Delsarte's Beginnings.
"The artist, a traveller on this earth, leaves behind imperishable
traces of his being."--_François Delsarte._
We would fain prolong the faintest rays of all that glitters and fades
too soon, and if intense light is generated in a human brain, we strive
to retain its every reflection. Nothing is indifferent which concerns
the nature of the chosen few; great men belong to the annals of their
nation, and history should be informed regarding them.
François Delsarte left this life at the moment when misfortune had
crushed France beneath her iron heel for some ten years. The date of his
death--July 20, 1871--partially explains the silence of the press on the
occasion of so vast a social loss.
The circumstance of an artistic education, which was carried on in my
presence, gave me opportunity to collect a mass of incidents and
observations in regard to the great artist who is the object of this
sketch.
I collected ideas in regard to his instruction, his method and his
discovery of the laws of æsthetics, which are the more precious that
nothing, or almost nothing, was published by him touching upon subjects
of such supreme importance. It is my duty to tell what I know.
I have already established the bases of the work which I now undertake,
in a pamphlet containing several articles published in various
newspapers. These articles were written under the inspiration of the
moment; they won the master's approval. I shall have frequent recourse
to them to correct the errors of memory and give more vivid life to that
now distant past.
Delsarte was born at Solesmes (Department of the North), November 9,
1811. His father was a practicing physician; but tormented by a genius
for invention, he spent his time and money in studies and experiments.
Then, when he succeeded in producing some mechanical novelty, some
capitalist more used to trade and rich enough to start the affair,
usually reaped all the profits. This condition of things, of course,
produced great poverty in the family of the inventor, and the children's
education suffered in consequence, and yet young François even then
showed signs of superior endowments. A missionary, passing through
Solesmes, said to him: "As for you, I don't know what you will turn out,
but you will never be an ordinary man!" In spite of this, his parents
intended him for trade, being unable to direct his talents toward
science and the liberal arts.
Before proceeding farther, I must consider a question often asked in
regard to the great artist, and concerning which his family have kindly
informed me.
For a long time Delsarte signed his name in a single word, as I write
it now; why, then, should we ever see it written with the separate
particle, which seems to aim at nobility and which gives us the form,
del Sarte? I will give you the tradition as it is told in Solesmes, and
as the artist heard it during a visit to his native place. If it be
fiction, it is not without interest, and I take pleasure in telling it.
The natives of Solesmes say that at a very remote period a great
painter, coming from a distance, spent some time in their town. The good
inhabitants of the place know nothing of the pictures which this master
must have produced; perhaps they are quite as wide from his name! But
Delsarte, struck by the probability of this poetic origin, filled with
brotherly sympathy for the pure and graceful talent of Vannuchi del
Sarto, doubted not that the latter was the artist whose memory is held
sacred in Solesmes. Out of respect and veneration for the Italian
master, he divided the syllables, but still retained the French
termination of his name.
We can readily see that an imaginative spirit, such as we now have to
deal with, would be carried away by the legendary side of this story,
and that he would put full faith in his own commentaries:--he believed
so many things!
To return to prose and to reality, I must add that Delsarte based his
sentiment upon partial proof. Before the Revolution, the family did
indeed sign themselves del Sarte; but an ancestor--imbued with the
principles of 1789, and anxious to efface all suspicion of noble
origin--effected a fusion of the two parts of the word, and left us the
name as we have known it and as, perhaps, we regret it.
Those who regard this change of family name as mere vanity seem to me
wide of the truth. A strange nobility, moreover, that of Vannuchi,
surnamed _del Sarto!_ Sarto may be translated as _tailor;_ therefore
Vannuchi _del Sarto_ would mean: Vannuchi _of the tailor_, short for
Vannuchi, _son of the tailor_.
What need had he of empty honors, he who was on equal terms with the
great men of letters, science and the arts, who was surrounded by the
incense of the most legitimate enthusiasm, and who received the homage
of kings as of less value than the praises of Spontini and Réber!
I return to my sketch which will, I hope, justify these last remarks.
At the time of which we speak, the poor child was not treated as the
predestined favorite of art, He had been entrusted to people who ill
fulfilled their mission. He was scolded and abused; he was left
destitute of the most necessary things. He felt this injustice, and,
gifted with a precocious sensibility, he suffered greatly from it.
François had as a companion in misfortune, one of his brothers, who
could not bear the hard life; born feeble, he soon succumbed. This was a
severe trial to the future artist! When he saw his only friend buried
in the common grave, he could not contain his grief.
"I rebelled," he tells us, "at the idea of losing all trace of this
tomb. I shrieked aloud. I would not leave the mournful place!"
The grave-diggers took pity on his despair; they promised to mark the
spot. The child resigned himself to fate and departed. I will let him
speak for himself:
"I crossed the plain of St. Denis (it was in December); I had eaten
little or nothing, and I had wept much. Great weakness combined with the
dazzling light of the snow, made me dizzy. The fatigue of walking being
added to this, I fell upon the damp earth and fainted dead away."
What followed may be explained by the ecstatic state often experienced
on coming out of a fainting-fit.
"Everything seemed to smile into my half-open eyes; the vault of heaven
and the iridescent snow made magical visions about me; the slight
roaring in my ears lulled me like a confused melody; the wind, as it
blew over the deserted plain, brought me distant, vague harmonies."
Delsarte interpreted what he saw in the light of Christian ideas: it
seemed to him that the angels made this delightful concert to console
him in his misery and to strengthen him to bear his hard lot.
Rising up, the child felt himself a musician. He soon evinced an utter
contempt for the china painting to which he had been bound apprentice.
That too was an art; but of that art, the angels had said nothing.
How was he to learn music?
He knew that by a knowledge of a very small number of signs, one could
sing and play on instruments. He talked of this to all who would listen;
he questioned and inquired:--
"Do you know music, you fellows?" he asked some school boys of his own
age.
"A little," said some.
"Well! what do they teach you?"
"They teach us to know our notes."
"What notes?"
"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si."
"What else?"
"That is all."
"Are there no more notes?"
"Not one!"
"How happy I am! I know music!" cried the delighted Delsarte.
"Cries of joy have their sorrows," said a poet. The child had uttered
his cry of joy, and his torments were about to begin. Seven notes! It
was a whole world; but what was he to do with them? He scarcely knew,
although he was enchanted to possess the treasure. Could he foresee the
revelations which art had in store for him? Still less could he predict
those conquests in the realm of the ideal which cost him so many
sleepless nights.
It must be confessed, superior talents bring suffering to their
fortunate possessor. They console him on his journey, along the rough
road down which they drag him; they sometimes reward one of the elect,
but it is their nature to cause suffering.
And so François Delsarte was tempest-tossed while yet a child. He soon
saw that his scientific baggage was but small; he felt that something
unknown, something infinite, barred his passage, so soon as he strove to
approach the goal which, in an outburst of joy, he fancied within his
grasp. What hand would guide him to enter on the dazzling career which
he had dimly foreseen? Where should he get books? Who would advise him?
Well! these _impossible things_ were all found--in scanty measure, no
doubt, and somewhat capriciously; but still the means for learning were
provided for his greed of knowledge.
At first, his stubborn will had only the seven notes of the scale to
contend with. He combined them in every possible way. He derived musical
phrases from them; at the same time, he listened with all his ears to
church music, to street musicians, to church organs and hand-organs.
In these first struggles with knowledge--we cannot call it science
yet,--instead of bowing to the method of some master, Delsarte made a
method for himself. Had it any resemblance to that which--with the
progress of time,--his genius revealed to him? I cannot say, and
probably the thought never occurred to him. However it may be, Delsarte
said that he learned a great deal by this _autonomic_ process: in fact,
one who is restrained by nothing, who satisfies a passion instead of
accomplishing a mere act of obedience, may enlarge his horizon and dig
to whatever depth he sees fit. In this case, study is called _research_;
if, by this method, one loses the benefit of the experience of others,
he becomes more quick at discovery. Is not the puzzle which we work out
for ourselves more readily remembered than the ideas which are merely
learned by heart?
A wise man, a disciple of Socrates--who has been greatly ridiculed, but
by whose lessons the science of pedagogy has greatly profited,--Jacotot,
gave similar advice to teachers: "Put your questions, but let the
scholar think and work out his answers instead of putting them into his
mouth."
The talent of young François once established, he left the inhospitable
house where he had been so misunderstood, and was taken into the family
of an old musician, "Father Bambini," as Delsarte loved to call him.
Here, finding it in the order of facts, I must repeat almost literally a
page from the little work quoted before.
Father Bambini was one of those old-fashioned masters, who treat their
art with love and veneration. He gave concerts at which he was at once
performer and audience, judge and client. Delsarte was sometimes
present. He saw the good man take up a Gluck score as one handles a
sacred book; he surprised him pressing it to his heart, or to his head,
as if to win a blessing from the great soul which poured itself forth in
these immortal compositions.
Here we most assuredly have the foundation of the unlimited admiration
which our great artist felt for the author of "Alcestis" and of
"Iphigenia." Everyone knows that it was Delsarte who drew Gluck from the
oblivion in which he had languished since the beginning of the century.
Delsarte alone could have revived him, his assured and majestic talent
being amply capable of correctly interpreting those colossal works.
Delsarte is the equivalent of Gluck, and, if we may say so, the
_incarnation of his thought_. When the artist sang a part in those lyric
tragedies of which Grétry says: "They are the very expression of truth,"
it seemed as if the illustrious chevalier lived again in him to win
better comprehension than ever before and to be avenged at last for all
the injustice and bad taste from which he had suffered.
Delsarte received no very regular musical education from Father Bambini.
The lesson was often given while the teacher was shaving, which did not
distract the attention of either party. The master, having no hand at
liberty to hold a book, made his pupil explain all the exercises aloud,
sing every composition, and read at sight the authors with whom he
wished him to be familiar. Great progress can be made where there is
such mutual good will. They had faith in each other: the child, because
he saw that his master really loved his art; the old musician, because
he realized that his scholar had a genuine vocation and would be a great
artist.
One evening they were walking together in the Champs Elysées. Carriages
rolled by filled with fashionable people. The humble pedestrians were
surrounded by luxury. Suddenly Father Bambini turned toward his scholar:
"You see," said he, "all these people who have their carriages, their
liveried lackeys and their fine clothes; well, the day will come when
they will be only too glad to hear you, and they will envy you because
you are so great a singer."
The child was deeply moved; not by this promise of future glory; not by
the thought, that by fame he should gain wealth; but he seemed to see
his dream realized in a remote future. That dream was the complete
mastery of his art; it was his ideal attained, or closely approached.
This mode of feeling already justified the prediction.
Delsarte retained a grateful memory of another teacher. M. Deshayes, he
said, spurred him on to scientific discovery, as Bambini directed his
attention and his taste to the works of the great masters.
One day, as the young man was studying a certain rôle, M. Deshayes,
busily talking with some one else and not even glancing toward his
pupil, exclaimed:
"Your gesture is incorrect!"
When they were alone Delsarte expressed his astonishment.
"You said my gesture was incorrect," he exclaimed, "and you could not
see me."
"I knew it by your mode of singing."
This explanation set the young disciple's brain in a whirl. Were there,
then, affinities, a necessary concordance between the gesture and the
inflections of the voice? And, from this slight landmark, he set to
work, searching, comparing, verifying the principle by the effects, and
_vice versa_.
He gave himself with such vigor to the task that, from this hint, he
succeeded little by little in establishing the basis of his system of
æsthetics and its complete development.
After these beginnings, which Delsarte considered as a favorable
initiation, Father Bambini--his faithful patron--thought that he
required a more thorough musical education, and chose the Conservatory
school. There, that broad and impulsive spirit in its independence ran
counter to classic paths, to rigid processes; there, that exceptional
nature, that potent personality, which was already a marked one, that
vivid intuition--which already went beyond the limits of the traditional
holy of holies--had little chance of appreciation. Moreover, Delsarte
was timid; his genius had not yet acquired the audacity which dares.
Competition followed competition; would he win a prize? In answer to
this question which he had asked himself throughout the year, he saw
mediocrity crowned; his soul of light and fire was forced to bow before
will-o'-the-wisps, most of whom were soon extinguished in merited
oblivion.
The artist's regret was the more acute because he did not yet know the
course of human life. He had not proved the strange fatality--which
seeks to make itself a law--that, in general, success falls to the lot
of those who servilely follow in the ruts of routine. Happy are the
worshippers of art and poetry, those who have devoted their lives to
this sacred cult, if ambition and intrigue--with their attendant train
of flattery, party rings, and illegal speculation--do not invade the
stage whence the palms and the crowns are awarded!
Delsarte must also have learned in the course of his life, that genius,
a rare exception, is more rarely still judged by its peers; and yet, the
genius of this student was already revealed by various tokens; and for
his consolation, these premonitory symptoms were noted by other than the
official judges.
After one of these scholastic contests, Delsarte withdrew confused and
heavy-hearted: he had received but one vote in the competition; and even
that exception roused a sort of cheer, as if it were given to some
contemptible competitor.
The defeated youth walked slowly away, dragging at his heels all the
sorrow of his discomfiture, when two persons approached him; one was the
famous Marie Malibran, the other the brilliant tenor, Adolph Nourrit.
"Courage!" said the prima donna, pressing his hand. "I enjoyed hearing
you very much. You will be a great artist!"
"My friend," added Nourrit, "it was I who cast my vote for you: to my
mind, you are an incomparable singer. When I have my children taught
music, you shall certainly be their teacher."
Delsarte blessed the defeat which had brought him such precious
compensations. These voices which sounded so sweetly in his ear, were
soon extinguished by death; but they vibrated long in the heart which
they had comforted. The artist associated their dear memory with every
success which recalled to him their sympathetic accents and their
clear-sighted prediction.