Delsarte System of Oratory by Various

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Practical trueness, while it allows us to depart from legitimate
trueness, has strong analogies with the _tempo rubato_. The _tempo
rubato_, which Delsarte employed in a remarkable and striking way in
dramatic passages, actually permits the musician, in certain cases and
in the desired proportion, to change the value of the notes while
respecting the principle of time, which is invariable. But the
application of these rules is subject to the emotional intensity; it is,
therefore, impossible to determine theoretically and absolutely its
various bearings.

Delsarte.

[From the _Atlantic Monthly_ for May, 1871, by permission of Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.]

By Francis A. Durivage.

It was not until last summer, and then under peculiarly impressive
circumstances, that I saw, for the first time, a remarkable man whose
name is indissolubly associated with French art--Francois Delsarte, of
Paris. My curiosity had been deeply excited by what I had heard of him.
I was told that, after long years of patient toil and profound thought,
his genius had discovered and developed a scientific basis for
histrionic art, that he had substituted law for empiricism in the domain
of the most potential of the fine arts; and when the names of Rachel and
Macready were quoted in his list of pupils, I was eager to behold the
master and to learn something of the system which has yielded such
fruits to the modern stage.

The kindness of a friend procured me the rare privilege of admission to
the last session of Delsarte's course, which closed in July. It was on
one of those weary summer days when the hush of expectation, following
the fierce excitement caused by the declaration of war, had eclipsed the
gayety of Paris.

The notes of the Marseillaise had ceased to stir the blood like the
sound of a trumpet. The glare and glitter of French chivalry, which had
masked the feebleness of the Imperial military system, had vanished. The
superb Cent Gardes, the brilliant lancers, the savage Turcos, and the
dashing Spahis had been replaced by the coarsely clad troops of the
line. It was "grim-visaged war" and not its pageantry that we beheld;
heavy guns rumbling slowly across the Place de la Concorde; dark masses
of men moving like shadows on their funeral march to the perilous edge
of battle. It was a relief to exchange these sad scenes for that quiet
interior of the Boulevard de Courcelles, where a little group of persons
devoted to aesthetic culture were gathered around their teacher, perhaps
for the last time.

The personal appearance of Delsarte is impressive. Years have not
deprived his massive form of its vigor, nor dimmed the fire of his eye.
His head is cast in a Roman mould; indeed, the fine medallion likeness
executed by his daughter might well pass for an antique in the eyes of a
stranger. In his personal bearing there is nothing of that
self-assertion, that posing, which is a common defect of his
distinguished countrymen.

The pupils whom I met were ladies, with the single exception of a young
American, Mr. James S. MacKaye, to whom, as his favorite disciple and
one designated to succeed him in his profession, Delsarte has imparted
all the minutiae of his science. To this gentleman was assigned the
honor of opening the _seance_ by a brief exposition of the system, and
of closing it by reciting in French a brilliant tragic monologue, the
effect of which, in spite of the absence of appropriate costume and
scenic illusion, electrified the audience. In this scene, "Les Terreurs
de Thoas," those rapidly changing expressions of the features, those
statuesque attitudes melting into each other, which we all remember in
Rachel, indicated a common origin. It needed not the added eloquence of
words and the sombre music of the voice to tell the tragic story of the
victim of the Eumenides. After listening to the recitation, I was not
surprised to learn that the young student was to appear, under the
auspices of his teacher, at the Theatre Francais, during the approaching
winter,--an honor never before conceded to any foreigner. The large
American colony in Paris was looking forward to this _debut_ with a
natural pride, and Delsarte with the calm assurance of his favorite's
triumph. Alas! we all reckoned without taking King William, the Crown
Prince, the Fed Prince, von Moltke, and von Bismarck into our account.
We never fancied, on that bright July morning, that Krupp of Essen's
cannon and the needle-gun were soon to give laws to Paris. But _inter
arma silent artes_ as well as _leges_. Nearer and deadlier tragedies
than those of Corneille and Racine were soon to be enacted; and the
poor players were summoned to perform their parts upon no mimic stage.
However, "what though the field be lost? all is not lost." The _venue_,
to borrow a legal phrase, has been changed, but the cause has not been
abandoned. Our young countryman has returned to his native land,
bringing with him the fruits of his long studies, to appeal to an
American audience, and it is quite possible that his teacher may be
induced to transfer his school of art to the United States.

Although at this _seance_ Delsarte appeared disposed to efface himself
in favor of his brilliant representative, he kindly consented to speak a
few words (and what a charming French lesson was his _causerie_!) and to
present a specimen of his pantomimic powers. The latter exhibition was
really surprising. He depicted the various passions and emotions of the
human soul, by means of expression and gesture only, without uttering a
single syllable; moving the spectators to tears, exciting them to
enthusiasm, or thrilling them with terror at his will; in a word,
completely magnetizing them. Not a discord in his diatonic scale. You
were forced to admit that every gesture, every movement of a facial
muscle, had a true purpose, a _raison d'etre_. It was a triumphant
demonstration.

The life of this great master and teacher, hereafter to be known as the
founder of the Science of Dramatic Art, crowded with strange
vicissitudes and romantic episodes, forms a record full of interest.

Francois Delsarte was born at Solesmes, Department of the North, France,
in 1811. His father was a physician, and his mother a woman of rare
abilities, who taught herself to speak and write several languages.

Shortly after the battle of Waterloo a detachment of the allied troops
was passing through Solesmes, in the midst of a dead and sullen silence,
when the commandant's quick ear caught the sound of a childish voice
crying, "Vive l'Em-pe-weur! Vive Na-po-le-on!" Every one smiled at the
juvenile speaker's audacity, except the stern officer whose name has,
unfortunately, escaped the infamous celebrity it deserved. By his
orders, a platoon of soldiers sought out the child's home and burned it
to the ground; and thus little Francois Delsarte became the innocent
cause of the ruin of his family.

The atrocities committed during the White Terror, of which this incident
is an example, though passed over by history, are not forgotten by the
survivors of that cruel period. The leaders in the second terror could
not plead the ignorance of Robespierre's followers in excuse of their
excesses, for they were nobles, magistrates, priests and officers of
rank.

Delsarte's early years were passed in the midst of cruel privations and
domestic troubles, for even love forsook a home blighted by poverty. His
father, naturally proud and imperious, irritated by straitened
circumstances, out of which there seemed no issue, crushed by the weight
of obligations to others, lost heart and hope, became morose, sceptical
and bitter, and treated his wife and family with such harshness and
injustice, that Delsarte's mother was finally compelled to abandon her
husband. She fled with her two boys to Paris, hoping there to make her
talents available. All her efforts, however, were fruitless, and she
found herself on the verge of starvation.

One evening, as she sat with her two boys in her wretched room, tortured
by their questions after their father, she could not suppress her tears.
Francois, the eldest, then nine years of age, tried to console her. He
told her that he was almost a man, able to earn his food and to take
care of her and his little brother. She listened to his prattle with a
sad smile, kissed him and embraced him.

During all of the sleepless night which followed, Francois was revolving
his hidden projects of independence, and at gray dawn, confiding his
purpose only to his brother, and bidding him tell his mother, when she
awoke, that he would soon be back with money to buy bread for them, the
child stole forth to seek his fortune in the great dreary world of
Paris.

He wandered about all day, and at night, hungry and weary, entered a
jeweler's shop in the Palais Royal, kept by an old woman, to whom he
appealed for employment--vainly at first. Finally, however, she
consented to engage him as a drudge and errand boy, allowed him to sleep
in an _armoire_ over the door, and gave him four pounds of bread a week
in lieu of wages. Four pounds of bread a week! The allowance appeared
munificent, and he accepted the offer with gratitude. A brief experience
dispelled his illusions. He was always weary and always hungry. After a
few weeks' trial, he left his first benefactress and secured some kind
of employment at five sous a day, out of which he contrived to save two.
In two weeks he had saved nearly a franc and a half for his dear mother.
One day, while executing a commission for his employer, he found his
little brother alone in the street crying bitterly.

"How is dear mamma?" was his first question.

"Dead, and carried away by ugly men."

The winter of 1821 was unusually severe for Paris. One night Delsarte
and his brother fell asleep in each other's arms in the wretched loft
they occupied; but when the former opened his eyes to the morning's
light he was holding a corpse to his heart. The little boy had perished
of cold and starvation. Almost mad with terror and grief, the survivor
rushed into the streets to summon the neighbors.

The next day a little hatless boy, in rags and nearly barefooted,
followed two men bearing a small pine coffin which they deposited in the
_fosse commune_ of _Pere la Chaise_.

After seeing the grave covered, Delsarte left the cemetery and wandered
wearily through the snow, now utterly alone in the world, across the
plain of St. Denis. Overcome by cold, hunger, and grief, he sank to the
ground, and then, before he lost consciousness, a strain of music, real
or imaginary, met his ear and charmed him to a forgetfulness of misery,
bereavement, all the evils that environed him. It was the first
awakening of his artist soul, and to this day Delsarte believes that it
was no earthly music that he heard.

Rousing himself from a sort of stupor into which he had fallen, he saw a
_chiffonnier_ bending over him. The man had for a moment mistaken the
prostrate form for a bundle of rags; but taking pity on the half-frozen
lad, he placed him in his basket and carried him to his miserable home.
And so the future artist commenced his professional career as a Parisian
rag-picker.

While wandering about the great city in the interest of his employer,
his only solace was to listen to the songs of itinerant vocalists and
the occasional music of a military band. Music became his passion. From
some of the gamins he learned the seven notes of the scale, and, to
preserve the melodies that delighted him, he invented a system of
musical notation. On a certain holiday, when he was twelve years old,
while listening to the delightful music in the garden of the Tuileries,
the little _chiffonnier_ busied himself with drawing figures in the
dust. An old man of eccentric appearance, noticing his earnest
diligence, accosted him.

"What are you doing there, boy?" he asked.

Terrified at first, but reassured by the kind manner of the stranger,
Delsarte replied: "Writing down the music, sir."

"Do you mean to say those marks have any significance? That you can read
them?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Let me hear you."

Encouraged by the interest manifested in him, the lad sang in a sweet
and pure but sad voice the strains just played by the military band. The
old man was amazed.

"Who taught you this process?"

"Nobody, sir; found it out myself."

Bambini--for it was the then distinguished, but now almost forgotten,
professor--offered to take the boy home with him; and he who had entered
the garden of the Tuileries a rag-picker, left it a recognized musician.
In the dust of Paris were first written the elements of a system
destined to regenerate art. Bambini taught his protege all he knew, but
the pupil soon surpassed the master and became his instructor in turn;
for if the one had talent, the other possessed genius.

Bambini predicted the future of Delsarte. One day when they were walking
arm-in-arm in the Avenue des Champs-Elysees, the former said: "Do you
see all those people in carriages, with their fine liveries and
magnificent clothes? Well, the day will come when they will only be too
happy to listen to you, proud of your presence in their _salons_,
envying your fame as a great artist."

Bambini's death left Delsarte poor and friendless. At fourteen, however,
he managed to get admitted into the Conservatoire, where, though he
labored hard, he met with harsh treatment and discouragement. The
professors disliked him for his reflective nature and persistent
questionings which brought to light the superficiality of their
acquirements; his fellow-pupils, for his exclusive devotion to study and
his reserve, the result of diffidence rather than of _hauteur_. His
professors were dictators, who, while differing from each other as
teachers, were yet united in frowning upon any attempt on the part of
their pupil to emancipate himself from the thraldom of conventionalism
and routine. Genius was a heresy for which they had no mercy.

Thrown upon his own resources, he soon developed, by careful observation
of nature and a constant study of cause and effect, a system and a style
radically differing from those of the professors and their servile
imitators.

One day, after having sung in his own style at one of the public
exhibitions--applauded, however, only by a single auditor,--he was
walking sadly and slowly in the court-yard of the Conservatoire, when a
lady and a gentleman approached him.

"Courage, my friend," said the lady. "Your singing has given me the
highest pleasure. You will be a great artist."

So spake Marie Malibran, the queen of song.

"My friend," said her companion, "It was I who applauded you just now.
In my opinion, you are a singer _hors de ligne_. When my children are
ready to learn music, you, above all others, shall be their professor."

These were the words of Adolphe Nourrit. The praises of Malibran and
Nourrit gave Delsarte courage, revived his hopes, and decided him to
follow implicitly the promptings of his genius. His extreme poverty
compelled him at last to apply to the Conservatoire for a diploma which
would enable him to secure a situation at one of the lyric theatres. It
was refused.

The autumn of 1829 found him a shabby, almost ragged applicant for
employment at the stage-door of the Opera Comique. Repeated rebuffs
failed to baffle his desperate pertinacity.

One day the director, hearing of the annoyance to which his
subordinates were subjected by Delsarte, determined to abate the
nuisance by one of those cruel _coups-de-main_ of which Frenchmen are
pre-eminently capable. The next night, during the performance, when
Delsarte called, he was, to his surprise and delight, shown into the
great man's presence.

"Well, sir, what do you want?"

"Pardon, Monsieur, I came to seek a place at your theatre."

"There is but one vacant, and you don't seem capable of filling that. I
want only a call-boy."

"Sir, I am prepared to fill the position of a _premier sujet_ among your
singers."

"_Imbecile!_"

"Monsieur, if my clothes are poor, my art is genuine."

"Well, sir, if you will sing for me, I will hear you shortly."

He left Delsarte alone, overjoyed at having secured the manager's ear.
In a few moments a surly fellow told him he was wanted below, and he
soon found himself with the manager upon the stage behind the green
curtain.

"You are to sing here," said the director. "There is your piano. In one
moment the curtain will be rung up. I am tired of your importunities. I
give you one chance to show the stuff you're made of. If you discard
this opportunity, the next time you show your face at my door you shall
be arrested and imprisoned as a vagrant."

The indignation excited in Delsarte by this cruel trick instantly gave
way before the reflection that success was a matter of life and death
with him, and that perhaps his last chance lay within his grasp. He
forgot his rags; every nerve became iron; and when the curtain was rung
up, a beggar with the bearing of a prince advanced to the foot-lights,
was received with derisive laughter by some, with glances of surprise
and indignation by others, and, with a sad and patient smile on his
countenance, gracefully saluted the brilliant audience. The courtliness
of his manner disarmed hostility; but when he sat down to the piano, ran
his fingers over the keys, and sang a few bars, the exquisite voice
found its way to every heart. With every moment his voice became more
powerful. Each gradation of emotion was rendered with an ease, an art,
an expression, that made every heartstring vibrate. Then he suddenly
stopped, bowed, and retired. The house rang with bravos. The
dress-circle forgot its reticence and joined in the tumult of applause.
He was recalled. This time he sang a grand lyric composition with the
full volume of his voice, aided in effect by those imperial gestures of
which he had already discovered the secret. The audience were
electrified. They declared that Talma was resuscitated. But when he was
a second time recalled, his tragic mood had melted; there were "tears
in his voice" as well as on his cheeks.

After the fall of the curtain the director grasped his hand, loaded him
with compliments, and offered him an engagement for a year at a salary
of ten thousand francs. He went home to occupy his wretched attic for
the last time, and falling on his knees poured forth his soul in prayer.

The next day Delsarte, neatly dressed, paid a visit to the directors of
the Conservatoire.

"Gentlemen," said he, "_you_ would not give me a recommendation as a
_chorister_; the _public_ have accorded me _this_." And he displayed his
commission as _Comedien du Roi_.

Delsarte remained upon the lyric stage until 1834, when the failure of
his voice, which had been strained at the Conservatoire, compelled him
to retire. He continued, however, the study of music, and his
productions, particularly a "Dies Irae," placed him in the front rank of
composers. At this period of his life, meditation and study resulted in
a firm religious faith, which never wavered afterward.

He now applied himself to the task of establishing a scientific basis
for lyric and dramatic art, and after years of patient labor perfected a
system on which probably his fame will ultimately rest. His _cours_ for
instruction in the principles of art was first opened in 1839. From the
outset he was appreciated by the highly cultivated few, nor was it long
before the circle extended and the new master won a European
reputation. Some of his pupils were destined for a professional career;
but many, men and women of rank and fortune, sought to learn from him
the means of rendering their brilliant _salons_ yet more attractive.
Members of most of the reigning families of Europe were numbered among
his pupils, and his apartments in Paris were filled, when I saw them,
with pictures, photographs, and other souvenirs of esteem and
friendship, from the highest dignitaries of Europe. When he consented,
on one occasion, to appear at a _soiree_ at the Tuileries, Louis
Philippe received him at the foot of the grand staircase, as if he had
been his peer, and bestowed on him during the evening the same
attentions he would have accorded to a fellow-sovereign. The citizen
king recognized the royalty of art. And it may be noted that Delsarte
would not have appeared on this occasion, except on the condition that
no remuneration should be offered to him for the exercise of his
talents.

Malibran, whose kind word in the courtyard of the Conservatoire had
revived Delsarte's fainting hopes, attended his early course of
lectures. I have already mentioned Rachel and Macready as his pupils. I
now recall the names of Sontag, of the gifted Madeleine Brohan, of
Carvalho, Barbot, Pasca (who owed everything to Delsarte), and Pajol. He
was the instructor in pulpit oratory of Pere Lacordaire, Pere
Hyacinthe, and the present abbe of Notre Dame.

Notwithstanding the labor exacted by his great specialty, he has done
much good work in various other directions. Among his mechanical
inventions are a sonotype, a tuning instrument by means of which any one
can tune a piano accurately, an improved level, theodolite and sextant,
a scale for measuring the differences in the solidity of fluids, etc.

Of the conscientiousness with which he works, it may be mentioned that
he devoted five years to the study of anatomy and physiology, to obtain
a perfect knowledge of all the muscles, their uses and capabilities,--a
knowledge of which he has utilized with remarkable success.

It is now time to give some idea of his system, which can be done most
satisfactorily, perhaps, through the medium of an article which appeared
in the _Gazette Musicale_, from the authoritative pen of A. Gueroult.
After having analyzed the maestro's theory of vocal art, he says:

"The study of gesture and its agents has been subjected by M. Delsarte
to an analysis no less profound. Thus he recognizes in the human body
three principal agents of expression, the head, the torso and the limbs,
which perform each a distinct part in the economy of a character.
Gesture, sometimes expressive, sometimes excentric, and sometimes
compressive, assumes in each case special forms, which have been
classified and described by M. Delsarte with a care and perspicuity
which make his labors on this subject entirely new, and for which I know
no equivalent anywhere. Permit me to explain more fully the utility of
this study, to cite an application, for examples are always more
eloquent than generalities. In the play of the physiognomy every portion
of the face performs a separate part. Thus, for instance, it is not
useless to know what function nature has assigned to the eye, the nose,
the mouth, in the expression of certain emotions of the soul. True
passion, which never errs, has no need of recurring to such studies; but
they are indispensable to the feigned passion of the actor. How useful
would it not be to the actor who wishes to represent madness or wrath,
to know that the eye never expresses the sentiment experienced, but
simply indicates the object of this sentiment! Cover the lower part of
your face with your hand, and impart to your look all the energy of
which it is susceptible, still it will be impossible for the most
sagacious observer to discover whether your look expresses anger or
attention. On the other hand, uncover the lower part of the face, and if
the nostrils are dilated, if the contracted lips are drawn up, there is
no doubt that anger is written on your countenance. An observation which
confirms the purely indicative part performed by the eye is, that among
raving madmen the lower part of the face is violently contracted, while
the vague and uncertain look shows clearly that their fury has no
object. It is easy to conceive what a wonderful interest the actor,
painter, or sculptor must find in the study of the human body thus
analysed from head to foot in its innumerable ways of expression.
Hence, the eloquent secrets of pantomime, those imperceptible movements
of great actors which produce such powerful impressions, are decomposed
and subjected to laws whose evidence and simplicity are a twofold source
of admiration.

"Finally, in what concerns articulate language M. Delsarte has assumed a
yet more novel task. We all know the power of certain inflections; we
know that a phrase which accented in a certain way is null, accented in
another way produces irresistible effects upon the stage. It is the
property of great artists to discover this preeminent accentuation; but
never, to my knowledge, did anyone think of referring these happy
inspirations of genius to positive laws. Yet, whence comes it that a
certain inflection, a certain word placed in relief, affects us? How
shall we explain this emotion, if not by a certain relation existing
between the laws of our organization, the laws of general grammar, and
those of musical inflection? There is always, in a phrase loudly
enunciated, one word which sustains the passionate accent. But how shall
we detach and recognize it in the midst of the phrase? How distribute
the forces of accentuation on all the words of which it is composed? How
classify and arrange them in relation to that sympathetic inflection,
without which the most energetic thought halts at our intelligence
without reaching our heart? M. Delsarte has had recourse to the same
method which guided him in the study of gesture. He did not study
declamation on the stage, but in real life, where unpremeditated
inflections spring directly from feeling; then, fortified by innumerable
observations, he rearranged grammar and rhetoric from this special point
of view, and has obtained results as simple in their principles as they
are fertile in their application.

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