violence into the very depths of my soul.  I was simply all ears for things of which till then I had never dreamt, and which I felt I must try to realise.  True, I found a great deal that was empty and shallow in his Romeo and Juliet, a work that lost much by its length and form of combination; and this was the more painful to me seeing that, on the other hand, I felt overpowered by many really bewitching passages which quite overcame any objections on my part.

During the same winter Berlioz produced his Sinfonie Fantastique and his Harald (’Harold en Italie’).  I was also much impressed by these works; the musical genre-pictures woven into the first-named symphony were particularly pleasing, while Harald delighted me in almost every respect..

It was, however, the latest work of this wonderful master, his Trauer-Symphonie fur die Opfer der Juli-Revolution (Grande Symphonie Funebre et Triomphale), most skilfully composed for massed military bands during the summer of 1840 for the anniversary of the obsequies of the July heroes, and conducted by him under the column of the Place de la Bastille, which had at last thoroughly convinced me of the greatness and enterprise of this incomparable artist.  But while admiring this genius, absolutely unique in his methods, I could never quite shake off a certain peculiar feeling of anxiety.  His works left me with a sensation as of something strange, something with which I felt I should never be able to be familiar, and I was often puzzled at the strange fact that, though ravished by his compositions, I was at the same time repelled and even wearied by them.  It was only much later that I succeeded in clearly grasping and solving this problem, which for years exercised such a painful spell over me.

It is a fact that at that time I felt almost like a little school-boy by the side of Berlioz.  Consequently I was really embarrassed when Schlesinger, determined to make good use of the success of my short story, told me he was anxious to produce some of my orchestral compositions at a concert arranged by the editor of the Gazette Musicale.  I realised that none of my available works would in any way be suitable for such an occasion.  I was not quite confident as to my Faust Overture because of its zephyr-like ending, which I presumed could only be appreciated by an audience already familiar with my methods.  When, moreover, I learned that I should have only a second-rate orchestra—­the Valentino from the Casino, Rue St. Honore—­and, moreover, that there could be only one rehearsal, my only alternative lay between declining altogether, or making another trial with my Columbus Overture, the work composed in my early days at Magdeburg.  I adopted the latter course.