The part of Robert the Devil is one of those in which Delsarte best developed the resources and suppleness of his genius. Robert is the son of a demon, but his mother was a saint.  He loves with sincere love; but even this love is subject to the influence of the evil spirit; hence, these outbursts followed by such tender remorse, that heart which melts into tears after a fit of rage. Robert is jealous, less so than Othello possibly, but Robert’s jealousy is stimulated by infernal powers and must differ in its manifestation.  It was in these shades of distinction that Delsarte’s greatness was apparent to every eye.

Then came those indescribable inflections—­words which pierced your heart, cold as a sword-blade:  “Come, come!” says Robert, striving to drag Isabella away, ... and that simple word was made frantic, breathless, by the accent accompanying it.  No one who has not heard Delsarte utter the word rival can conceive of all the mysteries of hate and pain contained in the word.

In the trio from “William Tell,” after the words, “has cut an old man’s thread of life,” Arnold feels that Gessler has had his father murdered.  A first and vague suspicion dawned on the artist’s face.  Little by little, the impression became more marked, a clearer idea of this misfortune was shown by pantomime; his eye was troubled, it kindled, every feature questioned both William and Walter; the actor’s hand, trembling and contracted, was stretched toward them and implored them to speak more clearly.  He was horror-stricken at the news he was to hear, but uncertainty was intolerable; and when, after these touching preparations, Arnold himself tore away the last shred of doubt, when he uttered the cry:  “My father!” there was not a heart—­were it bathed in the waters of the Styx—­which did not melt from the counter shock of such violent despair.

The effects of rage, hate, irony, the terrors of remorse, the bitterness of disappointment, were not the only dramatic means in the possession of that artist whom Madame Sontag proclaimed as “the greatest known singer.”  None could express as did Delsarte, contemplation, serenity, tenderness—­the dreams of a sweet and simple soul, and even the divine silliness of innocent beings.  Wit and malice were equally easy for him to render.

In the duet from “Count Ory:” 

    “Once more I’ll see the beauty whom I love,”

he was quite as apt at interpreting the hypocritical good-nature of the false hermit as the sentimental playfulness of the love-lorn page.

In his school the comic style bore an impress of propriety and distinction, because it resulted from intellectual perceptions rather than it expressed the vulgar sensations manifested by exaggerated caricature and grimace.

Delsarte thus put his stamp upon every style which he attempted; he renovated every part.  He restored Gluck to life; he revealed Spontini to himself.  The latter—­the illustrious author of “Fernando Cortez”—­was at a musical entertainment where Delsarte, whom he had never known, sang.  He had drunk deep of the composer’s inspiration:  he showed this in the very first phrase of the great air: