When I went to fetch the score of this composition from Ilabeneck, who had it stored among the archives of the Conservatoire, he warned me somewhat dryly, though not without kindness, of the danger of presenting this work to the Parisian public, as, to use his own words, it was too ‘vague.’  One great objection was the difficulty of finding capable musicians for the six cornets required, as the music for this instrument, so skilfully played in Germany, could hardly, if ever, be satisfactorily executed in Paris.  Herr Schlitz, the corrector of my ‘Suites’ for Cornet a piston, offered his assistance.  I was compelled to reduce my six cornets to four, and he told me that only two of these could be relied on.

As a matter of fact, the attempts made at the rehearsal to produce those very passages on which the effect of my work chiefly depended were very discouraging.  Not once were the soft high notes played but they were flat or altogether wrong.  In addition to this, as I was not going to be allowed to conduct the work myself, I had to rely upon a conductor who, as I was well aware, had fully convinced himself that my composition was the most utter rubbish—­an opinion that seemed to be shared by the whole orchestra.  Berlioz, who was present at the rehearsal, remained silent throughout.  He gave me no encouragement, though he did not dissuade me.  He merely said afterwards, with a weary smile, ‘that it was very difficult to get on in Paris.’

On the night of the performance (4th February 1841) the audience, 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.