imself.

The piano strikes the opening notes of the prelude, and before the
artist has uttered a word, he is transfigured. If he is singing serious
opera, the oval of his face lengthens, the lines become more fixed, his
cheeks shrink, his forehead is lighted up and his eye flashes with
inspiration; the pallor of profound emotion pervades his features, the
somewhat gross proportions of his figure are disguised by the firmness
of his pose and the juvenile precision of his gesture.

The part of _Robert the Devil_ is one of those in which Delsarte best
developed the resources and suppleness of his genius. _Robert_ is the
son of a demon, but his mother was a saint. He loves with sincere love;
but even this love is subject to the influence of the evil spirit;
hence, these outbursts followed by such tender remorse, that heart which
melts into tears after a fit of rage. _Robert_ is jealous, less so than
_Othello_ possibly, but _Robert's_ jealousy is stimulated by infernal
powers and must differ in its manifestation. It was in these shades of
distinction that Delsarte's greatness was apparent to every eye.

Then came those indescribable inflections--words which pierced your
heart, cold as a sword-blade: "Come, come!" says _Robert_, striving to
drag _Isabella_ away, ... and that simple word was made frantic,
breathless, by the accent accompanying it. No one who has not heard
Delsarte utter the word _rival_ can conceive of all the mysteries of
hate and pain contained in the word.

In the trio from "William Tell," after the words, "has cut an old man's
thread of life," Arnold feels that Gessler has had his father murdered.
A first and vague suspicion dawned on the artist's face. Little by
little, the impression became more marked, a clearer idea of this
misfortune was shown by pantomime; his eye was troubled, it kindled,
every feature questioned both William and Walter; the actor's hand,
trembling and contracted, was stretched toward them and implored them to
speak more clearly. He was horror-stricken at the news he was to hear,
but uncertainty was intolerable; and when, after these touching
preparations, Arnold himself tore away the last shred of doubt, when he
uttered the cry: "My father!" there was not a heart--were it bathed in
the waters of the Styx--which did not melt from the counter shock of
such violent despair.

The effects of rage, hate, irony, the terrors of remorse, the bitterness
of disappointment, were not the o