It was the same with the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who said, as I took my leave:
“M. Berlioz, shake hands with me and remember my theatre is always open to you.”
M. de Lüttichau, superintendent to the King of Saxony, has offered me the post of director when it shall be vacant.
Liszt strongly advises me to accept, but I cannot say. Time enough to decide when the place is at my disposal.
At present in Dresden they talk of reviving Benvenuto Cellini, which Liszt has already given in Weimar, and of course I should have to go and superintend the first performances.
Blessed Germany, nursing mother of Art; generous England; Russia, my saviour; good friends in France, and you—noble hearts of all nations whom I have known—I thank and bless you all; your memory will be my comfort to my latest hour.
As for you, idiots and blind! You, my Guildenstern, Rosencrantz, Iago and Osric! You, crawling worms of all kinds! Farewell, my friends—I scorn you; may you be forgotten ere I die!
Note.—This was originally the ending of Berlioz’ Mémoires, but his correspondence was voluminous after this date and he also added some chapters to his Life.
To Auguste Morel.
“June 1855.—You ask me to describe my Te Deum, which is rather embarrassing. I can only say that its effect both on the performers and myself was stupendous. Its immeasurable grandeur and breadth struck everyone, and you can understand that the Tibi omnes and Judex would have even more effect in a less sonorous hall than the church of St Eustache.