That night I went to San Carlo, and, for the first time, heard music in Italy. It was at least meritorious, though the noise made by the conductor tapping his desk bothered me greatly. I was assured, however, that without this support, the musicians _could not possibly keep in time_! The musical attractions of Naples could not rival those of the surrounding country, so I passed most of my time in exploring until one day, breakfasting at Castellamare with Munier, the marine painter, whom we had christened Neptune, he said: “What shall we do? I am sick of Naples. Don’t let us go back.” “Shall we go to Sicily?” “By all means. Give me time to finish a study I have begun, and I can catch the five o’clock boat.” “All right. Let’s see how much money we have.” Upon investigation there turned out to be enough to take us to Palermo, but for coming back we should have had to trust to Providence, as the monks say. So we separated, he to paint the sea, I to walk back to Rome over the mountains, in company with two Swedish officers whom I knew. 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.