Читать книгу Delsarte System of Oratory - Delaumosne - Страница 4

Table of Contents

François Delsarte was born November 11, 1811, at Solesme, a little town of the Department of the North, in France. His father, who was a renowned physician and the author of several inventions, might have secured a fortune for his family, had he been more anxious for the morrow, but he died in a state bordering upon poverty.

In 1822, François was apprenticed to a porcelain painter of Paris, but, yielding to a taste and aptitude for music, in the year 1825, he sought and obtained admission to the Conservatory as a pensioner. Here a great trial awaited him--a trial which wrecked his musical career, but was a decided gain for his genius. He had been placed in the vocal classes, and in consequence of faults in method and direction, he lost his voice. He was inconsolable, but, without making light of his sorrow, we may count that loss happy, which gave the world its first law-giver in the art of oratory.

The young student refused to accept this calamity without making one final effort to retrieve it. He presented himself at the musical contest of 1829. His impaired voice rendered success impossible, but kind words from influential friends in a great measure compensated for defeat.

The celebrated Nourrit said to him: "I have given you my vote for the first prize, and my children shall have no singing-master but you."

"Courage," said Madame Malibran, pressing his hand. "You will one day be a great artist."

But Delsarte knew that without a voice he must renounce the stage, and yielding to the inevitable, he gave up the role of the actor to assume the functions of the professor. After his own shipwreck upon a bark without pilot or compass, he summoned up courage to search into the laws of an art which had hitherto subsisted only upon caprice and personal inspiration.

After several years of diligent study, he discovered and formulated the essential laws of all art; and, thanks to him, æsthetic science in our day has the same precision as mathematical science. He had numerous pupils, many of whom have become distinguished in various public careers--in the pulpit, at the bar, on the stage, and at the tribune.

Madame Sontag, when she wished to interpret Gluck's music, chose Delsarte for her teacher. Rachel drew inspiration from his counsels, and he became her guardian of the sacred fire. He was urgently solicited to appear with her at the Théâtre-Français, but religious scruples led him to refuse the finest offers.

Madame de Giradin (Delphine Gay), surnamed the Muse of her country, welcomed him gladly to her salon, then the rendezvous of the world of art and letters, and regretted not seeing him oftener. He was more than once invited to the literary sessions of Juilly college, and, under the spell of his diction, the pupils became animated by a new ardor for study.

Monseigneur Sibour had great esteem and affection for Delsarte, and made him his frequent guest. It was in the salon of this art-loving archbishop that Delsarte achieved one of his most brilliant triumphs. All the notable men of science had gathered there, and the conversation took such a turn that Delsarte found opportunity to give, without offence, a challenge in these two lines of Racine:

L'onde approche, se brise, et vomit à nos yeux, Parmi des flots d'écume, un monstre furieux.

("The wave draws near, it breaks, and casts before our eyes,

Amid the floods of foam, a monster grim and dire.")

"Please tell me the most emphatic and significant word here," said Delsarte.

All reflected, sought out and then gave, each in turn, his chosen word. Every word was selected save the conjunction et (and). No one thought of that.

Delsarte then rose, and in a calm and modest, but triumphant tone, said: "The significant, emphatic word is the only one which has escaped you. It is the conjunction and, whose elliptic sense leaves us in apprehension of that which is about to happen." All owned themselves vanquished, and applauded the triumphant artist.

Donoso Cortés made Delsarte a chosen confidant of his ideas. One day, when the great master of oratorical diction had recited to him the Dies Irae, the illustrious philosopher, in an access of religious emotion, begged that this hymn might be chanted at his funeral. Delsarte promised it, and he kept his word.

When invited to the court of Louis Philippe, he replied: "I am not a court buffoon." When a generous compensation was hinted at, he answered: "I do not sell my loves." When it was urged that the occasion was a birth-day fête to be given his father by the Duke of Orleans, he accepted the invitation upon three conditions, thus stated by himself: "1st. I shall be the only singer; 2d. I shall have no accompaniment but the opera chorus; 3d. I shall receive no compensation." The conditions were assented to, and Delsarte surpassed himself. The king paid him such marked attentions that M. Ingres felt constrained to say: "One might declare in truth that it is Delsarte who is king of France."

Delsarte's reputation had passed the frontier. The king of Hanover committed to his instruction the greatest musical artiste of his realm, and was so gratified with her improvement that, wishing to recompense the professor, he sent him the much prized Hanoverian medal of arts and sciences, accompanied by a letter from his own royal hand. Delsarte afterwards received from the same king the cross of a Chevalier of the Guelph order.

Delsarte's auditors were not the only ones to sound his praises. The learned reviews extolled his merits. Such writers as Laurentie, Riancey, Lamartine and Théophile Gautier awarded him the most enthusiastic praise. Posterity will perpetuate his fame.

M. Laurentie writes: "I heard Delsarte recite one evening 'Iphigenia's Dream,' which the audience had besought of him. The hall remained thrilled and breathless under this impaired and yet sovereign voice. All yielded in rapt astonishment to the spell. There was no prestige, no theatrical illusion. Iphigenia was a professor in a black frock coat; the orchestra was a piano, giving forth here and there an unexpected modulation. This was his whole force; yet the hall was mute, hearts beat, tears flowed from many eyes, and when the recital ended, enthusiastic shouts arose, as if Iphigenia in person had just recounted her terrors."

After Delsarte had gathered so abundant a harvest of laurels, fate decided that he had lived long enough. When he had reached his sixtieth year, he was attacked by hypertrophy of the heart, which left his rich organization in ruins. He was no longer the artist of graceful, supple, expressive and harmonious movements; no longer the thinker with profound and luminous ideas. But in the midst of this physical and intellectual ruin, the Christian sentiment retained its strong, sweet energy. A believer in the sacraments which he had received in days of health, he asked for them in the hour of danger, and many times he partook of that sacrament of love whose virtue he had taught so well.

Finally, after having lingered for months in a state that was neither life nor death, surrounded by his pious wife, and his weeping, praying children, he rendered his soul to God on the 20th of July, 1871.

Delsarte never could be persuaded to write anything upon themes foreign to those connected with his musical and vocal work. The author of this volume desires to save from oblivion the most wonderful conception of this superior intellect: his Course of Æsthetic Oratory. He dares promise to be a faithful interpreter. If excuse be needed for undertaking a task so delicate, he replies that he addresses himself to a class of readers who will know how to appreciate his motives.

The merit of Delsarte, the honor of his family, the gratification of his numerous friends, the interests of science, the claims of friendship, demand that this light should not be left under a bushel, but placed upon a candlestick--this light which has shed so brilliant a glow, and enriched the arts with a new splendor.