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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 pleure," Delsarte says, "Make your chin tremble; just try it once," pointing to a diagram, "and every one will be overcome."
He was the spoilt child of the age frivolous, amorous, sensuous, charming, unfortunate, and unhappy; and his poetry is the record of his personal feelings, his varying moods, his fugitive loves, his sentimental despairs. Le seul bien qui me reste au monde Est d'avoir quelquefois pleuré, he exclaims, with an accent of regretful softness different indeed from that of Vigny.
Suddenly a clear and fresh soprano voice rang out from the garden below, singing a verse of a doggerel French song: "Eh, Pierrot! Danse, Pierrot! Danse un peu, mon pauvre Jeannot! Vive la danse et l'allegresse! Jouissons de notre bell' jeunesse! Si moi je pleure ou moi je soupire, Si moi je fais la triste figure Monsieur, ce n'est que pour rire! Ha! Ha, ha, ha! Monsieur, ce n'est que pour rire!"
In a little poem of his, Et s'il revenait, the last words of a dying girl, forsaken by her lover, who is asked by her sister what shall be told to the faithless one, should he ever seek to know of her last hours: "Et s'il m'interroge encore Sur la derniere heure? Dites lui que j'ai souri De peur qu'il ne pleure ..."
In France the word "comedy" is elastic and covers a multitude of sins: it includes the laughing Boule and the tearful Froufrou: in fact, the French Melpomene is a sort of Jeanne qui pleure et Jeanne qui rit. So it happens that Froufrou is a comedy. And indeed the first three acts are comedy of a very high order, full of wit and rich in character.
I won't pretend that they dwelt there, but look on it they once did the eyes of that great, sad, scandalous, religious French poet on a night of weary rain that set someone quoting, also in that street, "Il pleure dans mon coeur Comme il pleut sur la ville." Yes, and that French poet passed the gasometer on his way to New Zion. Actually. Romance!
But, while they murdered, one of them frowned and canted, the other grinned and joked. For our own part, we prefer Jean qui pleure to Jean qui rit. In the midst of the funeral gloom which overhung Paris, a gaiety stranger and more ghastly than the horrors of the prison and the scaffold distinguished the dwelling of Barere. Every morning a crowd of suitors assembled to implore his protection.
"Among the transcriptions I have most enjoyed making were those of Debussy's Il pleure dans mon cœur, and La Fille aux cheveaux de lin. Debussy was my cherished friend, and they represent a labor of love. "Debussy came near writing a violin piece for me once!" continued Mr. Hartmann, and brought out a folio containing letters the great impressionist had written him.
But, while they murdered, one of them frowned and canted, the other grinned and joked. For our own part, we prefer Jean qui pleure to Jean qui rit. In the midst of the funeral gloom which overhung Paris, a gayety stranger and more ghastly than the horrors of the prison and the scaffold distinguished the dwelling of Barère. Every morning a crowd of suitors assembled to implore his protection.
Ah! si vous l'aviez connu, vous auriez pleuré son sort il étoit un si bel homme! d'une taille superbe!" said our honest host, whose knowledge of Murat was probably confined to his soldier-like figure, and his desolate state: he could have been no judge of the small extent of Buonaparte's obligations to his brother-in-law, whose former defection was but repaid in kind.
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