When I had got over my first amazement at receiving a proposal to act with the great Italian, Mr. Chizzola, his manager, stated terms, and hastened to say that a way had been found by which the two names could be presented without either taking preference of the other on the bill, and that the type would of course be the same in both—­questions I should never have given a thought to, but over which my manager stood ready to shed his heart’s blood.  And when I said that I should willingly have gone on the bills as “supporting Signor Salvini,” I thought he was going to rend his garments, and he indignantly declared that such talk was nothing less than heresy when coming from a securely established star.

At one of our rehearsals for the “Morte Civile,” a small incident occurred that will show how gracious Signor Salvini could be.  Most stars, having the “business” of their play once settled upon, seem to think it veritable sacrilege to alter it, no matter how good the reason for an alteration; and a suggestion offered to a star is generally considered an impertinence.  In studying my part of Rosalia, the convict’s wife, a very pretty bit of “business” occurred to my mind.  I was to wear the black cross so commonly seen on the breast of the Roman peasant women, and once at an outbreak of Conrad’s, I thought if I raised that cross without speaking, and he drooped before it, it would be effective and quite appropriate, as he was supposed to be superstitiously devout.  I mentioned it to young Salvini, who cried eagerly, “Did you tell my father—­did he see it?”

“Good heavens!” I answered, “do you suppose I would presume to suggest ‘business’ to a Salvini?  Besides, could anything new be found for him in a play he has acted for twenty years?  No, I have not told your father, nor do I intend to take such a liberty.”

But next morning, when we came to that scene, Signor Salvini held up his hand for a halt in the rehearsal, called for Alessandro, and, bidding him act as interpreter, said, smiling pleasantly, to me, “Now zee i-dee please you, madame?” for young Alessandro had betrayed my confidence.  There was a mocking sparkle in Salvini’s blue eyes, but he was politely ready to hear and reject “zee i-dee.”  I felt hot and embarrassed, but I stood by my guns, and placing Alessandro in the chair, I made him represent Conrad; and when he came to the furious outburst, I swiftly lifted the cross and held it before his eyes till his head sank upon my breast.  But in a twinkling, with the cry, “No—­no!  I show!” Salvini plucked Alessandro out of the seat, flung himself into it, resumed the scene, and as I lifted the cross before his convulsed features, his breath halted, slowly he lifted his face, when, divining his meaning, I pressed the cross gently upon his trembling lips, and with a sob his head fell weakly upon my breast.  It was beautifully done; even the actors were moved.  Then he spoke rapidly to his son, who translated to me thus:  “How have I missed this ‘business’ all these years?  It is good—­we will keep it always—­tell madame that.”  And so, courteously and without offence, this greatest of actors accepted a suggestion from a newcomer in his play.