t was churlishly refused. Berlioz however, managed to
secure the concession over the head of Cherubini, and advertised his
concert. He went to large expense in copyists, orchestra, solo-singers,
and chorus, and, when the night came, was almost fevered with
expectation. But the concert was a failure, and the adored one was not
there; she had not even heard of it! The disappointment nearly laid
the young composer on a bed of sickness; but, if he oscillated between
deliriums of hope and despair, his powerful will was also full of
elasticity, and not for long did he even rave in the utter ebb of
disappointment. Throughout the whole of his life, Berlioz displayed this
swiftness of recoil; one moment crazed with grief and depression,
the next he would bend to his labor with a cool, steady fixedness of
purpose, which would sweep all interferences aside like cobwebs. But
still, night after night, he would haunt the Odeon, and drink in the
sights and sounds of the magic world of Shakespeare, getting fresh
inspiration nightly for his genius and love. If he paid dearly for this
rich intellectual acquaintance by his passion for La Belle Smithson, he
yet gained impulses and suggestions for his imagination, ravenous of new
impressions, which wrought deeply and permanently. Had Berlioz known the
outcome, he would not have bartered for immunity by losing the jewels
and ingots of the Shakespeare treasure-house.

The year 1830 was for Berlioz one of alternate exaltation and misery;
of struggle, privation, disappointment; of all manner of torments
inseparable from such a volcanic temperament and restless brain. But he
had one consolation which gratified his vanity. He gained the Prix de
Rome by his cantata of "Sardanapalus." This honor had a practical value
also. It secured him an annuity of three thousand francs for a period of
five years, and two years' residence in Italy. Berlioz would never let
"well enough" alone, however. He insisted on adding an orchestral part
to the completed score, describing the grand conflagration of the palace
of Sardanapalus. When the work was produced, it was received with a
howl of sarcastic derision, owing to the latest whim of the composer. So
Berlioz started for Italy, smarting with rage and pain, as if the Furies
were lashing him with their scorpion whips.

III.

The pensioners of the Conservatoire lived at Rome in the Villa Medici,
and the illustrious painter, Horace Vernet, was the director, thou