as
little known and is less well known now.

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 entire