to myself--a habit I
repented of that day, yes, verily I did; for when, at Cyprus, Othello
entered and fiercely swept into his swarthy arms the pale loveliness of
Desdemona, 'twas like a tiger's spring upon a lamb. The bluff and honest
soldier, the English Shakespeare's Othello, was lost in an Italian
Othello. Passion choked, his gloating eyes burned with the mere lust of
the "sooty Moor" for that white creature of Venice. It was revolting,
and with a shiver I exclaimed aloud, "Ugh, you splendid brute!"
Realizing my fault, I drew quickly back into the shadow of the curtain;
but a man's rough voice had answered instantly, "Make it a _beast_,
ma'am, and I'm with you!" I was cruelly mortified.

[Illustration: _Tommaso Salvini_]

But there was worse to happen that day. The leading lady, Signora
Piamonti, an admirable actress, was the Desdemona. She played the part
remarkably well, and was a fairly attractive figure to the eye, if one
excepted her foot. It was exceptionally long and shapeless, and was most
vilely shod. Her dresses, too, all tipped up in the front, unduly
exposing the faulty members; many were the comments made, and often the
query followed, "Why doesn't she get some American shoes?" I am sorry to
say that some of our daily papers even were ungracious enough to refer
to that physical defect, when only her work should have been considered
and criticised.

The actors had reached the last act. The bed stood in the centre of a
shallow alcove, heavily curtained. These hangings were looped up at the
beginning of the act, and were supposed to fall to the floor, completely
concealing the bed and its occupant after the murder. The actor had
long before become again Shakespeare's Othello. We had seen him
tortured, racked, and played upon by the malignant Iago; seen him, while
perplexed in the extreme, irascible, choleric, sullen, morose; but now,
as with tense nerves we waited for the catastrophe, he was truly
formidable. The great tragedy moved on. Desdemona's piteous entreaties
had been choked in her slim throat, the smothering pillow held in place
with merciless strength. Then at Emilia's disconcerting knock and demand
for admission, Othello had let down and closely drawn the two curtains.
But alas and alack a day! though they were thick and rich and wide, they
failed to reach the floor by a good foot's breadth--a fact unnoticed by
the star. You may not be an actor; but really when you add to that
twelve or four