But I had time for reflection and could not help wondering why on earth we cannot all spell the names of places alike. There was I, hunting through a German map. Linz was graciously pleased to be the same in both languages, but where was Ratisbon? Who could possibly find it masquerading as Regensburg? What should we say to the Germans if they persisted in calling Lyons, Mittenberg, and Paris, Triffenstein? On landing at Vienna I at once got an idea of the passion for music of the Austrians. The custom-house officer examining my trunks caught sight of the name on them and asked: “Where is he? Where is he?” “I am he, monsieur.” “_Mein Gott_, M. Berlioz, where in the world have you been? We have been waiting for you a week and couldn’t think what had become of you.” I thanked my worthy friend as well as my limited vocabulary would allow, and could not help thinking that my non-appearance would never give rise to similar anxiety at the Paris Douane. The first concert I went to was one in the Riding School, given by nearly a thousand performers--most of them amateurs--for the benefit of the Conservatoire, which has no, or very little, Government support. The verve and precision with which that musical crowd rendered Mozart’s delicate _Flauto Magico_ overture quite astonished me, I had not believed it possible. I was delighted to make the acquaintance of Nicolaï, conductor of the Kärnthnerthor Theatre; he has the three gifts necessary--to my mind--for a perfect director. He is an experienced, enthusiastic composer, has perfect intuition for rhythms and clear-cut and precise mechanism. Finally, he is a clever organiser, sparing neither time nor trouble; hence the wonderful unity and perfection of the Kärnthnerthor orchestra. He arranged sacred concerts in the _Salle des Redoutes_ similar to ours in Paris. There I heard a scena from _Oberon_, a fine symphony of Nicolaï’s own and the incomparable B flat of Beethoven. It is in this fine hall that, thirty years since, Beethoven gave his masterpieces--now worshipped by Europe, but then despised by the Viennese, who crowded to hear Salieri’s operas! How my knees trembled as I stood at the desk where once _he_ had stood! Nothing is changed; the desk I used is the very one that he had used, by that staircase he had come up to receive the applause of his few admirers, looked upon by the rest of the audience as fanatics in search of eccentricity. For recognition Beethoven had to wait, but how he suffered! To my great delight Pischek, the splendid baritone I had met and admired in Frankfort, suggested that he should make his Viennese début at my concert. He had improved immensely; somehow his voice always gave rise in me to a sort of exaltation or intoxication which, now, was intensified by its splendid compass, passion and exquisite sweetness.