No one gave a thought to our old French school, to the composers from Lulli to Gluck, who produced so many excellent works.  Reber showed Delsarte the way and the latter, naturally an antiquarian, threw himself into this unexplored field with surprising vigor.  Only Lulli’s name was known, while Campra, Mondonville and the others were entirely forgotten.  Even Gluck himself had been forgotten.  First editions of his orchestral scores, which it is impossible to find to-day, sold for a few francs at the second-hand book shops.  Rameau was never mentioned.

Delsarte, handsome, eloquent, and fascinating, wielded an almost imperial sway over his little coterie of artists.  Thanks to him the lamp of our old French school was kept dimly burning until the day when inherent justice permitted it to be revived.  In this restricted world no evening was complete without Delsarte.  He would come in with some story of frightful throat trouble to justify his chronic lack of voice, and, then, without any voice at all but by a kind of magic, would put shudders into the tones of Orpheus or Eurydice.  I often played his accompaniments and he always demanded pianissimo.

“But,” I would say, “the author has indicated forte.”

“That is true,” he would answer, “but in those days the harpsichord had little depth of tone.”

It would have been easy to answer that the accompaniment was written for the orchestra and not for the harpsichord.

Delsarte’s execution, on account of the insufficiency of his vocal powers, was often entirely different from what the author intended.  Furthermore, he was absolutely ignorant of the correct way to interpret the appogiatures and other marks which are not used to-day.  As a result his interpretation of the older works was inexact.  But that did not matter, for even if masterpieces are presented badly, there is always something left.  Besides, both the singer and his hearers had Faith.  He had a way of pronouncing “Gluck” which aroused expectation even before one heard a note.

From time to time Delsarte gave a concert.  He would come on the stage and say that he had a bad throat, but that he would try to give Iphigenia’s Dream or something of that sort.  His courage would prove to be greater than his strength and he would have to stop.  He would then fall back on old-time songs or La Fontaine’s fables in which he excelled.  A skilfully studied mimicry, which seemed entirely natural, underlay his reading.  A red handkerchief, which he knew how to draw from his pocket at just the proper moment, always excited applause.

One day he conceived the idea of giving one of Bossuet’s sermons at his concert.  Religious authority was very powerful at the time and forbade it.  Yet there would have been no sacrilege, and I regretted keenly that I could not hear this magnificent prose delivered so wonderfully.  Now that religious authority has lost its secular support, we see things in an entirely different way.  Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints walk the stage, speak in prose or verse, and sing.  It would seem that no one is shocked for there is no protest.  For my own part I must frankly confess that such pseudo-religious exhibitions are disagreeable.  They disturb me greatly and I can see no use in them.