Majestically Othello was striding down to the door, where Emilia was knocking for admittance, when there came that long in-drawn breath—­that “a-a-h!” that from the auditorium always means mischief—­and a sudden bobbing of heads this way and that in the front seats.  In an instant the great actor felt the broken spell, knew he had lost his hold upon the people—­but why?  He went on steadily, and then, just as you have seen a field of wheat surged in one wave by the wind, I saw the closely packed people in that wide parquet sway forward in a great gust of laughter.  With quick, experienced eye I scanned first Othello’s garb from top to toe, and finding no unseemly rent or flaw of any kind to provoke laughter, I next swept the stage.  Coming to the close-drawn curtains, I saw—­heavens!  No wonder the people laughed.  The murdered Desdemona had risen, was evidently sitting on the side of the bed; for beneath the curtains her dangling feet alone were plainly seen, kicking cheerfully back and forth.  Such utterly unconscious feet they were that I think the audience would not have laughed again had they kept still; but all at once they began a “heel-and-toe step,” and people rocked back and forth, trying to suppress their merriment.  And then—­oh, Piamonti!—­swiftly the toe of the right foot went to the back of the left ankle and scratched vigorously.  Restraint was ended, every one let go and laughed and laughed.  From the box I saw in the entrance the outspread fingers, the hoisted shoulders, the despairingly shaken heads of the Italian actors, who could find no cause for the uproar.  Salvini behaved perfectly in that, disturbed, distressed, he showed no sign of anger, but maintained his dignity through all, even when in withdrawing the curtains and disclosing Desdemona dead once more the incomprehensible laughter again broke out.  But late as it was and short the time left him, he got the house in hand again, again wove his charm, and sent the people away sick and shuddering over his too real self-murder.

As I was leaving the box I met one connected with the management of the theatre, who, furious over the faux pas, was roughly denouncing the actress, whom he blamed entirely, and I took it upon myself to suggest that he pour a vial or two of his wrath upon the heads of his own property man and the stage manager, who had grossly neglected their duty in failing to provide curtains of the proper length.  And I chuckled with satisfaction as I saw him plunge behind the scenes, calling angrily upon some invisible Jim to come forth.  I had acted as a sort of lightning-rod for a sister actress.