Delsarte's Friends.
Friendly relations--although disputes often arose--were established
toward 1840 between Delsarte and Raymond Brucker (known to literature as
Michel Raymond). Fortunately in spite of the influence of the author of
"Mensonge," Delsarte's superior rank always prevailed in this intimacy.
Michel Raymond published several novels in the first half of this
century. Later on, he took his place in the ranks of that militia of
Neo-Catholics, the fruit of the Restoration. (I do not know whether I am
justified in giving the name of Neo-Catholic to Brucker; perhaps, on the
contrary, his dreams were all of the primitive church. But, in spite of
his Jewish crudities, I suppose he would never have joined the followers
of Father Loyson.) His keen, sharp and caustic spirit did not forsake
him when he changed his principles; and never did the Christ--whose
symbol is a lamb without a stain--have a sterner or more warlike zealot.
In appearance, Brucker had somewhat the look of a Mephistopheles--a
demon then very much in vogue,--especially when he laughed, his laughter
being full of sardonic reserves. If Delsarte's mode of proselyting was
almost always gentle, affectionate, adapted to the spirit he aspired to
conquer, that of Raymond Brucker had an aggressive fashion; he became
brutal and cynical when discussion waxed warm.
Once, in reply to one of his vehement attacks against the age, in which
he used very unparliamentary expressions, he drew upon himself the
following answer from a woman: "But, sir, I should think that in the
ardor of your recent convictions, your first act of faith should have
been to make an _auto-da-fé_ of all the books signed Michel Raymond."
I repeat, this writer, although of undoubted intellectual merit, could
not annul Delsarte's native tendencies; he could never have led Delsarte
into any camp which the latter had not already decided to join; but when
they met on common ground, he influenced, excited and sometimes threw a
shadow over him.
When they had fought together against the nearest rebel, long and lively
discussions would often arise between them, but they always agreed in
the end: the artist's good-nature so willed it.
If dissension continued, if the fiery friend had given cause for
reproach, Delsarte merely said: "Poor Brucker!" But how much that brief
phrase could be made to mean in the mouth of a man who taught an actor
to say, "I hate you!" by uttering the words, "I love you," and who could
ring as many changes on one sentence as the thought, the feeling, the
occasion, could possibly require.
Do not suppose, however, that Delsarte abused his power. Contrary to
many actors who carry their theatrical habits into their private life,
he aimed at the most perfect simplicity outside of the rôles which he
interpreted. "I make myself as simple as possible," he would say, "to
avoid all suspicion of posing." But still he could not entirely rid
himself, in conversation, of those inflections which illuminate words
and are the genuine manifestation of the inner meaning.
Be this as it may, the relation between our two converts assumed the
proportions of friendship, doubtless in virtue of the mysterious law
which makes contrast attractive.
Hegel says: "The identical and the non-identical are identical;" and
this proposition passes for nonsense. Perhaps if he had said: "May
become identical," it would be understood that he meant to speak, in
general, of that reconciliation of contraries which united the calm
genius of Delsarte and the bristling, prickly spirit of Raymond Brucker.
One motive particularly contributed to the union; Brucker was
unfortunate in a worldly sense. Delsarte, improvident for the future and
scorning money, still had, during the best years of his professorship, a
relatively comfortable home. He loved to have his friend take advantage
of it. Large rooms, well warmed in winter, a simple table, but one which
lacked no essential article, were of no small importance to one whose
scanty household had naught but sorrow and privation to offer.
How many evenings they spent together in dissertations which often ended
in nothing--and how often the dawn surprised them before they were
weary!
For Brucker it was a refuge, but for Delsarte, what a waste of time and
strength taken from his real work! That wasted time might have sufficed
to fix and produce certain special points in his method. Then, too, his
health demanded greater care.
Take it for all in all, this intimacy was perhaps more harmful than
helpful to Delsarte. Yet I have been told that Raymond Brucker urged the
innovator to elaborate his discovery, and often reproached him with his
negligence in pecuniary matters. It was he who said: "François
Delsarte's system is an orthopedic machine to straighten crippled
intellects."
I have also heard in favor of Raymond Brucker, that that mind so full of
bitterness, that inquisitor _in partibus_, was most tender toward a
child in his family, and that he bore his poverty bravely. I desire to
note these eulogies side by side with the less favorable reflections
which I considered it my duty to write down here. I recall a short
anecdote which will serve to close the Brucker story.
As we have said, they were seldom parted. One day Delsarte had agreed to
dine with the family of a pupil. As he was on his way thither, he met
his inseparable friend. From that moment his only thought was to excuse
himself from the dinner; but his hosts were reluctant to give up such a
guest; they insisted"--they were offended.
"Pardon me," said Delsarte; "I really cannot stay! I had forgotten that
Brucker was to dine with me."
"But that can be arranged! M. Brucker can join us. Suppose we send and
ask him?"
"You need not," replied the master; "if you are willing, I will call
him; he is waiting for me below at the corner."
They had acted as children do, when one says to the other on leaving
school:
"Wait a minute for me, I'll ask mamma if you can come and dine with us."
Brucker, who after all knew how to be agreeable when he chose, took his
place at the table, and all went well.
This proves yet once again the extent to which Delsarte possessed that
charming simplicity so well suited to all distinction.
In the dissertations upon religious subjects incessantly renewed about
Delsarte, it was sometimes declared that "great sinners were surer of
salvation than the most perfect unbelievers in the world."
A young man, who doubtless felt himself to be in the first category,
once said to the master:
"My friend, the good God has been too kind to me! I disobey him, I
offend against his laws.... I repent, and he accepts my prayer! I
relapse into sin--and he forgives me! Decidedly, the good God is a very
poltroon!"
This seems to exceed the unrestrained ease and confidence usual toward
an earthly father; but we must not forget that the inflection modifies
the meaning of a phrase, and that _poltroon_ may mean _adorable_.
This penitent, now famous, carried his provocation of the inexhaustible
goodness very far. At one time in his life he tried to blow out his
brains! By a mere chance--he probably said, by a miracle,--the wound was
not mortal; but he always retained the accusing scar. I never knew
whether this unpleasant adventure preceded or followed Mr. L.'s
conversion, or whether it was coincident with one of the relapses of
which that repentant sinner accused himself.
Another very religious friend was no less fragile in the observance of
his firm vow. Becoming a widower, he swore eternal fidelity to the
"departed angel." Soon after, he was seen with another wife on his arm!
"And your angel?" whispered a sceptic in his ear.
"Oh, my friend!" was the reply, "this one is an archangel."
Another figure haunted Delsarte and afforded yet another proof of his
tolerance. The Italian, C----, shared neither his political ideas nor
his religious beliefs; he was one of those refugees whom the defeats of
the Carbonari have cast upon our soil, and whose necessities
France--does our neighbor remember this?--for years supplied, as if they
were her own children. However, she could offer them but a precarious
living.
Signer C., to give some charm to his wretched existence, desired to add
to his scanty budget a strong dose of hope and intellectual enjoyment:
hope in--what came later--the independence and unity of Italy. By way of
diversion, this stranger gratified himself by indulging in a whim; he
had dreams of a panacea, a plant whose complex virtues should combat all
the evils which fall to the lot of poor humanity; but this marvel must
be sought in America. And how was he to get there, when he could barely
scrape together the necessary five cents to ride in an omnibus! The
Isabellas of our day do not build ships for every new Columbus who
desires to endow the world with some wonderful treasure trove! And yet
this man was not mad; he was one of those who prove how many insane
ideas a brain may cherish, without being entitled to a cell in Bedlam or
Charenton.
While awaiting the realization of his golden dreams, poor C. spent his
time in perpetual adoration of the Talma of Music--for so Théophile
Gautier styled Delsarte; he never missed a lecture; he took part in the
talks which lengthened out the evening when the parlor was at last
cleared of superfluous guests.
Among his many manias--how many people have this one in common with
him!--the Italian cherished the idea that he was of exceptional ability,
and that in more than one direction. He proclaimed that Delsarte went
far beyond everything that he knew--equal to all that could be imagined
or desired in regard to art--but as for himself, C., was he not from a
land where art is hereditary, where it is breathed in at every pore,
from birth? And more than the mass of his countrymen, did he not feel
the volcanic heat of the sacred fire burning within him?
One evening, he made a bold venture. He had prepared a tirade written by
some Italian poet. All that I remember of it is that it began with the
words: "_Trema--Trema!_" [Tremble--Tremble!]
The impromptu tragedian recited several lines in a declamatory tone
accompanied by gestures to match. Delsarte listened without a sign of
praise or blame. Then he rose, struck an attitude appropriate to the
text, but perfectly natural, and, in his quiet way, said:
"Might not you as well give it in this key?" Then, in a voice of
repressed harshness, his gestures subdued but expressive of hatred, he
repeated the two words: "_Trema--Trema!_"
The listeners shuddered. Delsarte had produced one of those effects
which can never be forgotten. The smouldering ashes did not burn long;
four syllables were enough to extinguish the flame.
Following, not the chronological order, but that of circumstances and
incidents calculated to throw light on my subject, I must once more
retrace the course of years.
C.'s persistency went on before and after 1848. During the second
period, all minds were greatly agitated by the state of politics. C., in
spite of his undoubted liberalism--he spent a great part of his leisure
in making democratic constitutions--thought, like every other claimant,
that he had _duties to perform_; and that he might as well, to
facilitate his task, make an ally of the Emperor, without scruple; but
access to royalty was no less impossible than landing on the American
shore where his panacea grew. He hit upon the following plan:
A number of ladies were to go in a body and implore Napoleon III to
pardon certain exiles: for the same calamities always follow civil war,
and there are always women ready to beg for justice or mercy.
C., who knew their purpose, said to one of the petitioners: "How are you
going to make the Emperor understand that I am the only man capable of
saving the situation?"
The petition was not presented; and the world remains to be saved!
Our Italian had another specialty: he was perpetually in search of some
notorious somnambulist. It is a well-known fact that the mental
agitation caused by governmental crises is very favorable to these
pythonesses of modern times. Each wishes to outrun the future and to
afford himself at least an illusion of the triumph of his party. The
oracles varied according to the opinion of the person who magnetized
these ladies, and, often, according to the presumed desire of the
audience.
Delsarte allowed himself to be drawn into these mysteries. He had time
for everything. It afforded him relaxation, and a means of observation.
On one occasion, he followed the refugee to a garden where a person of
"perfect lucidity" prophesied. The sibyl was a _believer_ as well as a
_seer_ and pretended to communicate with God in person. I do not know
exactly what supernal secrets the woman revealed, while she slept, but
the result was ridiculous.
They had forgotten to fix the hour for the next sitting: so, to repair
the omission--by means of a few passes--the somnambulist was restored to
sleep and lucidity. Then in a corner of the garden, in a familiar tone
and--to use the popular expression--in which, as may well be imagined,
the voice of Jehovah was not heard:
"My God, what day shall we return?"
"He says Wednesday," announced the lady.
"Thank you, God!"
If the Italian went into ecstasies over this irreverent trifling,
Delsarte did not disdain to caricature it, and gave us a most comical
little performance. Here again we see how he could transform everything,
and make something out of nothing!
Among the frequenters of his lectures was an artist whom I would gladly
mention for his talent if I did not fear to annoy him by connecting his
name with an incident concerning him. I relate it in the hope of
somewhat diverting my readers, to whom I must so often discourse of
serious things.
Mr. P. painted a portrait of Delsarte as a young man. The features are
exact, the pose firm and dignified, the eye proud. The painter and the
model were on very good terms and sympathized in religious matters. It
must have been the master who brought him over. He still burned with the
zeal peculiar to recent converts; to such a point that even on a short
excursion into the country, he could not await his return to Paris to
approach the stool of repentance. This desire seemed easily satisfied;
what village is without a father confessor!
So, one fine day, the artist rang at the first parsonage he could find.
The priest's sister opened the door--offered him a seat--and told him
that her brother was away. But, after these preliminaries, the lady
seemed uneasy. She inquired what the stranger wanted.
"To speak with the priest."
What could this stranger have to say to him? Such was the question which
floated in her eyes, amidst the confused phrases in which she strove to
gain an explanation. Mr. P. finally told her that he had come to
confess.
"My brother will not return till very late," said the poor girl, unable
to disguise her distress.
"I will wait!" replied the traveler.
"Oh, sir, I hope you will not!"
He thought he heard her mutter: "We read such things in the papers!"
The visitor at last perceived that she took him for a thief, and he
could not depart quickly enough.
One more anecdote:
François Delsarte called himself a bad citizen, because he disliked to
undertake the duties entailed by reason of the national guard--a dignity
long demanded by the advanced party of the day, but of which they soon
wearied.
I think that the artist's infractions were often overlooked, and his
reasons for exemption were never too closely scanned. And yet, the
soldier-citizen was one day arraigned before a council of discipline,
which, without regard for this representative of the highest personages
of fiction, condemned him to three days' imprisonment.
It was as if they had imprisoned saltpetre in company with a bunch of
matches--but he restrained his rebellious feelings; he would not give
his judges the satisfaction of knowing his torment. He soon thought only
of procuring consolation: he summoned his friends, who visited him in
throngs. Then he made the acquaintance of his companions in misfortune.
There was one especially, who, alone, would have made up to him for all
the inconveniences of his forced arrest.
The first time that this prisoner entered the room where the other
prisoners were assembled, he looked at them with the most solemn air,
put his hand to his forehead, made a military salute, and in grave
tones, as if beginning a harangue, he uttered these words:
"Captives--I salute you!"
It was strangely pertinent. Delsarte was not behindhand in comic
gravity. This little scene enlivened him.
Another compensation fell to the lot of our _captive_. One of the
prisoners sang him a song, one stanza of which lingered in his memory. I
transcribe it:
"I was born in Finisterre,
At Quimperlay I saw the light.
The sweetest air is my native air,
My parish church is painted white!
Oh! so I sang, I sighed, I said,--
How I love my native air,
And parish church so bright!"
These lines, written by some Breton minstrel, inspired one of those
sweet, plaintive airs which the drawling voice of the drovers sing as
they return at nightfall; one of those airs which seem to follow the
brook down the valleys, and which repeat the echoes of the mountains, in
the far distance.
Oh! how Delsarte used to murmur it; it made one homesick for Brittany!