e gnawing anguish, the tearful love, the cruel irony, the somber
meditations, the heart-rackings, the madness, tears, mourning, the
calamities and sharp cleverness of _Hamlet_; after the gray clouds and
icy winds of Denmark; after the third act, hardly breathing, in pain as
if a hand of iron were squeezing at my heart, I said to myself with the
fullest conviction: 'Ah! I am lost.' I must add that I did not at that
time know a word of English, that I only caught glimpses of Shakespeare
through the fog of Letourneur's translation, and that I consequently
could not perceive the poetic web that surrounds his marvelous creations
like a net of gold. I have the misfortune to be very nearly in the same
sad case to-day. It is much harder for a Frenchman to sound the
depths of Shakespeare than for an Englishman to feel the delicacy
and originality of La Fontaine or Moliere. Our two poets are rich
continents; Shakespeare is a world. But the play of the actors, above
all of the actress, the succession of the scenes, the pantomime and the
accent of the voices, meant more to me, and filled me a thousand times
more with Shakespearean ideas and passion than the text of my colorless
and unfaithful translation. An English critic said last winter in the
'Illustrated London News,' that, after seeing Miss Smithson in _Juliet_,
I had cried out, 'I will marry that woman and write my grandest symphony
on this play.' I did both, but never said anything of the sort."

The beautiful Miss Smithson became the rage, the inspiration of poets
and painters, the idol of the hour, at whose feet knelt all the _roues_
and rich idlers of the town. Delacroix painted her as the _Ophelia_
of his celebrated picture, and the English company made nearly as much
sensation in Paris as the Comedie Francaise recently aroused in London.
Berlioz's mind, perturbed and inflamed with the mighty images of
the Shakespearean world, swept with wide, powerful passion toward
Shakespeare's interpreter. He raged and stormed with his accustomed
vehemence, made no secret of his infatuation, and walked the streets at
night, calling aloud the name of the enchantress, and cooling his heated
brows with many a sigh. He, too, would prove that he was a great artist,
and his idol should know that she had no unworthy lover. He would give
a concert, and Miss Smithson should be present by hook or by crook.
He went to Cherubini and asked permission to use the great hall of the
Conservatoire, bu