The first time that Delsarte encountered certain of those zealous legitimists, who are said to be "more royalist than the king," he launched this apostrophe at their heads:
"I hear that your young man was in no haste to pay his respects to His Holiness."
Thus, always free--even when he seemed to have forged chains for himself--he obeyed his impulse without counting the cost. Never mind! This childish outburst must have gladdened the manes of the ancestor who connected the syllables in the patronymic name of Delsarte!
I hope I shall not forget, as my pen moves along, any of these memories, insignificant to many minds, no doubt, but serving to distinguish this figure from the vast mass of creation. If, among my readers, some may say "pass on," others will enjoy these trifles, and will thank me for writing them.
Thus, Delsarte was always pleased to think he bore the name of François in memory of Francis of Assisi--not the Spaniard whom we know, but the great saint of the twelfth century; he who "appeased quarrels, settled differences, taught slaves and common men,--the poor man who was good to the poor."
"The fish, the rabbits and the hares," the legend says, "placed themselves in this fortunate man's hands." * * * * The birds were silent or sang at his command. "Be silent," said the saint to the swallows, "'tis my turn to talk now." And again: "My brothers, the birds, you have great cause to praise your Creator, who covered you with such fine feathers and gave you wings to fly through the clear, broad fields of air."
One need not be very devout to be attracted by such graceful simplicity.
Delsarte went farther. Whether he accepted this magnetic attraction as true or whether he regarded it as purely symbolic--for this kind of miracle is not dependent on faith,--he considered the monk of Assisi as a lover of nature, whose heart was big enough to love everything that lives, to suffer with all that suffers. He strove to comprehend him by placing him upon a pinnacle, well aware that the sublime often lurks between the trifling.
It was on such occasions that the man of intellect revived to ennoble and illumine everything. If, despite his magnificent rendering of them, Delsarte never called legendary fictions in question, let us not refuse him that privilege. In such cases the poetry became his accomplice, and--"Every poet is the toy of the gods," as Béranger says, a simple song-writer, as Delsarte was a simple singer.
There was in him whom Kreutzer called "the apostle of the grand dramatic style," a desire, I will not say for realism, but for realization, for action. Thus he once had a fancy to join the semi-clerical society of the third order; it was a way of keeping himself in practice, since there were various prescriptions, observances and interdictions attached to the office. One must repeat certain prayers every day, and submit to a certain severity of costume. No precious metal, not even a thread of gold or silver must be seen about one. In the first moments of fervor, a beautiful green velvet cap, beautifully embroidered in gold--the loving gift of some pupil or admirer,--was interdicted, that is to say, was shut up in a closet or reduced to the condition of a mere piece of bric-à-brac. Luckily, the association did not require eternal vows, and I think I saw the pretty article restored to its proper use later on.