Part 13

PARIS, March, 1865.

DEAR M.,--Do not be anxious about me. When Mrs. M---- wrote, I was really in danger of a fluxion de poitrine. I am sorry she worried you unnecessarily. I am much better; in fact, I am far on the road to recovery. If every one had such a nice time when they are ill as I had they would not be in a hurry to get well. When I was convalescent enough to come down-stairs, and the doctor had said his last word (the traditional "you must be careful"), I had my chaise-longue moved down into Henry's studio, and Monsieur Gudin, who is the kindest man in the world, offered to come there and paint a picture in order to amuse and divert me.

Bierstadt, the American painter, who is in Paris, also proposed to come. Then those two artists ordered canvases of the same size, and Beaumont, not to be outdone, ordered a larger canvas, and Henry announced his intention of finishing an already commenced landscape.

Behold, then, your invalid, surrounded by these celebrated artists, reclining on a chaise-longue, a table with tisanes and remedies near by, and the four painters painting. Gudin is painting a seascape; Bierstadt, a picture of California; Beaumont, of course, his graceful ladies and cherubs. It amused me to see how differently they painted. Gudin spread his paints on a very large table covered with glass, and used a great many brushes; Bierstadt used a huge palette, and painted rather finically, whereas Beaumont had quite a small palette and used few brushes. I was very sorry when my convalescence came to an end and the pictures were finished; but I had the delight of receiving the four pictures, which the four artists begged me to accept as a souvenir of the "pleasant days in the studio."

Another pleasant thing happened during "the pleasant days in the studio," which was the gift of a beautiful gold medal which the Emperor sent me as a souvenir of the day I sang the Benedictus in the chapel of the Tuileries. It is a little larger than a five-franc piece, and has on one side the head of the Emperor encircled by "Chapelle des Tuileries," and on the other side "Madame Moulton" and the date.

We are all dreadfully sad about the Duke de Morny's death. He was very much appreciated, and a favorite with every one. They say that the Duchess cut off all her hair and put it into his coffin. I never heard before that she was such a loving wife. I only hope that she will not need her braids to keep on her next wedding-wreath.

We have just heard of the assassination of that good, kind President Lincoln. How dreadful!

I have a new teacher called Delsarte, the most unique specimen I have ever met. My first impression was that I was in the presence of a concierge in a second-class establishment; but I soon saw that he was the great master I had heard described so often. He is not a real singing teacher, for he does not think the voice worth speaking of; he has a theory that one can express more by the features and all the tricks he teaches, and especially by the manner of enunciation, than by the voice. We were (Aunty and I) first led into the salon, and then into the music- room, so called because the piano is there and the stand for music, but no other incumbrances as furniture.

On the walls were hung some awful diagrams to illustrate the master's method of teaching. These diagrams are crayon-drawings of life-sized faces depicting every emotion that the human face is capable of expressing, such as love, sorrow, murder, terror, joy, surprise, etc.

It is Delsarte's way, when he wants you to express one of these emotions in your voice, to point with a soiled forefinger to the picture in question which he expects you to imitate. The result lends expression to your voice.

The piano is of a pre-Raphaelite construction, and stands in the middle of the room like an island in a lake, with a footstool placed over the pedals (he considers the pedal as useless). The lid of the piano was absent, and, to judge from the inside, I should say that the piano was the receptacle for everything that belonged to the Delsarte homestead. There were inkstands, pens, pencils, knives, wire, matches, toothpicks, half-smoked cigars, even remnants of his luncheon, which seemed to have been black bread and cheese, and dust galore. Delsarte had on a pair of much-worn embroidered slippers, a velvet calotte, the tassels of which swayed with each of his emotions, and a dilapidated robe de chambre which opened at every movement, disclosing his soiled plaid foulard doing duty for a collar.

On my telling him that I desired to take some lessons of him, he asked me to sing something for him. Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il était nuit déjà," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air léger apportait jusqu'à nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de l'oranger." I said to myself, "... no one could 'sentir un oranger' in this room; one could only smell Delsarte's bad tobacco."

He begged me to sing something else.

"Will you accompany Gounod's 'Medje' for me?" I asked him.

"No," he replied. "I will listen; you must accompany yourself. There are certain songs that cannot be accompanied by any one but the singer. This is one of them! You feel yourself, don't you, that it is absolutely necessary for you to clutch something when singing this? A weak chord or a too powerful one struck in a wrong place would spoil entirely the effect, and even the best accompanist cannot foresee when that effect is going to be produced." I think this is so clever! "'Voi che sapete' can be accompanied by any school girl," he continued. "It is plain sailing; but in 'Medje' the piano must be part of the singer and breathe with him." I sat down at the piano and sang. When I came to "Prends cette lame et plonges la dans mon coeur," he stopped me short, and pointing to a horrible picture on the wall indicating bloody murder and terror (No. 6), he cried, "Voilà l'expression qu'il faut avoir." I sang the phrase over again, trying to imagine what Medje's lover must have felt; but I could not satisfy Delsarte. He said my voice ought to tremble; and, in fact, I ought to sing false when I say, "Ton image encore vivante dans mon coeur qui ne bat plus." "No one," he said, "in such a moment of emotion could keep on the right note." I tried again, in vain! If I had had a dagger in my hand and a brigand before me, I might perhaps have been more successful. However, he let it pass; but to show that it could be done he sang it for me, and actually did sing it false. Curiously enough, it sounded quite right, tremolo and all. There is no doubt that he is a great artist. One can see that Faure and Coquelin (the actor) have both profited by his unique teaching. He assured me that there is no art like that of making people believe what you want them to. For instance, he pretends that he can sing "Il pleut, il pleut, bergère," and make you hear the patter of the bergère's heels on the wet sod, or wherever she was trying to rentrer ses blancs moutons. He sang it with the fullest conviction, and asked me what I thought of it. I shut my eyes and tried to conjure up the bergère and her heels. My head began to whirl with all this talk, and, on taking leave of my new master, I promised him that I would try to sing false until the next lesson. Another thing he said was: "Never try to accompany yourself when the accompaniment is difficult. There is nothing so painful as to see a singer struggling with tremolos and arpeggios." How right he is!

He has one theory about the trembling of the chin. It certainly is very effective. When in "Medje" I say, "Tu n'as pas vu mes larmes, tout la nuit j'ai pleuré," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once," pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome." I have tried it and have seen the effect. But I am letting you into all Delsarte's most innermost secrets.

PARIS, July, 1865.

DEAR M.,--You must forgive me if I have not written lately; but we have been on a visit to the Duke and Duchess de Persigny for the past week. I did not have time to do more than dress for driving and drive, dress for afternoon tea, dress for dinner, and dine.

The estates of Chamarande are beautiful, the château itself is very magnificent and arranged with the Duchess's taste, which is perfect though ultra-English.

The château has a moat around it, over which is a stone bridge which leads to the entrance on the side opposite the broad terraces bordered by cut trees, as in Versailles. The park is very large, filled with beautiful old trees, and most artistically laid out.

The Duke de Persigny is perfectly delightful, genial, kind, and certainly the cleverest man of the day, with a temper which is temper-proof. I never saw him out of it, and, well as I know him, I have never seen him ruffled in any way, and sometimes there were occasions, goodness knows!

The Duchess is still handsome and attractive; her pronounced originality lends her a peculiar charm. She has many admiring friends who are true to her, and I must say that when she is a friend she is a true one, and never fails you. Her originality frequently leads her beyond conventionality; for instance, the other day she took it into her head to dine out of doors. If she wanted to picnic al fresco, why did she not choose some pretty place in the park or in the woods? But no, she had the usual elaborate dinner served directly outside the château, and on the gravel walk. The servants, powdered and in short breeches as usual, served us in their customary solemnity; but they must have wondered why we preferred to sit on the gravel, with a draught of cold air on our backs, when we might have been comfortably seated in a big and airy room with a carpet under our feet. However, such was the wish of the châtelaine, and no one dared say a word, not even the Duke, though he protested meekly.

Later on the Duke had his revenge, for in the midst of our breezy repast there came a downpour of rain, accompanied by lightning and peals of thunder, which necessitated a hasty retreat.

The Duchess, who is very timid in thunder-storms, was the first to rush into the house, the guests following pell-mell, and our dinner was finished indoors.

After our return to Petit Val we had the visit of Auber's protégé, a young man called Massenet. One day, in Paris, two months ago, Auber said to me:

"I am very much interested in a former pupil of the Conservatoire who took the Grand-Prix de Rome, and has just come back from his four years' musical studies in Rome. As he is more or less a stranger in Paris, I should be very thankful if you would interest yourself for him. He really is a genius; but, as so often happens, geniuses don't have pocket-money."

I answered: "Please tell him to come and see me. I have some music I wish to have transposed. Do you think that he would be willing to do it?"

"Certainly; he would be glad to do anything," was the answer.