“And he turned his back and strode off. You see I did know M. Levaillant!”
The good old boy made such a friend of me that he told me a lot he would not have dared to repeat to anyone else.
I remember a lively conversation with him the day I got the second prize.
We had a piece of Tasso set that year, towards the end of which the Queen of Antioch invokes the god of the Christians she has contemned. I had the impudence to think that, although the last section was marked agitato, this ought to be a prayer, and I wrote it andante. I was rather pleased with it on the whole.
When I got to the Institute to hear whether the painters and sculptors, and architects, and engravers of medals, and line-engravers had settled whether I were a good or bad musician, I ran against Pingard on the stairs.
“Well?” I asked, “what have they decided?”
“Oh, hallo, Berlioz! I am glad you have come. I was hunting for you.”
“What have I got? Do hurry up! First? Second? Nothing?”
“Oh, do wait; I’m all of a tremble. Will you believe you were only two votes short of the first prize?”
“The first I’ve heard of it.”