“That poor Ophelia comes again and again to my mind. She has lost more than six thousand francs in the Opéra Comique venture. She is still here, and met me the other day quite calmly. I was utterly miserable the whole evening, and went and told Ariel, who laughed at me tenderly.” In spite of all my eloquence, I could not get out of that tiresome journey to Rome. But I would not leave Paris without having _Sardanapalus_ performed properly, and for the third time my artist friends most generously offered me their aid, and Habeneck consented to conduct. The day before the concert Liszt came to see me. We had not, so far, met. We began talking of _Faust_, which he had not read, but which he afterwards got to love as I did. We were so thoroughly sympathetic to each other that, from that day, our friendship neither faltered nor waned. At my concert everyone noticed his enthusiasm and vociferous applause. As my work is exceedingly complicated, it is not surprising that the execution was by no means perfect; yet some parts of the Symphony made a sensation. The _Scène aux Champs_ fell quite flat, and, on the advice of Ferdinand Hiller, I afterwards entirely rewrote it. _Sardanapalus_ was well done, and the _Conflagration_ came off magnificently. It raised a conflagration in Paris too, in the shape of a war of musicians and critics. Naturally the younger men--particularly those with that sixth sense, artistic instinct--were on my side, but Cherubini and his gang were wild with rage. He happened to pass the concert-room doors as people were going in, and a friend stopped him, asking: “Are you not coming to hear Berlioz’s new thing?” “I need not zat I go hear how sings should not be done,” he replied. He was much worse after the concert, and sent for me. “You go soon,” he said. “Yes, monsieur.” “It vill be zat you are cross off ze register of Conservatoire, zat your studies are finish. But it seem to me zat you should make visit to me. One goes not out of Conservatoire like out of a stable.” I very nearly said: “Why not, since we are treated like horses?” but luckily had the good sense merely to say that I had not the slightest intention of leaving Paris without saying farewell to him. So to Rome, _nolens volens_, I had to go, useless as it seemed. The Roman Academy may be of service to painters and sculptors, but, as far as music is concerned, it is lost time, considering the state of music in Italy. Neither is the life led by the students exactly conducive to study and progress. Usually the five or six laureates arrange to travel in company, and share expenses. A coach-driver agrees, for a modest sum, to take charge of this cargo of great men, and dump it down in Italy. As he never changes horses it takes a long time, and must be rather amusing.