DEAR M.,--Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M---- wrote, I was really
in danger of a _fluxion de poitrine_. I am sorry she worried you
unnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road to
recovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I had
they would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enough
to come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (the
traditional "you must be careful"), I had my _chaise-longue_ moved down
into Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in the
world, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse and
divert me.
Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come.
Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont,
not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced his
intention of finishing an already commenced landscape.
Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists,
reclining on a _chaise-longue_, a table with _tisanes_ and remedies near
by, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape;
Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his graceful
ladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted.
Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and used
a great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted rather
finically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used few
brushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and the
pictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the four
pictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the
"pleasant days in the studio."
Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio,"
which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me as
a souvenir of the day I sang the _Benedictus_ in the chapel of the
Tuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on one
side the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and on
the other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.
We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was very
much appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the Duchess
cut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before that
she was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braids
to keep on her next wedding-wreath.
We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President
Lincoln. How dreadful!
I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever
met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a
_concierge_ in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he
was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real
singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has
a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he
teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice.
We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music-
room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no
other incumbrances as furniture.
On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's
method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces
depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such
as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.
It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions
in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in
question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to
your voice.
The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of
the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals
(he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and,
to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle
for everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There were
inkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smoked
cigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been black
bread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-worn
embroidered slippers, a velvet _calotte_, the tassels of which swayed
with each of his emotions, and a dilapidated _robe de chambre_ which
opened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing duty
for a collar.
On my telling him that I desired to take some lessons of him, he asked me
to sing something for him. Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il était nuit
déjà," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to
accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air léger
apportait jusqu'à nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat
that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de
l'oranger." I said to myself, "... no one could 'sentir un oranger' in
this room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco."
He begged me to sing something else.
"Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him.
"No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There are
certain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. This
is one of them! You feel yourself, don't you, that it is absolutely
necessary for you to clutch something when singing this? A weak chord or a
too powerful one struck in a wrong place would spoil entirely the effect,
and even the best accompanist cannot foresee when that effect is going to
be produced." I think this is so clever! "'Voi che sapete' can be
accompanied by any school girl," he continued. "It is plain sailing; but
in 'Medje' the piano must be part of the singer and breathe with him." I
sat down at the piano and sang. When I came to "Prends cette lame et
plonges la dans mon coeur," he stopped me short, and pointing to a
horrible picture on the wall indicating bloody murder and terror (No. 6),
he cried, "Voilà l'expression qu'il faut avoir." I sang the phrase over
again, trying to imagine what Medje's lover must have felt; but I could
not satisfy Delsarte. He said my voice ought to tremble; and, in fact, I
ought to sing false when I say, "Ton image encore vivante dans mon coeur
qui ne bat plus." "No one," he said, "in such a moment of emotion could
keep on the right note." I tried again, in vain! If I had had a dagger in
my hand and a brigand before me, I might perhaps have been more
successful. However, he let it pass; but to show that it could be done he
sang it for me, and actually did sing it false. Curiously enough, it
sounded quite right, tremolo and all. There is no doubt that he is a
_great artist_. One can see that Faure and Coquelin (the actor) have
both profited by his unique teaching. He assured me that there is no art
like that of making people believe what you want them to. For instance, he
pretends that he can sing "Il pleut, il pleut, bergère," and make you hear
the patter of the _bergère's_ heels on the wet sod, or wherever she
was trying to _rentrer ses blancs moutons_. He sang it with the fullest
conviction, and asked me what I thought of it. I shut my eyes and tried to
conjure up the _bergère_ and her heels. My head began to whirl with all
this talk, and, on taking leave of my new master, I promised him that I
would try to sing false until the next lesson. Another thing he said was:
"Never try to accompany yourself when the accompaniment is difficult.
There is nothing so painful as to see a singer struggling with tremolos
and arpeggios." How right he is!
He has one theory about the trembling of the chin. It certainly is very
effective. When in "Medje" I say, "Tu n'as pas vu mes larmes, tout la nuit
j'ai pleuré," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once,"
pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome." I have tried it
and have seen the effect. But I am letting you into all Delsarte's most
innermost secrets.