I longed to give Henriette a splendid revenge, but there were no English actors in Paris to help her with a complete play, and we both saw that mutilated Shakespeare was worse than useless. I was, therefore, obliged to content myself with taking vengeance for the malicious reports about my music, and, with Henriette’s full approval, I arranged for a concert of my own works at the Conservatoire. It was a terrible risk for a penniless man, but here, as ever, my wife shewed herself the courageous opponent of half-measures and steadfastly determined to face the chance of positive penury. The concert, for which I engaged the very best artists, amongst whom were many of my friends, was a triumphant success. I was vindicated. My musicians (none of whom came from the Italien) beamed with joy, and, to crown all, when the audience had dispersed I found waiting for me a man with long black hair, piercing eyes, and wasted form--genius-haunted, a colossus among giants--whom I had never seen before, yet who stirred within me a strange emotion. Catching my hand, he poured forth a flood of burning praise and appreciation that fired my heart and head. It was Paganini. This was on the 22nd December 1833. Thus began my friendship with that great artist to whom I owe so much and whose generosity towards me has given rise to such absurd and wicked reports. Some weeks later he said: “I have a beautiful Strad. viola which I long to play in public. Will you write me a solo for it? I could not trust anyone but you.” “To do that one ought to play the viola,” I objected. “You alone could do it satisfactorily.” But he insisted: “I am too ill to compose; it would be useless to try. You will do it properly.” So to please him I tried to write a viola solo with orchestral accompaniment, feeling sure that his power would enable him to dominate the orchestra. It seemed to me an entirely new idea, and I burned to carry it through. However, he called soon after and asked to see a sketch of his part. “This won’t do,” he said, looking at the pauses, “there is too much silence. I must be playing all the time.” “Did I not tell you so?” I answered. “What you want is a viola concerto, and you are the only one who can write it.” He seemed disappointed and dropped the subject; a few days later, suffering from the throat trouble of which he afterwards died, he left for Nice and did not come back for three years.