which was largely composed of subscribers to the Gazette
Musicale, and to whom, therefore, my literary successes were not
unknown, seemed rather favourably disposed towards me. I was told
later on that my overture, however wearisome it had been, would
certainly have been applauded if those unfortunate cornet
players, by continually failing to produce the effective
passages, had not excited the public almost to the point of
hostility; for Parisians, for the most part, care only for the
skilful parts of performances, as, for instance, for the
faultless production of difficult tones. I was clearly conscious
of my complete failure. After this misfortune Paris no longer
existed for me, and all I had to do was to go back to my
miserable bedroom and resume my work of arranging Donizetti's
operas.

So great was my renunciation of the world that, like a penitent,
I no longer shaved, and to my wife's annoyance, for the first and
only time in my life allowed my beard to grow quite long. I tried
to bear everything patiently, and the only thing that threatened
really to drive me to despair was a pianist in the room adjoining
ours who during the livelong day practised Liszt's fantasy on
Lucia di Lammermoor. I had to put a stop to this torture, so, to
give him an idea of what he made us endure, one day I moved our
own piano, which was terribly out of tune, close up to the party
wall. Then Brix with his piccolo-flute played the piano-and-
violin (or flute) arrangement of the Favorita Overture I had just
completed, while I accompanied him on the piano. The effect on
our neighbour, a young piano-teacher, must have been appalling.
The concierge told me the next day that the poor fellow was
leaving, and, after all, I felt rather sorry.