then anathematizes him if he ventures to proclaim his own godship. I
have my quarrel with the book, I confess it. I am sorry he does not show
how he did his tremendous work, show the nature of those sacrifices he
made. How one would enjoy a word-picture of the place where he obtained
his humble meals in those earliest 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