No More Learning

Had she too felt remorse? Had she heard a voice whispering
misgivings as to the course she had pursued ? Had she closed
her ears to it? Was it true, as Paule in her grief and repentance
had suspected, that she had begun to love and admire her child
during the months which had preceded their final separation?
Did she ask herself sometimes, when kneeling in the dismantled.
chapel, and before that crucifix which war and devastation had
spared, if she had acted up to the Christian as well as to the
ancestral traditions of her race when she had driven that child
away from her forever? And the mourning garb in which she
was arrayed,-did she feel certain that it was God's will, and
not her own unrelenting heart, which had condemned her to
wear it?
No one could tell, not even the abbé. But that she was be-
coming every day more thin, more haggard, more gloomy, others
besides him could observe.
As in a besieged city where famine is doing fell work, and
from which a cry for mercy and life despairingly rises, a stern
commander refuses to capitulate, holds out, and dooms himself
and others to a lingering death,- so the pride of her soul sti
fled the yearnings, the pleadings, the cries of nature; and never
perhaps had they been more distinctly heard, never had the
weight of solitude and loneliness pressed more heavily on Renée


## p. 12813 (#231) ##########################################

LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12813
de Penarvan's heart than upon that autumnal evening. As she
sat in that large, dimly lighted room, her elbow resting on the
side of her arm-chair, her head on her hand, a slight noise made.
her look up: the door opened, and a little child came in. Alarmed
at the sight of the pale lady in black by the fireside, the child
stopped in the middle of the room, and her smiling face became
grave.
"Who are you? " asked the marquise, who did not even know
that Paule had a child.
"I am a little girl. "
"Come here, my child. "
Taking courage, the little thing toddled up to the chimney,
and put her little hands on the arm of the oak chair.
"What is your name? " the marquise asked, softened by the
sight of the lovely little face.
"Renée," the child answered.
The marquise started with emotion and a sort of fear; she
scanned the features of the child, she saw, she guessed, she under-
stood it all.
"Go back to your mother," she said in a trembling voice.
"Go back to Madame Coverley. ”
Frightened at the stern voice and manner of the lady, the
little thing turned round and slowly went towards the door.
The marquise watched her with a beating heart. During the
instants it took the child to cross the room, the whole of her
life passed before her. She saw her gentle, affectionate husband
riding from the hall door on his way to a bloody death; she saw
her beautiful, gentle daughter driven from her home: and now
that lovely little creature so like herself—with her fair hair, her
white skin, her blue eyes-was disappearing also.
She looked round at the pictures on the walls: she felt as if
they, those ancestors, to whom she had sacrificed everything, had
doomed her to a lingering death.
And meanwhile the little girl had reached the door. Renée
was still hesitating. The child turned round and said with a
reproachful expression in her baby face:
"You not my grandmamma. You not love Renée. You send
Renée away. "
She could not hold out,-the poor marquise! She uttered a
sort of cry.
She sprang up, seized the child in her arms, kissed
her, wept over her, hugged her to her breast.


## p. 12814 (#232) ##########################################

12814
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
Stay, stay, my little one, stay," she wildly exclaimed; "stay,
my little life, my darling, my treasure. "
«
A YEAR had elapsed; and on the banks of the Sèvres there
were no longer any ruins to be seen. The old castle of Penar-
van had recovered its former aspect. The towers, the walls, the
handsome entrance, were all restored, the armorial bearings had
reappeared, the invading weeds were banished from the court.
The stables were filled with horses and carriages, the kennel
with dogs.
In the handsomely furnished drawing-room the whole set of
ancestors looked new and bright in their cleaned state and fresh-
gilded frames. Inside and outside the house there was life and
animation. The ruined farms were rebuilt, the greatest part of
the estate repurchased; manufactories of ropes and sails rose on
the banks of the river.
The time of ragged cassocks had likewise gone by; the chapel
of the château had recovered its old splendor. The abbé offi-
ciated in great pomp, on Sundays and festivals, at a magnificent
altar; and the seat of the lords of the manor had been restored to
its wonted place. A look of happiness and prosperity reigned
in the whole neighborhood. Respect for the past was joined to
modern enterprise, and the poetry of old associations to the activ-
ity of useful labor.
Henri Coverley had not only repurchased the estates of the
ancient domain of Penarvan, he had also bought back La Briga-
zière.
M. Michaud, who possessed several houses in the neighbor-
hood of Rennes, looked with contempt on that little old-fashioned
manor-house, and was quite ready to sell it. Père Michaud had
now grown into that famous Michaud so conspicuous on the
Liberal benches in the days of the Restoration, who denounced
the nobility and protested against the feudal distinctions, till in
1830 the new government stopped his mouth by making him a
baron.
On a beautiful summer's afternoon the Marquise de Penarvan,
with her little granddaughter and the abbé, were sitting in that
same drawing-room where we have so often seen them. Renée
was still handsome; her magnificent fair hair was not yet tinged
by a single thread of gray. The abbé was rather less thin
than he used to be. Little Renée was sitting on his knees, and


## p. 12815 (#233) ##########################################

LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
12815
learning to read in his history; the first chapters of which were
being printed for private circulation.
That child was now the abbé's idol; she made the happiness
of his declining years. As to the marquise, she was fondly, pas-
sionately attached to her grandchild. The old Renée loved the
little Renée with a tenderness she had never before felt towards
any human being. She had taken, as it were, possession of the
child; and her softened but still despotic nature showed itself
in the excess to which she carried her devotion to this little
creature.
Paule and Henri were just going out on horseback; the mar-
quise stood at the window and watched them as they rode down
the avenue.
"Abbé," she said, calling him to her side, "look at them. "
And she made a gesture which implied, "How handsome they
are; how happy they seem! "
The abbé, trying to look very sly, said in a low voice:-
"I married them. "
"O you arch-deceiver, you abominable hypocrite," the mar-
quise exclaimed: "it was just like you,-you have always played
me tricks. "
They both laughed; the abbé rubbed his hands in a self-
complacent manner.
"Well, well," the marquise said, "we shall be quite a large
party this evening: you know we expect Madame de Soleyre. "
The abbé had returned to little Renée, and was again open-
ing his book.
"Really, abbé," the marquise exclaimed, "you have no mercy
on that child: you will bore her to death.
"Not at all, Madame la Marquise: Mademoiselle Renée prom-
ises to be a very good scholar; and she likes stories about battles,
which her mamma never did. "
>>>>
Little Renée pointed with her small finger to one of the
paintings in the manuscript, and said:-
"Guy de Penarvan die at Massoure. "
It may be imagined if she was applauded by the abbé, and
hugged by her grandmother; who, after kissing her over and over
again, turned to the abbé and said:-
"But, by the way, is it at last finished,- that eternal history? "
"That eternal history is finished, madame," the abbé an-
swered, in a rather touchy manner. "Yesterday I copied into it


## p. 12816 (#234) ##########################################

12816
LÉONARD SYLVAIN JULES SANDEAU
the last lines of the chapter devoted to the memory of your hus-
band, the late marquis. '
"You have not quite accomplished your task, abbé: your his-
tory is not complete. "
"Alas, Madame la Marquise, I know that too well. That
wretched prelate - "
"Oh, but without reckoning the prelate there is still some-
thing to add to it. "
"Something more, madame? what can that be? »
«< Well, and my history, M. l'Abbé! You make no mention of
me. "
"I write the history of the dead, not of the living, Madame la
Marquise; and I fully reckon on never writing yours. "
"I will dictate to you what to say about me. Sit down here
and take a pen. "
The abbé, somewhat surprised, did as he was told; and seated
himself in an expectant position.
"At the top of the page write: 'Louise Charlotte Antoinette
Renée, Marquise de Penarvan,-last of the name. »
"Last of the name,'" the abbé re-echoed.
"And now write:-'She lived like a recluse, devoted to the
worship of her ancestry; and found out- though rather late —
that if it is right to honor the dead, it is very sweet to love the
living. '»
"Is that all, madame? "
"Yes, my dear abbé," Renée answered, taking her grandchild
in her arms, and fondly kissing her soft cheek. "But if you like
you may add :
"HERE ENDS THE HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OF PENARVAN. '»
Translation of Lady Georgiana Fullerton.
―


## p. 12816 (#235) ##########################################



## p. 12816 (#236) ##########################################


SAPPHO


## p. 12816 (#237) ##########################################

1
1
t


## p. 12816 (#238) ##########################################



## p. 12817 (#239) ##########################################

12817
SAPPHO
(612 B. C. -? )
BY THOMAS DAVIDSON
APPHO (more properly Psappha), the greatest of all poetesses,
was born in 612 B. C. , at Eressos in the island of Lesbos.
Her father's name was Scamandronymus, her mother's
Cleis. Few facts of her life are recorded. As a girl she doubtless
learnt by heart her Homer and Hesiod, and sang the songs of her
countrymen Terpander and Arion. While still young she paid a visit
to Sicily, and possibly there made the acquaintance of the great
Western poets, Stesichorus and Ibycus. When she returned home
she settled at Mitylene, being perhaps disgusted with the conduct of
her brother Charaxus, who had married the courtesan Rhodopis.
one of her satirical poems on him belongs perhaps the line-
To
"Wealth without worth is no harmless housemate. »
She found some compensation in her youngest brother Larichus,
who for his beauty had been chosen as cupbearer in the public ban-
quet hall at Mitylene. In an extant fragment she says to him:-
:-
"Stand kindly there before me, and unfold
The beauty of thine eyes. "
As we may well believe, the beautiful, gifted Sappho had many
admirers. Chief among these was the great Alcæus,— statesman,
warrior, and lyric poet. There is still extant the opening of a poem
which he addressed to her:-
XXII-802
«Violet-crowned, chaste, sweet-smiling Sappho,
I fain would speak; but bashfulness forbids. "
She replied in the spirited lines, showing her simplicity of character:
"Had thy wish been pure and manly,
And no evil on thy tongue,
Shame had not possessed thine eyelids:
From thy lips the right had rung. "


## p. 12818 (#240) ##########################################

12818
SAPPHO
To a suitor younger than herself she wrote:
"Remain my friend, but seek a younger bride:
I am too old, and may not mate with thee. »
Indeed, a passionate nature like hers was not easily mated; and so
we find a strain of longing pathos in her. In one fragment she says:
"The moon hath set,
The Pleiades are gone:
'Tis midnight, and the time goes by,
And I-I sleep alone. »
Elsewhere she says (in the exact words of a Scotch ballad),—
"For I sall aye gang a maiden mair. »
The much-quoted but absurd story of Sappho's flinging herself
from the Leucadian Rock, in despair at her unrequited love for the
handsome Phaon, is due to a confusion between her and a courtesan
of the same name. So far from such folly was the poetess, that, late
in life apparently, she changed her mind about marrying, and gave
her hand to a wealthy Andrian named Cercylas, by whom she had a
daughter, named after her own mother, Cleis. We have still a frag-
ment referring to this child:-
:-
"I have a little maid, as fair
As any golden flower,
My Cleis dear,
For whom I would not take all Lydia,
Nor lovely Lesbos here. »
Elsewhere she says to the same child,-
"Let me enfold thee, darling mine. "
Of the events of Sappho's later life we know little: merely that
she lived to a ripe old age, and died leaving a name which the
Greeks for a thousand years, with one accord, placed next to that of
Homer. After her death the Lesbians paid her divine honors, erected
memorial temples to her, and even stamped her image upon their
coins, as other cities did those of their tutelary deities. How she was
regarded by her great contemporaries we may learn from a story told
of Solon. When near his end, some one having repeated to him a
poem of Sappho's, he prayed the gods to allow him to live long
enough to learn it by heart. From his day to the latest times of
antiquity, poets and critics strove in vain for words to express their
admiration of herself and her works. Plato calls her "the beautiful


## p. 12819 (#241) ##########################################

SAPPHO
12819
Sappho"; and she is often referred to as "the tenth Muse. " An epi-
gram on the great lyric poets, after enumerating the eight men, says,
"Sappho was not the ninth among men: she is catalogued as the
tenth among the Muses. " Horace writes:-
"Still breathes the love, still live the hues,
Intrusted to the Eolian maiden's strings. "
And the great critic Longinus is even more complimentary.
Such uniform, unqualified praise for a thousand years may well
make us mourn the loss of Sappho's works. For with the exception
of two short poems (one incomplete), and about a hundred and
twenty fragments of from one to five lines, they are all lost. But
what remains is very precious, containing a wealth of deft expression
not easy to match in any other poet, and more than sufficient to
enable us to comprehend the estimate given of the poetess by Strabo:
"Sappho is a kind of miracle; for within the memory of man there
has not, so far as we know, arisen any woman worthy even to be
mentioned along with Sappho in the matter of poetry. "
Sappho left nine books and rolls of poems, the subjects of which
were so various that they were arranged according to metres, a book
being devoted to each of the nine metres in which she wrote. Of
these metres the most famous was the "Sapphic stanza," which she
seems to have invented. Another invention of hers was the plectrum
or pectis, with which the lyre was struck,— the first step toward the
piano.
We shall arrange her briefer fragments not according to metre but
to subject, premising the remark that through most of them runs
a trait to which she frankly bears testimony, the love of splendor.
She says:-
―
"I am in love with luxury:
The love of the sun hath won for me
The splendid and the beautiful. »
Her love of nature, and her power of expressing its charm in
simple, striking language, remind us of Burns and Goethe. Her
pathetic lines about her loneliness at midnight have already been
quoted. But it is not merely the pathetic in nature that she feels:
she feels all its living beauty. It is not only the night, with the
moon and the Pleiads set, that touches her: every hour of the day
comes to her with a fresh surprise. Of the morning she says:-
"Early uprose the golden-slippered Dawn;"
and of the evening:-
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all
The glimmering Dawn dispersed. »
-


## p. 12820 (#242) ##########################################

12820
SAPPHO
And again:
"O Hesperus! thou bringest all:
Thou bring'st the wine; thou bring'st the goat;
Thou bring'st the child to the mother's knee. »*
Of the night she says:-
-
"The stars about the pale-faced moon
Veil back their shining forms from sight,
As oft as, full with radiant round,
She bathes the earth with silver light. "
And again of the moon and the Pleiads:
"The moon was shining full, and they
Stood as about an altar ranged. »
And just as the hours of the day, so the seasons of the year bring
her joy. Her ear is open to-
"Spring's harbinger, the passion-warbling nightingale;">
and her eye brightens when —
"The golden chick-peas spring upon the banks. »
What a picture of the Southern summer, with its noonday siesta in
the open air, we have in these lines:
:-
"The lullaby of waters cool
Through apple-boughs is softly blown,
And, shaken from the rippling leaves,
Sleep droppeth down. "
And how we should like to hear the termination of this simile:-
"As when the shepherds on the hills
Tread under foot the hyacinth,
And on the ground the purple flower [lies crushed]. »
Along with her delight in nature goes a keen joyous feeling for
all that is festive: song, wine, and dance, garlands, gold vessels, and
purple robes are dear to her. To her lyre she says:-
And to Aphrodite she calls,-
"Come then, my lyre divine!
Let speech be thine. »
-
"Come, Queen of Cyprus! pour the stream
Of nectar, mingled lusciously
With merriment, in cups of gold. »
* Lord Byron's expansion of this in 'Don Juan' will be remembered. See
page 2968 of this work.


## p. 12821 (#243) ##########################################

SAPPHO
12821
But Aphrodite is not enough. Life requires other ennobling ele-
ments, light, sweetness, and art, represented by Hermes, the Graces,
and the Muses. Of a wedding-feast she says:-
Again she calls:-
And again:-
"Then with ambrosia the bowl was mixed,
And Hermes took a cup, to toast the gods,
While all the rest raised goblets, poured the wine,
And prayed for all brave things to bless the groom. »
-
――――
And yet again:-
"Hither come, ye dainty Graces,
And ye fair-haired Muses now! "
«Come, rosy-armed, chaste Graces! come,
Daughters of Jove! »
"Hither, hither come, ye Muses!
Leave the golden sky. "
Nay, she even calls upon Justice herself to put garlands about her
fair locks, and come to the feast; adding, characteristically enough,
that the gods turn away from worshipers that wear no wreaths.
From such sayings we see that Sappho's delight in nature, deep as
it was, was chastened and refined by a delight in art. The Grecian
grace of movement and management of drapery are particularly dear
to her. She exclaims:
"What rustic hoyden ever charmed the soul,
That round her ankles could not kilt her coats! "
But far more than all outward adornment of the body, which is
but an index of the soul, is the adornment of the soul itself with
sweetness and art. To an uncultivated woman she says:-
"When thou art dead, thou shalt lie in the earth:
Not even the memory of thee shall be,
Thenceforward and forever; for no part
Hast thou, or share, in the Pierian roses:
But, formless, even in Hades's halls shalt thou
Wander and flit with the effaced dead. "
On the other hand, to a cultivated woman she says:-
"I think no other maid, nay, not even one,
That hath beheld the sunlight, e'er shall be
Like thee in wisdom, in all days to come. "
-
She knows too that she herself will not be easily forgotten.
says:-
"I think there will be memory of us yet,
In after days. "
She


## p. 12822 (#244) ##########################################

12822
SAPPHO
But, aware of the labor required by genius, she adds:-
In another:
"I do not think with these two arms to clasp
The heavens. »
What calls forth Sappho's supreme admiration and love is the cul-
tivated, genial, loving soul, at home in a beautiful body. Her joy in
such souls expresses itself in language of the most tempestuous sort.
In one fragment she says:
-
"Love again, unnerving might,
Bitter-sweet, doth shake and smite,
Like a serpent folded tight. "
"Love again hath tossed my spirit,
Like a blast down mountain-gorges,
Rushing on the oak-tree's branches. »
-:
She is sad when her love is not returned. Of one friend she says:
"I loved thee, Atthis, once, in days gone by;
A little maid thou seemedst, nor very fair.
Atthis, thou hatest now to think of me,
And fleest to Andromeda. »
Of others she speaks pathetically:-
"The heart within their breast is cold,
And drops its wings. "
Then her sorrow is too great for utterance.
"To you, dear ones, this thought of mine may not
Be told; but in myself I know it well.
"
There is a whole heart-tragedy in such snatches as this:-
"The beings that I have toiled to please,
They wound me most. »
But the strongest expression of her love occurs in the two longer
poems which follow this article. Of the second, Longinus says:—
"Do you not admire the manner in which, at one and the same time, she
loses soul, body, hearing, speech, color, everything, as if they were passing
from her and melting away? how, in self-contradiction, she is at once hot and
cold, foolish and wise? how she is afraid, and almost dead, so that not one
feeling, but a whole congregation of feelings, appears in her? For all these
things are true of persons in love. But it was the seizing of the salient points,
and the combination of them, that produced the sublime. "
And he classes the poem as sublime. Certain it is that her influ-
ence, like that of Homer, went far to determine the character of all


## p. 12823 (#245) ##########################################

SAPPHO
12823
subsequent Greek poetry and art,- to keep it pure and high, above
sensuality and above sentimentalism.
The character of Sappho's work may be thus summed up: Take
Homer's unstudied directness, Dante's intensity without his mysti-
cism, Keats's sensibility without his sensuousness, Burns's masculine
strength, and Lady Nairne's exquisite pathos, that goes straight to
the heart and stays there, and you have Sappho. What a darkened
world it must have been that allowed such poetry as hers to be lost!
And yet it is not all lost. Enough remains to show us the extent of
our loss; and of it we may say, in the words of the ancient epigram:
"Sappho's white, speaking pages of dear song
Yet linger with us, and will linger long. »
Hawar Davidha
TO APHRODITE
THO
HOU of the throne of many changing hues,
Immortal Venus, artful child of Jove,-
Forsake me not, O Queen, I pray! nor bruise
My heart with pain of love.
But hither come, if e'er from other home
Thine ear hath heard mine oft-repeated calls;
If thou hast yoked thy golden car and come,
Leaving thy father's halls;
If ever fair, fleet sparrows hastened forth,
And swift on wheeling pinions bore thee nigher,
From heights of heaven above the darkened earth.
Down through the middle fire.
Ay, swift they came; then, Blessed One, didst thou
With countenance immortal smile on me,
And ask me what it was that ailed me now,
And why I called on thee;
And what I most desired should come to pass,
To still my soul inspired: "Whom dost thou long
To have Persuasion lead to thine embrace?
Who, Sappho, does thee wrong?


## p. 12824 (#246) ##########################################

12824
SAPPHO
"For if she flee, she quickly shall pursue;
If gifts she take not, gifts she yet shall bring;
And if she love not, love shall thrill her through,
Though strongly combating. "
Then come to me even now, and set me free
From sore disquiet; and that for which I sigh
With fervent spirit, bring to pass for me:
Thyself be mine ally!
Translation of Thomas Davidson.
TO THE BELOVED
HOLD him as the gods above,
I
The man who sits before thy feet,
And, near thee, hears thee whisper sweet,
And brighten with the smiles of love.
Thou smiledst: like a timid bird
My heart cowered fluttering in its place.
I saw thee but a moment's space,
And yet I could not frame a word.
My tongue was broken; 'neath my skin
A subtle flame shot over me;
And with my eyes I could not see;
My ears were filled with whirling din.
And then I feel the cold sweat pour,
Through all my frame a trembling pass;
My face is paler than the grass:
To die would seem but little more.
Translation of Thomas Davidson.


## p. 12825 (#247) ##########################################

12825
FRANCISQUE SARCEY
(1828-)
EN ANY important first night, and on many unimportant ones,
in the theatres of Paris will be noticed among the most
attentive spectators a short, stout, comfortable-looking old
gentleman, with a white beard, a high color, and shrewd eyes. It is
Francisque Sarcey. For more than thirty years, his has been a posi-
tion of special distinction among the critics of France concerning
themselves particularly with French dramatic literature and the French
drama. No writer on these topics has so large an audience, and one
of such distinctively popular character. Of
the old school of critics, and of many old-
fashioned convictions; at swords' points with
many brother commentators and journalists
on questions of theatrical art, and of that
theatrical article the play; the object of
much good-natured ridicule (of some by no
means as good-natured as it might be),-
seen everywhere and known everywhere in
the dramatic movement of the capital, and
continually putting himself in close touch
with a wide provincial public by either his
lectures or his notices,-M. Sarcey easily
overtops in authority many new and brill-
iant confrères. He has been a voluminous
writer; he has been an incessant lecturer; and special gifts for main-
taining the courage of his convictions from the first have marked him
in both capacities.
FRANCISQUE SARCEY

M. Sarcey was born in 1828 at Dourdan, in the Department of the
Seine-et-Oise. He was an honor-pupil in the famous Charlemagne
School in Paris; and when pursuing his studies in the École Normale
in 1848, his fellow-students were About and Taine. His lively spirits
and independent ideas brought him into trouble when he was serv-
ing the Department of Public Instruction at Chaumont. He quitted
the school-teacher's desk for the newspaper office. In 1859 he began
critical work on the Figaro. He made a business of studying the
drama and dramatic criticism. He passed from the Figaro to various
other journals. Finally he became a permanent member of the staff


## p. 12826 (#248) ##########################################

12826
FRANCISQUE SARCEY
of Le Temps. To that well-known and influential newspaper he
contributes one or two articles every week in the year.
The plat-
form is also still his avocation; and his critical talks, delivered with a
charmingly colloquial manner,-a manner entirely in accord with his
theories of what a lecture should be,- are among the best attended
on the part of a public not too fond of that particular method of
receiving critical impressions.
M. Sarcey is not merely a specialist in the drama, and in the art
of acting: he is a man of fine and wide literary and artistic educa-
tion. He has a style which is like himself: clear, nervous, direct,
with touches of humor, and with occasionally the grace of true senti-
ment, but utterly opposed to the formalism which is to many writers
the only critical expression. He writes as he speaks,-off-hand, yet
never in a slipshod fashion. He has much humor, but always in good
taste. He believes in tradition on the stage; and in the making of
stage plays, he likes the melodrama better than the modern literary
play. He abhors the drama in which plot is not supreme; he hates
the faddists and the symbolists. His sense of himself is strong but
never offensive. He is respected as a philosopher of the play-house
and the play. His very weaknesses are so much a part of himself
that he would not be "Our Uncle Sarcey" without them; so no one
wishes them away. Past his middle years, he writes with the youth-
fulness of a man of twenty-five, united with the vast experience and
the maturity of a Nestor of the French theatre. His reputation is
international. All the world reads him, and nowhere else in the
world is there to be found a critic quite like him.
HOW A LECTURE IS PREPARED
From Recollections of Middle Life. ' Copyright 1893, by Charles Scribner's
Sons
HEN you have taken all your notes, when you have possessed
yourselves of at least the substance of all the ideas of
which the lecture is to be composed,-whether you have
them already arranged in fine order, or in the mass, still con-
fused, seething in your mind; when you have reached the moment
of preparation, when you no longer seek anything but the turn
to give them, the clearest, the most vivid and picturesque man-
ner in which to express them: when you are so far,-— mind, my
friend, never commit the imprudence of seating yourself at your
desk, your notes or your book under your eyes, a pen in your


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hand. If you live in the country, you doubtless have a bit of
a garden at your disposal; and in default of an alley of trees
belonging to you, a turn around the town where no one passes.
If you are a Parisian, you have in the neighborhood either the
Luxembourg or the Tuileries, or the Parc Monceau, or in any
case some wide and solitary street where you can dream in the
open air without too much interruption. If you have nothing of
all this, or if the weather be execrable, you have in your house
a room larger than the others: get up and walk. A lecture is
never prepared except while walking. The movement of the
body lashes the blood and aids the movement of the mind.
You have possessed your memory of the themes from the
development of which the lecture must be formed: pick out one
from the pile,— the first at hand, or the one you have most at
heart, which for the moment attracts you most, and act as if you
were before the public; improvise upon it. Yes, force yourself
to improvise. Do not trouble yourself about badly constructed
phrases, nor inappropriate words-go your way. Push on to the
end of the development, and the end once reached, recommence
the same exercise; recommence it three times, four times, ten
times, without tiring. You will have some trouble at first; the
development will be short and meagre: little by little around the
principal theme there will group themselves accessory ideas or
convincing facts, or pat anecdotes that will extend and enrich it.
Do not stop in this work until you notice that in thus taking up
the same theme you fall into the same development; and that
this development, with its turns of language and order of phrases,
fixes itself in your memory.
For, what is the purpose of the exercise that I recommend to
you? To prepare for you a wide and fertile field of terms and
phrases upon the subject that you are to treat. You have the
idea: you must seek the expression. You fear that words and
forms of phrase will fail you. A considerable number must be
accumulated in advance; it is a store of ammunition with which
you provide yourself for the great day. If you commit the im-
prudence of charging your memory with a single development
which must be definitive, you will fall into all the inconveniences
that I have brought to your attention: the effect is that of recit-
ing a lesson, and that is chilling; the memory may fail, you lose
the thread, and are pulled up short; the phrase has no longer
that air of negligence which improvisation alone gives, and which


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charms the crowd. But you have prepared a half-dozen develop-
ments of the same idea without fixing them either in your mem-
ory or upon paper; you come before the audience. The mind
that day, if good fortune wills that you be in train, is more
alert, keener; the necessity of being ready at call communicates
to it a lucidity and ardor of which you would not have believed
yourself capable. It draws from that mass of words and phrases
accumulated beforehand, or rather that mass itself is set in
motion and runs toward it and carries it along; it follows the
flood; it has the appearance of improvising what it recites, and
in fact it is improvising even while reciting.
This is not a new method that I am inventing. The ancients,
alas! have worn the matter threadbare, and one must always go
back to the 'De Oratore' of the late Cicero. You have, I im-
agine, heard it told that Thiers, when he had an important speech
to make in the Chamber, first tried the effect of his arguments.
upon his friends and guests. He received much company, and
every evening he improvised, for a little circle of auditors, some
parts of his future speech. Visitors succeeded one another; and
he recommenced without weariness, and indeed without wearying
them, the same developments. He was firing at a target. After
all, isn't this the same kind of preparation that I have recom-
mended to you? You are not M. Thiers, you have not at hand
a series of listeners, who relieve one another to give you a
chance. I would not advise you to inflict the suffering of these
recommencements and hesitations upon your unfortunate wife.
Improvise for yourself, as if you were speaking before an audi-
ence.
It will doubtless happen more than once, in the course of
these successive improvisations, that you will hit upon a pictur-
esque word, a witty thrust, a happy phrase. Beware of storing
it in your memory, and on your return sticking it on paper like
a butterfly fastened on a blank sheet with a pin. If you bring
it to the lecture you will certainly wish to place it; and instead
of abandoning yourself to improvisation in the development of
your idea, you will be wholly occupied with directing it toward
the ingenious or brilliant sally that you have stored away.
will appear embarrassed and awkward in spite of yourself, and
three quarters of the time you will spoil the effect upon which
you counted. You will have sacrificed the thought to a mot, and
the mot will miss fire.
You


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That mot,-heavens! perhaps it will not be lost, though you
have taken pains to forget it. Who knows? Perhaps on some
great day, in the flow of improvisation, it will mount to the sur-
face, and you will see it suddenly spring up in the eddy of a
phrase. Oh, then throw it in boldly: it will be more attractive
from having the air of a "find," a bit of good luck.
The great principle to which we must always return is that
every lecture must be improvised; but have a care! one does
not improvise successfully before the public until one has twenty
times improvised in solitude, as one can only draw from a fount-
ain the water that one has taken care to put into it beforehand.
Many believe that at least the exordium and the peroration
may be learned by heart. It is not my opinion. I have tried.
it. I have never succeeded by that means. The most that I
would admit is, that in speaking before a new public, if one has
first to address to it some of the phrases of courtesy and thanks
demanded by custom, one may fix the expressions; because they
are pure formulas of politeness, and it is better to know them
by heart. It would be ridiculous to stumble in the phrase used
to congratulate a person on his good health or felicitate him upon
his marriage.
But every time that you have true ideas to express,—and they
enter into the exordium and the peroration as well as into the
rest, you must improvise. For the audience is always warned,
by a change of tone or manner, of the moment when the author
passes from recitation to pure improvisation, and it begins to be
distrustful; it constantly wonders if the improvisation may not
simply be an uncertain recitation; it loses confidence and resists.
You see! there is no real success to be had- I cannot too often
repeat it — unless the audience feels itself in some sort plunged,
completely bathed, in the deep and rapid flow of improvisation.
-
Even the peroration—and between ourselves, is there any
need in the lecture of what is called a peroration? The perora-
tion is the bellow of the mediocre actor upon the last verse of the
tirade. Great artists disdain the applause that it arouses. What
do you undertake to do when you speak? You wish to explain
and prove an idea. Well, when your demonstration is finished,
you put a period to it: that is the peroration. The worth of a
lecture is not in the ingenuity of an exordium, in the brilliant
fanfare of a peroration, in the number and splendor of the lus-
trously cut phrases sown through the discourse: it is in the
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ensemble of its mass. Be sure that when you have faithfully
explained, developed, and revealed your idea; when you have,
with or without applause, impressed it upon the mind of your
audience, there is no success comparable to that.
Applause! flee from it as from the plague. An audience
that applauds is an audience that is given leisure from listening.
When it claps its hands, it's a sign that it is no longer bound
to the idea that you express; that it is no longer carried away,
rolled in the torrent of your discourse. It takes time to cry out
at a pretty phrase, to go into ecstasy over a flash of wit;-bad
business for you! for it forgets, while lingering to applaud
this, that which is the foundation of the lecture, the succession
of ideas and reasoning; you will have trouble in recapturing it
again.
I am so persuaded of this truth that I never leave my listen-
ers leisure to breathe. Of course it has happened to me, as to
my fellows, to touch here and there a corner of my discourse
with a more brilliant vivacity than usual, and to be conscious of
it; one is always conscious of that sort of thing. In such a case
I hardly launched the last word of the development before set-
ting out again at full speed for another series of ideas, cutting
short all tendency to applause. The confidence felt in an orator
evaporates in these bravos.
"Le vrai feu d'artifice est d'être magnanime," said M. Bel-
montet once upon a time, in a verse still celebrated.
The only
applause that counts, the only true applause, is the attention of
the audience, letting itself be so won by what you say that it no
longer thinks of the way in which you have said it.
You will doubtless be somewhat alarmed to know that it is
necessary to improvise a dozen times, and often more, each of
the subjects for development of which a lecture is composed.
You think to yourself that that is a tremendous task.
Yes, my
friends, there is nothing so long and so preoccupying as the prep-
aration of a lecture; you must make up your mind to it, if you
expect to follow that career. You will spend much time and
pains on it. Reassure yourselves, however: the work will become.
easier and more rapid as the habit of doing it grows with you.
Among these themes of development, as each lecturer approaches
only the subjects which relate to his studies and are within his
*True brilliancy comes from greatness of spirit. "


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range, some will often present themselves anew, and will only
require a summary preparation.
This humus of which I just now spoke to you— this prepared
heap of turns of speech, of exact and picturesque words — will
naturally grow richer; you will have it right at hand, and it will
serve the occasion without fresh effort.
There will come a time when, even with themes that are new
to you, you will no longer need, in order to establish the devel-
opment, ten or twelve successive improvisations. You will be
astonished to find with what facility, all at once, accessory ideas
and convincing facts will spring from the first improvisation, and
arrange themselves about the principal idea to sustain and clear
it. It will always be delicate work, but it will no longer be so
painful or so distressing. In a few hours, spread over two or
three days, you will get through the preparation of a lecture;
on condition, be it understood,—it is a prime condition,-of fully
possessing your subject.
You have improvised -picking them out one after the other
just as they came-each of the themes, so that it only remains
to put them in their place on the day of the final improvisation.
One of the great anxieties of a novice in lecturing is to know
how to pass from one theme to another; what Boileau called the
labor of transition, which used to give us blue terror in college.
Permit me to give you, just here, an axiom which I only suc-
ceeded in formulating after much reflection and many attempts:
In lecturing there is no transition.
When you have finished one development you enter upon
another; as at dinner, when you have eaten the soup you pass
to the entrée, and then to the roast. If there is no connection
between two ideas that succeed one another in your discourse,
what use is there in an imitation of one? When you speak, dis-
trust little strokes of finesse, tricks of style, bits of false ele-
gance: all this is worth nothing and serves no purpose. When
you have finished the explanation and the demonstration of the
idea, say honestly, if you must say something, "We have done
with that theme: let us pass to the next. "
But the best way would be to say nothing at all, and to enter
upon another order of development, with no warning but a short
silence.
If, on the contrary, there is a connection between the two
themes, do not disturb yourself,-you do not need expressly to


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. mark it. It is useless to take the trouble to throw a bridge
between the two ideas: the moment that you, the orator, leap
from one to the other, the audience must leap after you, borne
on by the same impulse. The transition is no more than the
movement of your thought, that the audience necessarily follows
if you keep a firm hand upon it.
Ah, bless me! you, the lecturer, must have always present
to your mind, even through any digression you permit yourself,
your principal idea, and must not let your audience forget it;
you will have no trouble in leading them back when you yourself
return. And if by chance you are so far removed from it that
you do not know what road to take to reach it again, the sim-
plest way is frankly to announce your embarrassment. "It seems
to me that we are straying - where was I? Ah! I wished to
demonstrate to you that" and there is the thread picked up,
without great art, I confess: but I have remarked that the public
likes very well to have you make a confidant of it; speak to it
with open heart; if need be, ask counsel from it. It would not
do to make an artifice, a trick, of this means of exciting inter-
est and sympathy: the public is very sharp; it would easily see
that you played upon its credulity, and would range itself against
you. But if you have truly lost the thread, do not fear to say
frankly, "I do not know where I am put me on the right
track. " If a word escapes you, ask some one to prompt you.
They probably will not do so; but you will have had time to
find it while they search for it, or an excuse for not having
found it any sooner than the others. This excuse would not be
permitted to a man who recites, for it would pass for a failure
in memory; and to be brought up by a defeat of memory is the
worst that can happen in lecturing, as in the theatre and in the
pulpit. Laughter breaks forth invincibly. It never offends in
an orator who improvises; it may even please by a certain air
of sincerity and good-fellowship.
Is there a special tone and style for the lecture, as there is
for academic discussions,- for the pulpit, for the Sorbonne, for
the bar? That is a point to be looked into.
What is a lecture? It is, properly, to hold a conversation with
many hundreds of persons, who listen without interrupting. It
may be said, in general, that the tone of the lecture should be
that of a chat. But there it is, there are as many tones for
chatting as there are people who chat. Each one talks according
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to his temperament, his cast of mind, his turn of thought; each
talks as he is: and that which is pleasing in a chat is precisely
the discovery in it of the physiognomy of the talker. I can give
you only one piece of advice on this point: try to be, through
art, when once seated in the lecturer's chair, that which you nat-
urally are in your drawing-room, when you talk with five or six
persons and when you engross the conversation. Hear yourself
speak, observe yourself,- these introspections are become very
easy to us, thanks to the habit that we have contracted of analyz-
ing ourselves, and bend all your efforts to producing a lecture,
not according to your neighbor, who perhaps speaks better than
you, but yourself, only yourself, accentuating if possible the ren-
dering of your principal traits. I will condense my counsels in
this formula, which is not so humorous as it seems: It is permit-
ted you, it is even recommended to you, to have a "make-up »
for the lecture; but the "make-up" must be your own.
Your entire personality must shine forth in your discourse.
And that is the especial service rendered by this method of suc-
cessive improvisations that I have just prescribed for you. While
you are thus improvising alone, face to face with yourself, with-
out any witness to inspire you with a desire to pose, you are
free; you unconsciously set your entire being in full swing. The
mold is taken; you spread your personality before the public;
you are no longer a more or less eloquent, more or less affected
orator,—you are a man; you are yourself.