Thus by way of Isola di Sora, Alatri, Subiaco, and Tivoli, and with but few adventures we got back to the Eternal City, and my life of stagnation began once more.
I dreamed of Paris, finished my monodrama, and revised the Symphonie Fantastique, then, considering that the time had come to have them performed, I obtained M. Vernet’s permission to go back to France before my two years expired. I sat for my portrait, took a last trip to Tivoli, Albano, and Palestrina; sold my gun, broke my guitar, wrote in several albums, gave a punch-party to my fellow-students, spent a lot of time stroking M. Vernet’s two dogs—faithful companions of my shooting excursions—had an attack of profound sorrow at the thought that I might see this poetic land no more; climbed into a wretched old chaise, and then—good-bye to Rome!
I went by Florence, Milan, and Turin, and at last, on the 12th May 1832, coming down the slopes of Mont Cenis, I beheld at my feet that smiling Grésivaudan valley, where my happiest hours and brightest dreams of childhood had passed. There was St Eynard, there the house where shone my Stella Montis; there, through the shimmering blue haze, my grandfather’s place bade me welcome. Surely Italy had naught to show as lovely as this! Yet what is this strange oppression on my heart? Afar I hear the dull and ominous murmur of Paris commanding my presence.
To Ferdinand Hiller.
“Florence, May 1832.—I arrived yesterday, and found your letter. Why do you not say whether the sale of my medal realised enough to pay the two hundred francs I owe you?
“I left Rome without regret. The Academy life had grown intolerable, and I spent all my evenings with the Director’s family, who have been most kind. Mademoiselle Vernet is prettier, and her father younger than ever.
“I am glad to be here, yet my sensations are so curiously confused that I cannot explain them even to myself. I know no one, have no adventures, am utterly alone. Perhaps that is what affects me so oddly. I seem to be not myself but some stranger—some Russian or Englishman—sauntering along the Lung ‘Arno. Berlioz is merely a distant acquaintance.
“This cursed throat of mine is still troublesome; it would be the death of me if I would allow it.
“I shall not be in Paris till November or December, as I go straight home from here. Many thanks for your invitation to Frankfort; sooner or later I mean to accept it.”
To Madame Horace Vernet.