rliest days of struggle; who shared them,
and in what spirit they were discussed, grave or gay! Italian life is
apt to be picturesque, and these minor circumstances mean much when one
tries to get at the daily life of a man. But Salvini has given us merely
splendid results, without showing us _how_ he obtained them. Yet what a
lesson the telling would have been for some of our indolent actors! Why,
even at the zenith of his career, Salvini attended personally to duties
most actors leave to their dressers. He used to be in his dressing-room
hours before the overture was on, and in an ancient gown he would polish
his armour, his precious weapons or ornaments, arrange his wigs, examine
every article of dress he would require that night, and consequently he
never had mishaps. He used to say: "The man there? Oh, yes, he can pack
and lock and strap and check, but only an actor can understand the care
of these artistic things. What I do myself is well done; this work is
part of my profession; there is no shame in doing it. And all the time I
work, I think--I think of the part--till I have all forgot--_all_ but
just that part's self."

And yet, O dear, these are the things he does not put in his book. When
he was all dressed and ready for the performance, Salvini would go into
a dark place and walk and walk and walk; sometimes droopingly, sometimes
with martial tread. Once, I said, "You walk far, signor?"

"_Si, signorina_," he made answer, then eagerly, "_I walk me into him!_"
And while the great man was "walking into the character," the actors who
supported him smoked cigarettes at the stage door until the dash for
dressing room and costume.

Some women scold because he has not given pictures of the great people
whom he met. "Why," they ask, "did he not describe Crown Princess
Victoria" (the late Empress Frederick) "at least--how she looked, what
she wore? Such portraits would be interesting." But Salvini was not
painting portraits, not even his own--truly. He was giving a list of his
triumphs; and if he has shown self-appreciation, he was at least
perfectly honest. There is no hypocrisy about him. If he knew Uriah
Heep, he did not imitate him; for in no chapter has he proclaimed
himself "'umble." If one will read Signor Salvini's book, remembering
that the paeans of a world have been sung in his honour, and that he
really had no superior in his artistic life, I think the I's and my's
will seem simply natural.

However he