A special form of torture attacked our young innovator.  He had proved, connected and classed a number of psychological facts relating to the theory of art, and he did not know the special terms which would make them intelligible.  Like those phenomenal children, who see countless relations before they possess the words to express them, he had discovered a law, created a science, and he was still ignorant of the language of scientists.  If he tried to demonstrate the bases of his system and its rational evolution in ordinary words, the ignorant would not understand him and the learned would not deign to listen.

Sometimes he did find some one who would hear him, question him, even criticize him, and who would go away bearing a fragment of conversation or some few notes which he had copied to turn to his own profit.

At this time, there came one day to Delsarte, a pupil who—­by a rare exception—­had been through a course of classical studies.

“Tell me, you who have studied (asked the teacher with the affability of a great man), what is metaphysics?”

“Why ... just what you teach us!” said the astonished youth.

Delsarte was enchanted to learn, that he was only divided by words from a science which had seemed to him to dwell on inaccessible heights.  The study of technical words, when intuition had provided him with important ideas and new perceptions, was child’s play to him; in a short time he could teach his philosophy of art in the consecrated expressions.

His lectures grew rapidly in the Rue Montholon.  A choice public soon assembled to hear them, drawn thither by the admiring cry of the first enthusiasts.  At this period, the talent of the artist was enhanced by the lustre of youth.  Nature had endowed him generously.  His figure, which later assumed rather large proportions, was tall and elegant; his gestures were marked by grace and nobleness; his hair, of a very light chestnut, gave his face a fair softness; his brown eyes relieved this expression and allowed him to give his face—­when the interpretation of the part required it—­the signs of power and vigorous passion.  A full length portrait painted at this time and in the possession of Madame Delsarte, gives us some idea of his grand face and form, allowing for the disadvantages of every translation.  Although, in singing, the organ was often impaired, his speaking-voice was most agreeable in tone, correct and persuasive in accent.

In acting various parts, Delsarte transformed himself to suit the character that he represented.  He was congratulated on bringing to life for our age Achilles and Agamemnon, as Homer painted their types.  Yet, I think he was sometimes told:  “You paint that wretch of a Don Juan a little too faithfully.”  Certainly, art would never make that complaint!

If Delsarte was understood in that part of his method addressed especially to the ear and the eye, it was not so with the theory which prepared these striking demonstrations.