fat
peasant woman!" "What a comfortable great house!"

By such formulae as these I was able to sum up, in clear and didactic
form, the multifarious examples suggested by my memory, startled at
first by their contradiction and then delighted at the light thrown upon
them by these very formulae, due, not to my own merit, but to the favor
of Him who holds in His hand the source of all truth.

Thus, I feel and readily acknowledge, that the discovery upon which I am
at work is not my own work; and, therefore, I pray for it as for a
signal favor. Nor can it be otherwise with any man. It is, therefore,
always an impertinence for any man to attribute to his personal genius,
vast as he may suppose it to be, the discovery of any law. God alone
discloses His treasures, and, as I have experienced, He only reveals
them to the eye of reason raised by humility to contemplation.

Man seeks that which he desires to know with attention and patience
proportioned to the ardor of his desire. The attention of which his mind
is capable and the constancy of will brought to bear in pursuit of his
research, constitute his only mark of distinction. Herein lies all the
merit to which he can lay just claim. But at a moment absolutely
unforeseen, God reveals to him that which he seeks, I should say that
for which he does not seek, and for his due edification it is generally
the opposite of what he seeks which is revealed to him. This is not to
be contested. Thus the things discovered to him cause him such surprise
that he never fails to beat his brow when he sees them, as if to prove
that he is not the author of their discovery, and that he was far from
foreseeing anything like what has been shown to him; and that there may
be no possible mistake in the interpretation of the gesture, he
invariably accompanies it by the phrase: "What a fool I am!" All will
admit that if a man really believed himself the author of his discovery,
he takes a very inopportune time to declare his impotence and his
stupidity so distinctly. But taking none too kindly his avowal which,
moreover, is but the proclamation of an indisputable truth, let us
rather say that this act of humility is forced from him by the greatness
of his surprise.

Happy, very happy is the man whose pride does not instantly react
against the humble and truthful confession of his folly.

Ever since I made these remarks I have asked myself the cause of the
sterility of the learned bodies, and I do not hesitate to say to-day,
that it is because scientists refuse to declare themselves fools, and it
is to this lack of sincerity that they doubtless owe the punishment that
paralyzes their genius.

How can these men fail to take seriously the little knowledge to which
they cling and their fortune and renown; how can these wise men, to whom
the world pays incessant homage, consent meekly to confess the infirmity
of their reason? They feign, on the contrary, even when crushed beneath
the Divine splendor, an air of great importance; and when the Omnipotent
in His mercy deigns to bend to their low level, to lay open to them the
treasures of His sovereign thought, do you think that in token of the
sacred and respectful admiration which they owe in return for such
goodness, they will prostrate themselves like the Seraphim whose
knowledge assuredly equals the few notions which they adorn with that
title? Ah! far from it. You little know these scientists, when you
impute to them an act which they would qualify as contemptible and would
declare unworthy of a free-thinker! They stand erect, on the contrary,
with head held high, insolently laying claim, by virtue of I know not
what conquest of the human mind, to judge the eternal and immovable
light of the Divine Reason.




Episode IV.



My retrospective journey from this point of departure seemed destined to
be even more full of observations than that which preceded it. My day
had been so full of work, so fruitful in unexpected discoveries, that it
was absolutely necessary for me to stop at this first station.

After a few days of rest I naturally resumed my walk, toward the garden
of the Tuileries, whither I was led by an instinct full of promise.
There, in fact, fresh re-appearances were not long in adding light to
that with which I was still dazzled!

I remember that I had been vaguely struck by the contemplative attitude
of a mother toward her child. The reason why this attitude struck me
even in the midst of my absorption in search of notes relative to the
thumb, was, first, because this attitude was a contrast to that assumed
by most of the nurses under the action of the same feeling; and, in the
next place, it seemed to deny the contemplative forms which I had
deduced from my first discovery, and which rested upon such motives as
the following: That a painter admires his work by throwing back his
head. Hitherto it had seemed to me clearly proven that admiring
contemplation entailed this retroaction. I considered this, it will be
remembered, the characteristic feature of a law, and that for the
reasons which I had previously given. Well! were all these reasons,
plausible as they appeared, to be contradicted by a single fact still
present to my memory, in spite of the observations in the midst of which
it arose, and which, moreover, should have been more than enough to
efface it? Strange to say, this fact vaguely noted amidst preoeccupations
to which it seemed absolutely foreign, had remained persistently in my
mind! Now this fact, becoming by a reflex act the object of serious
thought, resulted from this observation:

That a woman, as she contemplated her child, bent her head toward it.

Searching in my memory, I found several similar instances completely
confirming this principle, opposed to my observations, that
contemplation tends to push the head toward the object contemplated.

And yet this example does not affect those to which I had at first paid
exclusive heed. Here, as in the preceding remarks, the law is complex,
and it must first be recognized that contemplation or simple admiration
is produced alike by the retreat or advance of the head. This double
action being admitted, it remained to decide how far they might be
mingled in a single situation; that is to say, to what point these two
inverse inclinations might be produced indifferently; and if, as I must
_a priori_ suppose, these inclinations recognized two distinct causes.
If so, what were those reasons? The question was not easy of solution,
and yet it must be decided definitely. I could enjoy no peace until I
had answered it. The doubt instilled into my mind by this new
contradiction was intolerable. I set boldly to work, determined not to
pause until I had found a final solution. I called to mind all my
memories having any bearing on this double phenomenon. These memories
were far more numerous and far more striking than I had dared to hope.
What a magnificent thing are those mysterious reservoirs whence, at a
given moment, flow thousands of pictures which until then we knew not
that we possessed? A whole world of prostrate believers adoringly
turning their heads toward the object of their worship, appeared before
me to support the example afforded me by the mother lovingly bending her
head toward the child at which she gazed.

Among other instances, I saw a venerable master affectionately bending
his head toward the being to whom he thus seemed with touching
predilection to give luminous instructions.

I saw lovers gazing at their loved one with this attractive pose of the
head, their tenderness seeming thus to be eloquently affirmed. But, side
by side with these examples, I saw others totally opposite; thus, other
lovers presented themselves to my mind's eye with very different aspect,
and their number seemed far greater than that of the other. These lovers
delighted to gaze at their sweetheart as painters study their work, with
head thrown back. I saw mothers and many nurses gazing at children with
this same retroactive movement which stamped their gaze with a certain
expression of satisfied pride, generally to be noted in those who
carried a nursling distinguished for its beauty or the elegance of its
clothes.

Two words, as important as they are opposite in the sense that they
determine, are disengaged: _sensuality_ and _tenderness_.

Such are the sources to which we must refer the attitudes assumed by the
head on sight of the object considered.

Between these inverse attitudes a third should naturally be placed. It
was easy for me to characterize this latter: I called it _colorless_ or
_indifferent_.

It is entirely natural that the man who considers an object from the
point of view of the mere examination which his mind makes of it, should
simply look it in the face until that object had aroused the innermost
movements of the soul or of the life.

Whence it invariably follows that from the incitement of these
movements, the head is bent to the side of the soul or to the side of
the senses.

"Which is, then, for the head, the side of the soul," you will ask me,
"and which the side of the senses?"

I will reply simply, to cut short the useless description of the many
drawbacks that preceded the clear demonstration that I finally
established, that the side of the heart is the objective side that
occupies the interlocutor, and that the side of the senses is the
subjective, personal side toward which the head retroacts; that is to
say, the side opposed to the object under examination. Thus, when the
head moves in an inverse direction from the object that it examines, it
is from a selfish standpoint; and when the examiner bends toward the
object it is in contempt of self that the object is viewed.

These are the two related looks that I have named Sensuality and
Tenderness, for these reasons:

The former of these glances is addressed exclusively to the form of its
object; it caresses the periphery of it, and, the better to appreciate
its totality, moves away from it. This is what occurs in the retroactive
attitude of the head.

The other look, on the contrary, aims at the heart of things without
pausing on the surface, disdaining all that is external. It strives to
penetrate the object to its very essence, as if to unite itself more
closely within it; it has the expression of confidence, of faith--in a
word, the giving up of self.

Thus, when a man presses a woman's hand, we may affirm one of three
things from the attitude which his head assumes:

1. That he does not love her, if his head remains straight or simply
bent in facing her.

2. That he loves her tenderly, if he bows his head obliquely toward her.

3. Finally, that he loves her sensually--that is to say, solely for her
physical qualities--if, on looking at her, he moves his head toward the
shoulder which is opposite her.

Such are, in brief, the three attitudes of the head and the eyes, which
I have named _colorless, affectional, sensual_.

Henceforth I possessed completely the law of the inclinations of the
head, a law which derives from its very complexity the fertility of its
applications.




Episode V.

Semeiotics of The Shoulder.



When I found myself the possessor of this law whose triple formula is of
a nature to defy every objection, I sought to appropriate to myself,
before the mirror, all its applications.

But there arose yet another difficulty that I had not foreseen.

I, indeed, reproduced, and at the proper time, the movements of the head
already described, but they remained awkward and lifeless.

What was the cause of this awkwardness and coldness of which I was well
aware, but which I could not help? I strove unceasingly to reproduce the
examples that lived so vividly in my memory, but all these laborious
reproductions, these efforts from memory, were futile. The stubbornness
of an indomitable will, however, led only to a negative result. I was
vexed at an awkwardness the reason of which I could not find.

One day, almost discouraged by the lack of success in my researches, I
sorrowfully said to myself: "What shall I do? Alas! the more I labor,
the less clearly I see; am I incapable of reproducing nature--is the
difficulty that holds me back invincible?"

As I uttered the preceding words, I noticed that, under the sway of the
grief which dictated them, my shoulders were strangely lifted up, and,
as then I found myself in the attitude which I had previously tried to
render natural, the unexpected movement of my shoulders, joined to that
attitude, suddenly impressed it with an expression of life so just, so
true, so surprising, that I was overwhelmed.

Thus I gained possession of an aesthetic fact of the first rank, and I
was as amazed at my discovery as I was surprised that I had not observed
sooner a self-evident movement, whose powerful and expressive character
seems fundamentally connected with the actions of the head. "How stupid
I am," I thought, "not to have remarked so evident an action of an agent
which leads the head itself. How could I let this movement of the
shoulder escape me!" And I revelled in the pleasurable triumph of
reproducing and contemplating expressions which I could not have
rendered previously without dishonoring them. Thenceforth I understood
without a doubt all the importance of this latest discovery. But this
importance, clearly proven as it was, was not yet fully explained to me.

Thus, I knew henceforth the necessity for movements of the shoulder, but
I was still ignorant of their motive cause; and I was reluctant to be
longer ignorant. I foresaw a concomitance of relations between this
movement of the shoulder and the expression of the head.

The shoulder, then, became, in its turn, the chief object of my
studies, and I gained therefrom clear and indisputable principles.

In this way I managed to form the bases of my discovery. The mothers
whom I had seen bending their heads over the children on whom they
gazed, thus revealed something unreserved and touching; and in my
ignorance the important part which the shoulder played in the attitude
had escaped me. It was indeed from the action of the shoulder, even more
than from the inclination of the head, that this expression of
tenderness, so touching to behold, proceeded.

The head, in such a case, accordingly receives its greatest sum of
expression from the shoulder. That is a fact to be noted.

For instance, let a head--however loving we may suppose it to be
intrinsically--bend toward the object of its contemplation, and let the
shoulder not be lifted, that head will plainly lack an air of vitality
and warm sincerity without which it cannot persuade us. It will lack
that irresistible character of intensity which, in itself, supposes
love; in brief, it will be lacking in love.

"Then," I said, "I have found in the shoulder the agent, the centre of
the manifestations of love."

Yes, if in pressing a friend's hand I raise my shoulders, I shall
thereby eloquently demonstrate all the affection with which he inspires
me.

If in looking at a woman I clasp my hands and at the same time raise my
shoulders, there is no longer any doubt as to the feeling that attaches
me to her, and instinctively every one will say: "He loves her truly;"
but if, preserving the same attitude in the same situation, the same
facial expression, the same movement of the head, I happen to withhold
the action of the shoulder, instantly all love will disappear from my
expression and nothing will be left to that attitude but a sentiment
vague and cold as falsehood.

Once more, then, the inclinations of the head whose law I have
previously determined, seem, to owe to the shoulder alone the
affectionate meaning that they express; but the head--as I have
said,--in its double inclination, characterizes two kinds of love (or
rather two sources of love) which are not to be confounded: _sensuality_
and _tenderness_.

What part, then, does the shoulder play in regard to this distinction?
It will be curious to determine this point. Let us see!

The part played by the shoulder is considerable in tenderness; that is
not to be doubted. But its role seems to be less in sensuality. Thus the
shoulder generally rises less when the head retroacts than when it
advances toward the object of its contemplation. Why is this? Is it
because sensuality pertains less to love than tenderness? Has it not the
same title to rank as one of the aspects of love? In a word, why is less
demand made upon the shoulder in one instance than in the other?

If I do not mistake, the reason is this: love gives more than it lays
claim to receive, while sensuality asks continually and seeks merely the
possession of its object. Love understands and loves sacrifice; it
pervades the whole being; it inspires it to bestow its entire self, and
that gift admits of no reserve.

Sensuality, on the contrary, is essentially selfish; far from giving
itself, it pretends to appropriate and absorb in itself the object of
its desires. Sensuality is, so to speak, but a distorted, narrow and
localized love; the body is the object of its contemplation, and it
[sensuality] sees nothing beyond the possession of the object.

But love does not stop at the body--that would be its tomb; it crosses
the limits of it, to rise to the soul in which it is utterly absorbed.
Thus love transfigures the being by consuming its personality, whence it
comes that he who loves, no longer lives his own life, but the life of
the being whom he contemplates.

Let the vulgar continually confound these two things in their
manifestations; let lovers themselves fail to distinguish accurately
between tenderness and sensuality; for me this confusion is henceforth
forbidden, and I can from the first glance boldly separate them, thanks
to the lessons taught me by the inflections of the head.

But let us return to the shoulder. Am I not right in saying that in this
agent I possess the organic criterion of love? Yes, I maintain it. But
let us follow the action of this organ in its various manifestations.

One thing at first amazed me, in view of the part which I felt I must
assign to the shoulder. Whence comes, if the designation of that role be
in conformity with truth,--whence comes the activity so apparent, so
vehement indeed, which the shoulder displays in a movement of anger or
of mere impatience? Whence comes its perfect concomitance or relations
with moral or physical pain? Lastly, whence comes that universal
application which I just now perceived clearly and which, until now, I
had confined to such narrow limits? But if the elevation of the shoulder
is not the criterion of love, if, on the contrary, that movement is met
with again just as correctly associated with the most contradictory
impressions, what can it mean?

Here I was, once again, thrown far back from the discovery that I was so
sure I possessed.

It is very fortunate that I have been neither an author nor a
journalist, and I bless to-day that distrust of self which has saved me
from the mania of writing. I highly congratulate myself on the spirit of
prudence that has invariably made me reply to whoever pressed me to
publish: "When I am old."

Age has come, and it has found me even less disposed to publicity than
ever. This work owes its existence solely to the earnest and continual
solicitations, the sometimes severe demands of deep friendship and
devotion, which it was impossible for me to refuse. This book is not,
then, a spontaneous enterprise on my part; it is the work of friendship.
And if this book has any measure of success, if it accomplishes any
good, it may be traced back to and acknowledged as rising from the
never-failing encouragement of my old friend Brucker.

Let us return, now, to where I was in my researches.

It remains, then, for me to specify the true meaning of the shoulders in
the expression of the passions. Their intervention in all forms of
emotion being proven to me, it would seem that the very frequency of
that intervention should exclude the possibility of assigning any
particular role to this agent.

Fancy my perplexity, placed face to face with an organ infinitely
expressive, but whose physiognomy is mingled promiscuously with every
sentiment and every passion!

How, then, are we to characterize the shoulder? What name shall we give
to its dominant role? How specify that supreme power outside of which
all expression ceases to exist? Is it allowable for me to call it
_neutral?_ And if the universal application of that agent apparently
authorizes that appellation up to a certain point, whence comes its
importance? Whence the empire that it exerts over the aspect of its
congeners? Is it admissible for a neutral agent to exert so much action
upon the totality of the forces to which it is allied?

Assuredly not! The word _neutral_, moreover, excludes the idea of
action, and even more strongly that of predominant action which belongs
surpassingly to the shoulder. Truly, here was a treasure-house for me.
It was, as they say, "to give speech to the dogs."

This new difficulty only increased the determination with which I had
pursued my researches; and with the confidence arising from the fact
that no obstacle had yet conquered me, I said to myself that the
solution of this problem would be due to my perseverance. I could not,
in view of the importance of its expression, consider the shoulder as a
neutral agent. After spending a long time in vain study, I was on the
point of giving up as insoluble the problem that I had set myself. Let
us see by what simple means I obtained the solution. How much trouble
and pains one will sometimes give himself in looking for spectacles that
are on his nose!

The shoulder, in every man who is moved or agitated, rises sensibly, his
will playing no part in the ascension; the successive developments of
this involuntary act are in absolute proportion to the passional
intensity whose numeric measure they form; the shoulder may, therefore,
be fitly called _the thermometer of the sensibility_.