Paganini felt great pleasure in a small circle of friends, and in quiet conversation. The amusements of society delighted him; and he would remain until a late hour, where he did not appear to be an object of attention. He did not like the glare of light--his sight having been affected by stage lights--hence his habit of playing with his back to the lights, and of remaining in the dark when at home. His memory was excellent, despite his habitual abstraction. When once persons had been introduced to him, their features and names were never forgotten; but, by some inexplicable singularity, he never remembered the name of a town in which he gave concerts the moment he left it.
Notwithstanding the enormous number of concerts he gave, Paganini was pre-occupied the day on which one was given. He would remain idle the whole morning, lying on a sofa. Before going to a rehearsal, he would open his Violin-case to examine the state of his strings, tune it, and prepare the orchestral parts of the pieces he intended playing. During these operations he took large quantities of snuff--a certain token with him of great mental excitement and disquietude. On arriving at rehearsal, his first care was to see that no person was in the room or theatre. Should any one be there, he merely indicated to the band what he desired by almost an imperceptible sound, or slight pizzicato. He was extremely severe with the band; and would have a solo or a tutti repeated for the slightest error. If this continued, he would pace to and fro before the orchestra, and dart the most furious looks at the musicians; but when a tutti came in too soon, before the termination of a cadenza, he burst forth into a tempest of rage which would cause the boldest to tremble. When, however, the accompaniment was satisfactory, he would smile, and express his approbation aloud, in these words, “Bravissimo! Siete tutti virtuosi!” When he came to a pause for the introduction of a cadenza, the musicians all rose, eager to observe what he was about to play, but Paganini would merely play a few notes--stop suddenly--and, turning towards them, would laughingly add, “Et cætera, Messieurs!” It was only in the evening he would put forth all his strength. After the rehearsal, he would converse for a few moments with the leader, to thank him for the attention that had been paid, and sought out especial passages for his particular observation. He invariably carried away himself the orchestral parts, of which he was particularly careful. The principal part was never seen, as he played from memory, to avoid his pieces being copied. When he returned home he partook of a light repast, threw himself upon his bed, and remained there until the carriage came to take him to the theatre. A few minutes sufficed for his toilet, and he proceeded at once to the concert. When he arrived he evinced as much gaiety, as he had displayed gravity during the day. His first question was “is there a large audience?” If answered in the affirmative, he would say, “good--good! excellent people!” if, on the contrary, he was told the audience was small, he expressed a fear that the effect of the music would be lost in the empty boxes.