In short, Salvini was a delight to eye and ear, and satisfied both imagination and judgment in that first act.  Like many people who are much alone, I have the habit of speaking sometimes 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 fourteen-inch space the steep incline of the stage—­why, you can readily understand how advisable it was for the dead Desdemona that day to stay dead until the play was over.