I can still see myself at a rehearsal listening to a conversation between Berlioz and Gounod.  Both of them were greatly interested in me, so that they spoke freely and discussed the excellences and faults of this anonymous symphony.  They took the work seriously and it can be imagined how I drank in their words.  When the veil of mystery was lifted, the interest of the two great musicians changed to friendship.  I received a letter from Gounod, which I have kept carefully, and as it does credit to the author, I take the liberty of reproducing it here: 

     My dear Camille: 

I was officially informed yesterday that you are the author of the symphony which they played on Sunday.  I suspected it; but now that I am sure, I want to tell you at once how pleased I was with it.  You are beyond your years; always keep on—­and remember that on Sunday, December 11, 1853, you obligated yourself to become a great master.

     Your pleased and devoted friend,

     CH.  GOUNOD.

Many works which had been unknown to Parisian audiences were given at these concerts and nowhere else.  Among them were Schubert’s Symphony in C, fragments of Weber’s opera Preciosa, his Jubel overture, and symphonies by Gade, Gouvy, Gounod, and Reber.  These symphonies are not dazzling but they are charming.  They form an interesting link in the golden chain, and the public has a right and even some sort of duty to hear them.  They would enjoy hearing them too, just as at the Louvre they like to see certain pictures which are not extraordinary but which are, nevertheless, worthy of the place they occupy.  That is to say, if the public is really guided by a love of art and seeks only intellectual pleasure instead of sensations and shocks.  Some one has said lately that where there is no feeling there is no music.  We could, however, cite many passages of music which are absolutely lacking in emotion and which are beautiful nevertheless from the standpoint of pure esthetic beauty.  But what am I saying?  Painting goes its own way and emotion, feeling, and passion are evoked by the least landscape.  Maurice Barres brought in this fashion and he could even see passion in rocks.  Happy is he who can follow him there.

Among the things we heard at that time and which we never hear now I must note especially Berlioz’s Corsaire and King Lear.  His name is so much beloved by the present day public that this neglect is both unjust and unjustifiable.  The great man himself came to the Societe St. Cecile one day to conduct his L’Enfance du Christ which he had just written—­or rather La Fuite en Egypt which was the only part of the work that was in existence then.  He composed the rest of it afterwards.  I remember perfectly the performances which the great man directed.  They were lively and spirited rather than careful, but somewhat slower than what Edouard Colonne has accustomed us to.  The time was faster and the nuances sharper.