against the once dreaded socialist propaganda, was exerting itself vigorously to regain the public confidence by its almost insulting pomp.  I had gone, as it were, mechanically into Schlesinger’s music-shop, where a successor was now installed—­a much more pronounced type of Jew named Brandus, of a very dirty appearance.  The only person there to give me a friendly welcome was the old clerk, Monsieur Henri.  After I had talked to him in loud tones for some time, as the shop was apparently empty, he at length asked me with some embarrassment whether I had not seen my master (votre maitre) Meyerbeer.

‘Is Monsieur Meyerbeer here?’ I asked.

‘Certainly,’ was the even more embarrassed reply; ’quite near, over there behind the desk.’

And, sure enough, as I walked across to the desk Meyerbeer came out, covered with confusion.  He smiled and made some excuse about pressing proof-sheets.  He had been hiding there quietly for over ten minutes since first hearing my voice.  I had had enough after my strange encounter with this apparition.  It recalled so many things affecting myself which reflected suspicion on the man, in particular the significance of his behaviour towards me in Berlin on the last occasion.  However, as I had now nothing more to do with him, I greeted him with a certain easy gaiety induced by the regret I felt at seeing his manifest confusion on becoming cognisant of my arrival in Paris.  He took it for granted that I should again seek my fortune there, and seemed much surprised when I assured him, on the contrary, that the idea of having any work there was odious to me.

’But Liszt published such a brilliant article about you in the Journal des Debats,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ I replied, ’it really had not occurred to me that the enthusiastic devotion of a friend should be regarded as a mutual speculation.’

’But the article made a sensation.  It is incredible that you should not seek to make any profit out of it.’

This offensive meddlesomeness roused me to protest to Meyerbeer with some violence that I was concerned with anything rather than with the production of artistic work, particularly just at that time when the course of events seemed to indicate that the whole world was undergoing a reaction.

‘But what do you expect to get out of the revolution?’ he replied.  ‘Are you going to write scores for the barricades?’

Whereupon I assured him that I was not thinking of writing any scores at all.  We parted, obviously without having arrived at a mutual understanding.

In the street I was also stopped by Moritz Schlesinger, who, being equally under the influence of Liszt’s brilliant article, evidently considered me a perfect prodigy.  He too thought I must be counting on making a hit in Paris, and was sure that I had a very good chance of doing so.

‘Will you undertake my business?’ I asked him.  ’I have no money.  Do you really think the performance of an opera by an unknown composer can be anything but a matter of money?’