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 in an ideal grandeur, in their highest poetic potency, in gigantic reality. This may not be a very satisfactory definition, but it is as precise as I can make it. It was to see, to hear, and to be carried away, magically, irresistibly. The waves of delight or of anguish or of horror with which Rachel flooded the souls of her audiences baffled all critical analysis. Criticism floundered about in helpless embarrassment trying to classify her performances, or to measure them by any customary standard. She stood quite alone. To compare her with other actors or actresses seemed futile, for there was between them not a mere difference of degree, but a difference of kind. Various actresses of the time sought to imitate her; but whoever had seen the original simply shrugged his shoulders at the copies. It was the mechanism without the divine breath. I have subsequently seen only three actresses—Ristori, Wolter, and Sarah Bernhardt—who now and then, by some inspired gesture or intonation of voice, reminded me of Rachel; but only at passing moments. On the whole, the difference between them was very great. It was the difference between unique genius which irresistibly overpowers and subdues us and to which we involuntarily bow, and extraordinary talent which we simply admire. Rachel has therefore remained with me an overshadowing memory, and when in later years in my familiar circle we discussed the merits of contemporaneous stage performances, and someone among us grew enthusiastic about this or that living actor or actress, I could seldom repress the remark—in fact, I fear I made it often enough to become tiresome—“All this is very fine, but, ah!—you should have seen Rachel.”

A few days after the meeting with the spy a real misfortune befell me. I went with my friends Rhodes and Müller to a public bath. I slipped and fell on the wet floor, injuring my left hip so much that I was unable to rise. After I had