"But the citizens are anxious to see your performance of the part; have looked forward to it for months; must have it."

"Yes, but it is the established rule of my

career.

I have never departed from it." "But the people insist; will hold me responsible. Besides, they have made up a purse, and have deputized me to offer you fifteen hundred dollars in cash, in addition to the night's receipts."

Salvini drew himself up to his full height, fire flashed from his eyes, and he gave the manager a look of supreme contempt, replying, as he walked away, "My art cannot be bought."

Before the time for the evening performance had arrived, something most unusual, and, so far as I know, unique in the history of the drama, had taken place. An engrossed petition, signed by the leading citizens of Denver, men and women, beseeching Salvini to alter his resolution and play Othello, was presented to him. While the petition was being translated to the Signor his eyes filled with tears.

"Yes," he replied, " tell the citizens of Denver that they shall see Othello tonight-and without their bonus."

Every one in the caste, even the supernumeraries, was imbued with the spirit of the occasion, and a greater rendition of the sooty Venetian Salvini had never given.

Othello," said Salvini, in answer to the question, "Which of your creations do you consider greatest?" "Othello is the most familiar and most popular of the characters assumed by me, and must, of necessity, be ranked as first in my repertoire, though not requiring more analytical effort than do many others, notably that psychological masterpiece, Macbeth. Each one of these characters, from Conrad to King Lear, requires the play of an entirely different class of emotions.

As to which part is most adapted to the range of my mentality I cannot say. The public is the best judge as to that."

the tremendous situations and intense dramatic possibilities.

An amusing incident comes to my mind in connection with the Denver engage ment. The late Alessandro Salvini, sot of Tommaso Salvini, who passed away on the very threshold of his career, was play ing Romeo at the afternoon performance with a Denver novice as the Juliet. Fired by the honor the citizens had done his father, the young man gave an effective and manly personation of the character. But in the cell scene with Friar Lawrence. in the vehemence of his disappointment at Juliet's supposed disdain, he rendere the well-known lines, "Tell me, Friar. tell me, in what vile part of my anatomy lies my name?" thus, "Tell me, Friar, tell me, in what vile part of my body lies my anatomy?"

Although Salvini was a law unto himself, imbibing deeply and alone the spirit of the character he assumed, yet he de pended for effect largely upon the ener getic and sympathetic action of those who were supporting him.

"In order to respond with force," he said, "we must be questioned with energy and accused with vehemence."

He was impatient of any delinquency in this respect. Once he found fault with the lady who played the part of Parthenia's mother in 'Ingomar' for not using enough force in her accusation in the last act where she says, "I tell thee to thy face. thou art a spy and a traitor." She was annoyed, and said, sotto voce, "He'll not find any more fault with me. I'll give him the lines strong enough next time to take away his breath."

When she reached the lines that night, we waited for the terrific outburst she had hinted at. It came: "I tell thee to thy face, thou art a tray and a spider !"

Salvini's realism was proverbial. The test of it was its effect upon his audience. But a superior test, perhaps, was its effect upon his support-a supreme measure of his dramatic powers. Men and women who were accustomed to all the chicanery of stagecraft and the witchery of high. artistic work-who could, as it were, like the soldier, sleep calmly under the belching cannon-were spellbound by the intense realism of this new luminary.

The lady who was engaged for the part

f Amelia, Iago's wife, which she had layed for many consecutive seasons with he late John McCullough, said before he performance, "I have heard that Salini, when he steals out from behind the urtains after the murder of Desdemona, lways frightens the lines out of the Amelia's head. He'll not frighten them out of my head. I could say them in my sleep. If he does scare me out of my wits, I'll repeat them unconsciously, like in automaton."

The performance came off on schedule time. It was at the Metropolitan OperaHouse, and, by the way, it was during the only dramatic engagement ever played at that theater. During his three weeks' stay at the Opera-House Salvini gave but four performances a week.

On the night of the opening performance of Othello the "Amelia" braced herself for the shock of the human tiger stealing forth from his jungle, licking his chops still dripping with the life-blood of the murdered Desdemona. But when he issued forth, she saw him, staggered horror-stricken down the stage till an opposing table halted her, and there she stood, speechless, spellbound, absolutely Medusaized.

"Speak!" fairly hissed the quivering tragedian under his breath. He might as well have said fly. The prompt entrance of Iago saved the situation.

We cannot wonder at the temporary paralysis of "Amelia" when it is known that the great Iago, Edwin Booth, usually so alert and confident, never came on in the final scene with Othello during the notable joint engagement of these two artists that he did not caution those who were to restrain the Moor in his mad rush at his treacherous lieutenant, to "Hold him fast! He'll kill me, I know it."

One night during this engagement, Booth, as Iago, was so completely carried away by the masterful performance of his colleague that, as Othello in his frenzy approached to seize him, throw him to the stage, and stand threateningly above his prostrate body, he backed unconsciously so far down toward the footlights that he fell over into the orchestra and landed on the bass drum with a resounding thump. Salvini reached over, took him by the hand, and, with no more effort than if he were a toy balloon, lifted him up and

placed him on his feet on the stage. Ludicrous as the situation was, not one of the audience laughed or even seemed to notice that falling into the bass drum was not a part of Iago's nightly performance, so great was the naturalness and dignity of the "Othello" as he made his exit.

The Signor's strength was enormous, and one special feature of his performance of Othello in his native land was his novel and forceful action during the denunciation of Iago, when, goaded to a jealous rage by the crafty wretch, he picked him up bodily and, holding him horizontally above his head, recited the lines beginning, "Be sure thou prove my love a wanton," then, releasing him in mid-air, stepped quickly back from under him, and as Iago struck the stage he towered over him with extended arms like the very genius of vengeance. American Iago who played the part during Salvini's first tour of the United States endured the realistic treatment but one rehearsal, and refused to risk head and limb to aid a dramatic holiday or fill a managerial coffer.

The

A certain member of the cast of "Coriolanus" had cause to remember Salvini's strength for some time, for with one blow of his broadsword the Noble Roman knocked his heavy papier-maché helmet from his head and up into the flies, where it lodged between two pieces of scenery, hid for two acts as completely as though it had evaporated, and there remained until dislodged by the shifting of the scenery. Fortunately for the apprehensive actor, Coriolanus strained the muscles of his hip in delivering the blow, and cut the combat out of future performances, to the actor's great relief.

One of the cast in a minor part of the same play always shouted while he, as one of the conspirators, bore down with drawn sword upon the stricken Roman, “ Kill him pleasantly," a no doubt amiable intention if possible to carry out, though the line was written, "Kill him presently."

Salvini was a man of the people, and the lofty dramatic eminence upon which his feet were so firmly planted never separated him from the most humble member of his company. He had served in the Italian Revolution, in which he rose to the rank of General. Hence his title II Commanditore. He graduated from

the mimic warfare of the old Italian tragedies into the reality of death and carnage. He was commanding in physique, and possessed that subtle something which the world calls animal magnetism, but which is only a manifestation of powerfully individualized mentality, never reckless, but courageous to the point of prudence. His enormous strength and his voice, like his emotions and his actions, were ever under control. I never saw him even partially lose control of himself but once, and that was when we were playing the "Gladiator." There was reason for it, because if there is any one point about which an actor is supersensitive, it is the preservation of a climax or of some delicate bit of artistic work for which he has striven conscientiously through the entire play. Salvini's death scenes were marvels of realism, and he could forgive the overturning, by accident or otherwise, of any but his mortuary effects. We were playing at New Haven, and many college students had requested to be allowed to act as "supers" that they might in after years recall the fact that they had at one time played in the cast of Tomaso Salvini-a request which was granted.

The last act was almost over. Salvini had not yet stabbed himself upon the still writhing bodies of his enemies. The assistant stage manager, who should have been at the curtain with his finger upon the bell, but, instead, was up at the back of the stage discussing a climax, suddenly realizing that the act was over, rushed down to the first entrance, saw one of the company who was nearly as big, in his make-up, as the Gladiator himself, fall as Salvini drew his reeking blade out of his back, and, mistaking him for the star, rang down the curtain. I could hear the suppressed growling as of an enraged beast, his louder manifestation of lung as he issued from his den, his tremendous and terrifying roar as he sprang upon his prey. It was the great Salvini, who for the moment had lost control of himself.

The Gladiator was one of the most trying parts of his repertoire. In it he embodied all the virility of the Roman with the athletic grace of the Thracian athlete. He had carried his audience with him through the five long acts of the play with seemingly but one climactic

point in view-his mighty death-throes. Yet here the curtain had fallen before he had time to “ play the Roman fool and die upon his own sword."

I had often wondered if there were any truth in what I had heard of the tremendous lung power that had been ascribed to Salvini by those who fought under him in the noise and carnage of battle. I had often said to myself, "Oh, if he would only let himself out a little !" And this reserve of power, by the way, is one of the great secrets of an actor's strengththat of apparently never quite reaching to the limit; never gesticulating quite so far as the arms will reach; never meeting or moving quite to the point or boundary of absolute expression. Of this Salvini was, more than any actor I have ever seen, the perfect master.

I rose to my feet and stood aside in awe, for surely sound like that never issued from the throat of any beast. It culminated in a roar that seemed to start the trembling rafters as the enraged Gladiator, his face almost demoniac with fury, strode toward the now thoroughly frightened stage manager. He seemed such a little man to me as this giant of the arena raised his arms threateningly above him. Those who have seen Salvini as Othello in his denunciation of Iago, where Othello stands above his prostrate body with one foot raised, as if to blot him out of existence, can partly grasp the force of the picture before me. But in a moment Salvini regained control of himself, realizing his own enormous bulk, accentuated by his wrath. He dropped his arms, looked at the stage manager with contempt, and marched off to his dressing-room. Then I was sure I had heard a voice that would have filled Rome's Coliseum.

The greatness of the man was made still more apparent when, the following day, he made ample apology for his temporary forgetfulness. This incident brings to mind one similar in some respects.

While we were in San Francisco, Salvini was accosted one day on the street by a fellow-countryman. Notwithstanding the reiterated claim of the stranger to Salvini's recognition, the tragedian was unable to recall him.

"You must remember me," insisted the

tranger, because I played with you in lorence."

"I feel that you are telling the truth," aid Salvini, eying him in a puzzled nanner, "but your face is strange. I should like so much to recall you. It would give me great pleasure, here, so far from our native home. Did you play a juvenile, a heavy part, or were you one of the priests of Jupiter?"

"I was neither," said the man, looking up at him eagerly. "I was of more importance. I sustained my character in the arena."

"Strange," said Salvini; "surely I cannot recall you. What part did you play? Aufidius?"

"No, Signor, I was one of the lionshad on a lion's skin and growled through the gratings of the arena. You commended me for my voice."

Salvini is said to have loved money. Doubtless he was thrifty, but I am inclined to the conviction that he was thrifty only in the sense that he hated waste. It was a national trait with him, and must not be construed as greed, or in any sense as precluding generosity. Above all else he loved his art. No money consideration could tempt him to sacrifice or even jeopardize his art or his idea of its royal dignity. The saving of tobacco clippings and the eager searching for an indifferent trifle might be accounted an eccentricity—one of the many idiosyncrasies of genius. But sacrifice his art? Never. Not for the mines of Ophir. Had there been avaricious traits in the make-up of the man, would he have refused Sarony one single sitting as Othello, when the price Sarony offered him was fifty thousand dollars? He was averse to a vulgar display of polychromatic posters, which he called "circusing the art." "My art is not for sale," said he. "If the public wishes to see me as Othello, let it come to the theater."

Salvini loved and was in perfect sympathy with those who wanted, he knew, to see him for the sake of his art. He often worried because, owing to the indifferent acoustic arrangement of some of the theaters he played in, those who paid the least were apt to see the least. None knew better than he that the most appreciative portion of the audience is often

and

the most impecunious. This sense, this alone, prompted him to violate some of his dearest stage traditions. An incident which occurred while we were playing "The Outlaw" will serve to illustrate this.

"The Outlaw" is the story of a man who is supposed to be dying, through five long but intensely interesting acts, of a broken heart. I have known the audience to sit for several minutes after the curtain fell on the last act, under the hypnotic spell of Salvini's realistic death scene. And he was always anxious that every one who witnessed his performance should miss no coign of vantage from which to take in all the subtleties of his art.

One night at the Boston Theater, during a performance of this play, I saw Salvini do what no other would have dared attempt. The apron of the stage, or that part of it which projects beyond the proscenium arch or curtain line, is very deep in that theater. This forms a sort of separating wall which keeps the actor, most of the time, far away from his audience. Towards the end of the act, and just before his great death scene, I saw Salvini do a thing that it is impossible for any but the most accomplished artist to do without being detected by his audience. During one of his most intense speeches he began slowly pushing the furniture of the scene gradually down on to the apron beyond the curtain line. I was astonished. I knew that the audience was so absorbed in watching the facial expressions of the Italian, their attention was so riveted to his personality, particularly that portion of it about his shoulders, that they did not see that he was rearranging the stage before their very eyes without detection. I watched him closely, for I knew that he was attempting one of the cleverest tricks known to his profession-that of distracting the attention of an audience from an object while apparently riveting its attention to it. To succeed in this is an accomplishment indissolubly linked with the cunning of the prestidigitateur, but seldom resorted to by a dramatic artist on account of its seemingly impossible execution.

I knew how averse Salvini was to being called before the curtain after a death scene, as he claimed that it destroyed completely the illusion of the whole performance. Yet," thought I, "here he is

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moving the chair in which he dies, and out of which he pitches on to his face after death, so far out that the curtain must fall behind him. Is the man mad?" I thought. "What can have prompted him to break over all the traditions of his career as to die solitary and alone on the stage where the curtain must fall at his back? If he dies there-falls from the chair on his face-surely he must lie there until the audience has departed. And will they depart? Will they not remain standing on tiptoe to gaze upon his prostrate body? Wonderful stage tactician as he is, how will he summon the forces of his thought to lift him out of this dilemma? But no, he will not die there. No one but an insane person would attempt it. He will leave the chairs and tables there, perform some clever stage maneuver, and fall back, too far up stage to be trapped by the descending curtain."

I waited and watched, because every movement of this master was an inspiration. But see, he sinks into the chair as the hiccoughs come bubbling from his throat-the unmistakable symptoms of near-approaching dissolution in those who are supposed to die of heart disease. Many of the audience have half risen, leaning, drawn toward him by that subtle force, those invisible chains, with which he binds them to him. As they watch, horrified, the workings of his features while the pallor of death steals over them, he lurches forward, grasps at the table by his side, half rises as he tries to resume his feet, then pitches forward prone upon his face.

An absolute silence, unbroken even by

the orchestra with its departing strains, follows. Then rises this great master of the intricacies of dramatic art before his spellbound audience, as there breaks forth an acclamation which in the Coliseum of ancient Rome would have been heard beyond the Tiber. He bows his acknowledgments, and passes behind the

curtain.

I have known many repetitions of that prolonged silence which preceded accla mation and followed some powerfully delivered climax to an act. Salvini was never in doubt as to his effects. His assurance was wonderful. When we opened in Philadelphia, the curtain did not rise until nine o'clock, owing to a delay which we had experienced on the road between that city and Boston. We were playing "The Outlaw," and I thought, when the curtain descended in dead silence at the close of the second act, wherein Conrad describes his escape from prison, that the audience was manifesting a little pique at our tardy appearance, and so expressed myself to Conrad.

"Not at all," he replied, smiling.

"But they are unappreciative, or why this absolute silence? It is more than a minute since the curtain fell."

"Wait," he said, as he raised his finger. For a moment more the stillness that had hung like a pall over the audience seemed to deepen, then a hand-clap broke the spell, and the audience broke into salvos of applause that swept and deepened and spread and thundered until long after the Star had gone before the curtain, acknowl edged the ovation, and reached his dressing-room to prepare for another act.