Knowing no English I could but grope mistily through the fog of a translation, could only see Shakespeare as in a glass--darkly. The poetic weft that winds its golden thread in network through those marvellous creations was invisible to me then; yet, as it was, how much I learnt! An English critic has stated in the _Illustrated London News_ that, on seeing Miss Smithson that night, I said: “I will marry Juliet and will write my greatest symphony on the play.” I did both, but I never said anything of the kind. I was in far too much perturbation to entertain such ambitious dreams. Only through much tribulation were both ends gained. After seeing these two plays I had no more difficulty in keeping away from the theatre. I shuddered at the bare idea of renewing such awful suffering, and shrank as if from excruciating physical pain. 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.” “I have it.” “M. de Larossefoucauld, ’e consent?” “Yes, monsieur.” “But me, I not consent. I vill oppose zat you get ze ’all.” “But, monsieur, you can have no reasonable objection, since the hall is not engaged for the next fortnight.” “But I tell to you zat I vill not ’ave zat you gif zis conchert. Everyone is avay and no profit vill be to you.” “I expect none. I merely wish to become known.” “Zere is no necessity zat you become known. And zen for expense you vill want monee. Vhat ’ave you of monee?”