Delsarte's Family.
Delsarte married, in 1833, Miss Rosina Andrien. The young husband felt a
high esteem for his father-in-law (primo basso cantante at the Opera);
but we must not suppose that this consideration influenced his choice.
He made a love marriage such as one makes at the age of twenty-two, with
such a nature as his. Moreover, reason was never in closer accord with
love.
Miss Andrien was remarkably beautiful. She was fifteen; her talent as a
pianist had already won her a first prize at the Conservatory. She was
just the companion, wise and devoted, to counterbalance the flights of
imagination and the momentary transports inherent in the temperament of
many artists.
I pause, fearing to wound a modesty which I know to be very sensitive:
the living cannot bear praise with the indifference of the dead; but I
must be allowed to insist upon the valuable assistance which the young
wife lent her husband in his professional duties; this is a special part
of my subject.
Mme. Delsarte started with a genuine talent. The situation in which she
was placed, soon made her a perfect accompanist. Never was there more
perfect harmony between singer and player. Amid the incessant
interruptions necessary to a lesson, the piano never lagged a second
either in stopping or in going on again. The note fell promptly,
identical with the first note of the piece under study. To attain to
this obedient precision, one must possess indomitable patience, must be
willing to be utterly effaced. Delsarte appreciated this self-denial in
proportion to the merit of her who practiced it.
In everything that concerned him, he relied especially upon the opinion
of his accompanist; he felt her to be an abler and more serious judge
than the most of those around him. But--with the shy reserve of merit
unacknowledged even to itself,--the young woman shrank from expressing
her impressions. If I may judge by the anecdote which follows, the
artist was at times distressed by this.
One day Delsarte, granting one of those favors of which he was never
lavish, consented to sing a composition of which he was particularly
fond, to a few friends. It was the air from Méhul's "Joseph:" "Vainly
doth Pharaoh ..."
Mme. Delsarte, always ready at the first call, took her seat at the
piano.
The master was in the mood--that is, in full possession of all his
powers. His pathos was heartrending.
"You won a great triumph," I said to him; "I saw tears in Mme.
Delsarte's eyes."
"My wife's eyes," he cried as if struck by surprise, "are you quite
sure?"
"Perfectly," I replied.
He seemed greatly pleased. Putting aside all other feeling, it was no
slight triumph to move to such a point one who assisted at and sat
through his daily lessons for hours at a time.
A few years sufficed to form a family around this very young couple. It
was soon a charming accessory to see children fluttering about the
house; slipping in among the scholars; showing a furtive head--dark or
light--at one of the doors of the lecture-room. Let me recall their
names: The eldest were Henri, Gustave, Adrien, Xavier, Marie; then came
after a long interval, André and Madeleine.
Delsarte loved them madly; for their future he dreamed all the dreams of
the Arabian Nights. Meantime, he played with them so happily that he
seemed to take a personal delight in it.
He gave them all the joys of this life that were within his reach, and
it was well that he did so! Alas! of the dreams of glory cherished for
these beloved beings, some few were realized, but many faded promptly
with the existence of those who called them forth.
But we must not anticipate. At the time of which I speak the children
were growing and developing, each according to its nature, in full
freedom. Those who felt a vocation seized on the wing--rather than they
received from irregular lessons--some fragments of that great art which
was taught in the school.
Marie learned while very young to reproduce with marvelous skill what
were called _the attitudes_ and the physiognomic changes. Madeleine
delighted in making caricatures which showed great talent. The features
of certain pupils and frequenters of the lectures were plainly
recognizable in these sketches made by a childish hand.
Gustave was a child of an open face and broad shoulders. One incident
will show his originality.
A strange lady came to the master's house one day either to ask a
hearing or offer a pupil. She met this charming boy.
"M. Delsarte?" she asked.
"I am he, madam!" replied Gustave without flinching.
"Very good," said his questioner, laughing, "but I wish to speak to your
father."
This same Gustave who, to a certain degree, followed in his father's
footsteps, was struck down a few years after him, at the age of
forty-two.
What a striking application of Victor Hugo's lines:
"And both are dead.... Oh Lord, all powerful is thy right hand!"
Gustave's career seemed to open readily and smoothly. Not that he could
approach his father from a dramatic point of view; he had not his
absolute synthesis of talents, and his figure was not suited to the
theatre; as a singer, his voice was weak, but what a charm and what a
style he had! Although his voice was not adapted to every part,
although he had not that range of the vocal scale which permits one to
attack any and every composition, still, its sympathetic, tender and
penetrating quality did ample justice to all that is most exquisite in
romance. When you had once heard that voice, guided by the force of his
father's grand method, you never forgot its sincerity and melancholy; it
haunted you and left you impatient to hear it again.
As a concert-singer and teacher, Gustave Delsarte might have won high
rank. An ill-assorted marriage and his misanthropic character prevented.
As a composer, he left some few songs, masses and religious fragments
which are not without merit. When he was to produce any of his sacred
works, the composer-singer never took a part; but he would lead the
orchestra. If he came to a rehearsal and the performers appeared weak, a
holy wrath would seize upon Gustave. Then he flung a firm, incisive,
accentuated note into the midst of the choir, vivid as a spark bursting
from a fire covered with ashes. He would accompany it with a glance
which seemed to flash from his father's eye; at such moments, he
resembled him; but this transformation never lasted more than a second;
the fictitious power disappeared as all which was Gustave Delsarte was
doomed to disappear.
At least, his father did not live to mourn his loss. And yet he knew
that worst of heart-suffering: the loss of a beloved child. Alas! In
that radiant family, whose mirth, fresh faces and luxuriant health
seemed to defy death, the implacable foe had already twice swept his
scythe.
The first to go was André, one of the latest born. He was at the age
when the child leaves no lasting memories behind; but we know the grace
of innocence, the privilege of impeccability by which infancy atones for
the lack of acquirements. Then these little creatures have the
mysterious entrancing smiles, which mothers understand and adore--and
Delsarte loved his children with a mother's heart.
Time lessens such pangs; but when a fresh sorrow re-opened the era of
calamity, it seems as if the sad events trod upon each other's heels and
the interval between seems to have been but one unmitigated agony.
The loss undergone in 1863 was even greater. Xavier Delsarte was a tall,
handsome young man. The master was content with the profit which his son
had derived from his tuition. He was successful as a singer and
elocutionist. He was attacked by cholera during an epidemic. The night
before he had taken several glasses of iced orgeat in the open air.
Xavier lived in the Rue des Batailles with his family, but not in the
same apartment. This fact was fatal. Instead of calling help in the
first stages--unwilling to disturb his relatives--the invalid wandered
down stairs during the night, and into the court-yard. There he drank
water from the pump. I can still recall the unhappy father's story of
that cruel moment.
"It was scarcely day. I was waked by that unexpected, fatal ringing of
the bell, which, at such an hour, always bodes misfortune. The maid
heard it also, and opened the door. She uttered a cry of alarm. Almost
instantly, my poor boy stood at my chamber door. He leaned against the
frame of the door, his strength not allowing him to advance. From the
change in his features, I understood all--he was hopelessly lost!"
Delsarte was sensitive and of a very loving nature; but he was endowed
with great strength. Much absorbed, moreover, in his profession, his
studies, his innovations, he often found in them a counterpoise to these
rude blows of fate. So when the thoughts of his friends recur to these
disasters, they feel that their greatest sympathy and commiseration are
due to the mother who three times underwent this supreme martyrdom.
Two names remain to be mentioned in this family where artistic callings
seemed a matter of course. The concerts of Madame Thérèsa Wartel--sister
of Madame Delsarte--brought together the _élite_ of Parisian virtuosi,
and the brilliant pianist took her part in the quatuors in which Sauzay,
Allard, Franchomme and other celebrities of the period figured.
George Bizet--author of the opera of "Carmen"--prematurely snatched from
the arts, was the nephew of François Delsarte. This young man taught
himself Sanscrit unaided; he inspired the greatest hopes.
Wartel, who gave Christine Nilsson her musical education, was not of the
same blood, but we find certain points in his method which recall the
processes of Delsarte's school.