What followed may be explained by the ecstatic state often experienced on coming out of a fainting-fit.

“Everything seemed to smile into my half-open eyes; the vault of heaven and the iridescent snow made magical visions about me; the slight roaring in my ears lulled me like a confused melody; the wind, as it blew over the deserted plain, brought me distant, vague harmonies.”

Delsarte interpreted what he saw in the light of Christian ideas:  it seemed to him that the angels made this delightful concert to console him in his misery and to strengthen him to bear his hard lot.

Rising up, the child felt himself a musician.  He soon evinced an utter contempt for the china painting to which he had been bound apprentice.  That too was an art; but of that art, the angels had said nothing.

How was he to learn music?

He knew that by a knowledge of a very small number of signs, one could sing and play on instruments.  He talked of this to all who would listen; he questioned and inquired:—­

“Do you know music, you fellows?” he asked some school boys of his own age.

“A little,” said some.

“Well! what do they teach you?”

“They teach us to know our notes.”

“What notes?”

“Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si.”

“What else?”

“That is all.”

“Are there no more notes?”

“Not one!”

“How happy I am!  I know music!” cried the delighted Delsarte.

“Cries of joy have their sorrows,” said a poet.  The child had uttered his cry of joy, and his torments were about to begin.  Seven notes!  It was a whole world; but what was he to do with them?  He scarcely knew, although he was enchanted to possess the treasure.  Could he foresee the revelations which art had in store for him?  Still less could he predict those conquests in the realm of the ideal which cost him so many sleepless nights.

It must be confessed, superior talents bring suffering to their fortunate possessor.  They console him on his journey, along the rough road down which they drag him; they sometimes reward one of the elect, but it is their nature to cause suffering.

And so Francois Delsarte was tempest-tossed while yet a child.  He soon saw that his scientific baggage was but small; he felt that something unknown, something infinite, barred his passage, so soon as he strove to approach the goal which, in an outburst of joy, he fancied within his grasp.  What hand would guide him to enter on the dazzling career which he had dimly foreseen?  Where should he get books?  Who would advise him?

Well! these impossible things were all found—­in scanty measure, no doubt, and somewhat capriciously; but still the means for learning were provided for his greed of knowledge.

At first, his stubborn will had only the seven notes of the scale to contend with.  He combined them in every possible way.  He derived musical phrases from them; at the same time, he listened with all his ears to church music, to street musicians, to church organs and hand-organs.