To obviate the lack of resonance, Delsarte sang--according to his theory in regard to the laws of acoustics,--without expenditure of sound, almost mezza voce.
No one was prepared. The listeners were all the more overcome by those tones in which the friend's regrets pervaded, with their sweet unction, the masterly diction of the singer.
When his oldest daughter grew up, Delsarte seemed to take a fancy to a different style of composition. He would not give that young soul the regular repertory of his pupils, all passion and profane love. He wrote for Marie words and music--couplets which were neither romance nor song; nor were they quite canticles, although religion always lay at the base of them.
I know none but Madame Sand who can be compared to Delsarte in variety of feeling and simplicity even unto grandeur. I have often observed a likeness and, as it were, a kinship between these great minds. And yet these two great souls, these two great spirits, never exchanged ideas. The artist never received the plaudits of the distinguished writer. Both regretted it.
Delsarte said: "I lack that sanction," and Madame Sand wrote, when he had ceased to live: "I knew Delsarte's worth; I often intended to go and hear him, and some circumstance, beyond my control, always prevented."
The world owes a debt to Delsarte for collecting under the title "Archives of Song," the lyric gems of the XVI, XVII, and XVIII centuries. And also the songs of the Middle Ages, the prose hymns and anthems of the church, arranged conformably to the harmonic type consecrated by the oldest traditions.
"All these works," he wrote in his announcement of the work, "faithfully copied, arranged for the piano and transposed for concert performance, will finally be arranged and classified in separate volumes, to suit various voices, ages, styles, schools, etc., thus affording subject matter for a complete course of vocal studies."
I do not think that death allowed Delsarte to complete this vast plan, but it was partly finished. In the collection, we find the scattered treasures of an eminently French muse: old songs picked up in the provinces, in which wit and naive sentimentality dispute for precedence. All this still exists, but who can sing as he did the song beginning: "I was but fifteen," or "Lisette, my love, shall I forever languish?" and so many others!
To explain the inexpressible charm which distinguished Delsarte from all other singers, a songstress once said: "His singing contrives to give us the soul of the note. The others are artists, but he is the artist."