"Well! what do they teach you?"
"They teach us to know our notes."
"What notes?"
"Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si."
"What else?"
"That is all."
"Are there no more notes?"
"Not one!"
"How happy I am! I know music!" cried the delighted Delsarte.
"Cries of joy have their sorrows," said a poet. The child had uttered
his cry of joy, and his torments were about to begin. Seven notes! It
was a whole world; but what was he to do with them? He scarcely knew,
although he was enchanted to possess the treasure. Could he foresee the
revelations which art had in store for him? Still less could he predict
those conquests in the realm of the ideal which cost him so many
sleepless nights.
It must be confessed, superior talents bring suffering to their
fortunate possessor. They console him on his journey, along the rough
road down which they drag him; they sometimes reward one of the elect,
but it is their nature to cause suffering.
And so Francois Delsarte was tempest-tossed while yet a child. He soon
saw that his scientific baggage was but small; he felt that something
unknown, something infinite, barred his passage, so soon as he strove to
approach the goal which, in an outburst of joy, he fancied within his
grasp. What hand would guide him to enter on the dazzling career which
he had dimly foreseen? Where should he get books? Who would advise him?
Well! these _impossible things_ were all found--in scanty measure, no
doubt, and somewhat capriciously; but still the means for learning were
provided for his greed of knowledge.
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