I return to his teaching.  His lectures were given in Rue Lamartine and Rue de la Pepiniere.  There was always—­aside from the school—­an audience made up of certain never failing followers and of a floating population.  The birds of passage sometimes came with a very distinct intention to criticise; but if they did not readily understand the learned deductions, they went away fascinated by what the professor had shown them of his brilliant changes into every type of the repertory which he held up as a model.  Enthusiasm soon triumphed over prejudice.  Envy, alone, persisted in hostility.

These meetings were genuine artistic feasts.  They were held at night, at the same hour as the theatres, and no play was preferable to them in the eyes of the truly initiated.  They were a transcendent manifestation of all that is most elevated, which art can produce.

Here is an extract from a newspaper, which I find among the notes sent me: 

“I heard him repeat, one evening, ‘Iphigenia’s Dream,’ at the request of his audience.  All were held trembling, breathless by that worn and yet sovereign voice.  We were amazed to find ourselves yielding to such a spell; there was no splendor and no theatric illusion. Iphigenia was a teacher in a black frock coat; the orchestra was a piano striking, here and there, an unexpected modulation; this was all the illusion—­and the hall was silent, every heart throbbed, tears flowed from every eye.  And then, when the tale was told, cries of enthusiasm arose, as if Iphigenia, in person, had told us her terrors.”

These lines are signed “Laurentius.”  I am very glad to come across them just as I am giving vent to my own feelings.  I also find that Adolphe Gueroult, in his paper, the “Press,” calls Delsarte the matchless artist, and recognizes a law in his aesthetic discoveries.  I shall have occasion to set down, as opportunity offers, a string of testimonies no less flattering and no less sincere; but I hasten to produce these specimens, lest the suspicion of infatuation follow me.

How was it that amidst such warm plaudits, Delsarte failed to win that popularity which, after all, is the supreme sanction?  It must be acknowledged that he took no great pains to gain the place which was his due.  If he loved glory like the true artist that he was, “he never tired himself in its pursuit.”  Perhaps he had an instinctive feeling that it would come to him some day unsought.

He might, in this regard, be reproached for the tardiness of his successes; he himself made difficulties and obstacles which might be considered as the effects of extreme pride.

Halevy once suggested his singing at the Tuilleries before King Louis Philippe and his family.

“I only sing to my friends,” replied the artist.

“That is strange,” said the author of “The Jewess,” “Lablache and Duprez go whenever they are asked.”

“Delsarte does not.”