“Good gracious!” I exclaimed in bewilderment, “where were whose friends?  Of whom are you speaking, and why are you so excited?”

“Oh,” he answered impatiently, “it’s the disappointment!  I judged the man by his splendid work; but look at that book—­the personal pronoun forms one solid third of it.  I know it does!” and he handed me the volume in question.

“Well,” I said, as I glanced at the title,—­“Autobiography of Tommaso Salvini,”—­“no matter what the book may say, Tommaso Salvini is a mighty actor.”  And then I began to read.  At first I was a bit taken aback.  I had thought Mr. Macready considered himself pretty favourably, had made a heavy demand on the I’s and my’s in his book; but the bouquets he presented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with the gorgeous floral set pieces provided ad libitum for “Signor Salvini” by Signor Salvini.

Then presently I began to smile at the open honesty of this self-appreciation, at the naive admiration he expresses for his figure, his voice, his power.  “After all,” I said, “when the whole civilized world has for years and years affirmed and reaffirmed that he is the greatest actor living, is it strange that he should come to believe the world?”

“But,” growled my friend, “why could he not be content with the world’s statement?  Why had he no reticence?  Look at these declarations:  that no words can describe his power, that everybody wished to know him, that everybody wished to claim his friendship, that everybody made it his boast to be seen in his company, etc.”

“Well,” I answered, “you certainly cannot doubt the truth of the assertions.  I believe every one of them.  You see, you are not making any allowance for temperament or early environment.  Those who are humbly born in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch’s praise to the very pinnacle of pride and joy and superiority.  Think of the compliments paid this man by royalty.  Think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination.  You can’t expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you, for your comfort, that this ‘book Salvini’ is utterly unlike the kindly gentleman who is the real, everyday Salvini.”

My friend looked at me a moment, then shaking hands he added gravely:  “Thank you.  The great actor goes upon his pedestal again, to my own satisfaction; but—­but—­don’t think I care for this book.  I’ll wait till some one else tells of his triumphs and his gifts,” and laying it upon the table he took his departure.

It is astonishing what a misleading portrait Signor Salvini has drawn of himself.  I worked with him, and I found him a gentleman of modest, even retiring, disposition and most courtly manners.  He was remarkably patient at the long rehearsals which were so trying to him because his company spoke a language he could not understand.

The love of acting and the love of saving were veritable passions with him, and many were the amusing stories told of his economies; but, in spite of his personal frugality, he was generous in the extreme to his dear ones.