The child, who had restrained himself during the tirade,
began to sob. All eyes were full of tears. One lady fainted.
At concerts his triumph was the same on a larger scale. I will give but
one anecdote. A man of letters, who was also a skilled physician, said
to Delsarte:
"Do you know, sir, that I made your acquaintance in a very strange way?
I was at the Herz Hall, at your concert. Your voice and singing so
agitated me that I was forced to leave the room, feeling oppressed and
almost faint."
This impressionable listener referred to a day memorable in the annals
of the master. Delsarte--he sang certain airs written for women in
Gluck's operas--had selected Clytemnestra's song:
"A priest, encircled by a cruel throng,
Shall on my daughter lay his guilty hand."
Just as this maternal despair reached its paroxysm, the artist raised
both hands to his head and remained in the most striking attitude
possible to overwhelming grief. Loud applause burst from every part of
the hall; there was a frenzy, a delirium of enthusiasm. At the same
time, a violent storm burst outside; the roaring thunder, the rain
beating in floods upon the windows, the flashing lightning which turned
the gas-lights pale, formed a tremendous orchestra for Gluck's music,
and a fantastic frame for the sublime actor. Then, as if crushed by his
glory, he prolonged that marvelous effect, and stood a moment as if
annihilated by the frantic and tumultuous shouts of the audience.
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