With disappointed murmurs the people melted away. Of course my enemies announced that my music “drove musicians out of the place.”
That miserable evening brought in seven thousand francs, which went into the gulf of my wife’s debts without, alas! filling it up. That was only done after years of struggle and privation.
I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire.
It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury.
The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated.
My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form—genius-haunted, a colossus among giants—whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion.
Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head.
It was Paganini.
This was on the 22nd December 1833.
Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said: