I was recalled more times than I could count, but I must own that I paid small heed to the public, the divine Shakespearean poem that I myself had made affected me so deeply that, the moment I was free, I fled to a quiet room in the theatre, where my dear, good Ernst found me in floods of tears. “Ah! nerves!” said he, “I know too well what it is.” And, holding my head, he let me sob like a hysterical girl for a quarter of an hour. Despite its warm reception, I doubt that my symphony was rather over the heads of the audience, therefore, when it was to be repeated, on the advice of the cashier of the theatre, I added two scenes from _Faust_. I heard of a funny incident at this second performance. One lady present sat and was bored with most exemplary patience; she would not have it thought that she could not understand this feast of music. Proud of having stayed to the end, she said, as she left her box: “Yes, it is a tremendous thing, but quite intelligible. In that grand introduction I could absolutely _see Romeo driving up in his gig_!!!” I spoke of Ernst just now--great artist and noble friend. He has been compared to Chopin--a comparison both true and false. Chopin could never bear the restraints of time, and, I think, carried his independence too far; he simply _could not_ play in time. Ernst, while employing _rubato_, kept it within artistic limits, retaining always a dignified sway over his own caprices. In Chopin’s compositions all the interest centres in the piano, his orchestral concerto accompaniments are cold and practically useless. Ernst is distinguished by quite the opposite--his concerted music is not only brilliant for the solo instrument, but the symphonic interest is thoroughly grateful and sustained. Even Beethoven allowed the orchestra to overpower the soloist, and, to my mind, the perfect system is that adopted by Ernst, Vieuxtemps and Liszt. Chopin was the delicate refined virtuoso of small gatherings, of groups of intimate friends. Ernst was master of crowds; he loved them, and, like Liszt, was at his very best with two thousand hearers to conquer. * * * * * The Great Feast being over, there was nothing to keep me in St Petersburg, which, however, I left with great regret. Passing through Riga, I thought I would give a concert. The receipts hardly covered the expenses (I think I was twelve francs to the good), but it procured me the friendship of some pleasant artists and amateurs, amongst them the post-master, who turned out to be a constant reader of my newspaper articles. He looked me dubiously up and down, and said: “You don’t _look_ a firebrand, but from your articles I should have expected quite a different sort of man, for, devil take me! you write with a dagger, not a pen!”