Months passed in this state of numb despair, my only lucid moments being dreams of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson—now the darling of Paris—and dreary comparisons between her brilliant triumphs and my sad obscurity.
As I gradually awoke to life again, a plan began to take shape in my mind. She should hear of me; she should know that I also was an artist; I would do what, so far, no French artist had ever done—give a concert entirely of my own works. For this three things were needed—copies, hall, and performers.
Therefore (this was early in the spring of 1828) I set to work, and, writing sixteen hours out of twenty-four, I copied every single part of the pieces I had chosen, which were the overtures to Waverley and the Francs-Juges, an aria and trio from the latter, the scena Heroic Greek, and the cantata on the Death of Orpheus, that the Conservatoire committee had judged unplayable.
While copying furiously I saved furiously too, and added some hundreds of francs to my store, wherewith to pay the chorus; for orchestra I knew I might count on the friendly help of the staff of the Odéon, with a sprinkling of assistants from the Opera and the Nouveautés.
My chief difficulty was the hall; it always is in Paris. For the only suitable one—the Conservatoire—I must have a permit from M. de Larochefoucauld and also the consent of Cherubini.
The first was easily obtained; not so the second.
At the first mention of my design Cherubini flew in a rage.
“Vant to gif a conchert?” he said, with his usual suavity.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Must ’ave permission of Fine Arts Director first.”