He answered with honest simplicity, "They have paid their money, and are entitled to the best I can do for them; besides that, when I am on the stage I forget the world and all that is in it, and live the character I represent." "You will," said I, "make a grand Lear." "Yes," he replied, "I think I shall be able to make something out of the old king. I have been reading the tragedy for some time, but it will still take me two years to study it thoroughly." Salvini related to me several anecdotes which show how quick he is to master any difficulties accident throws in his way. "Once I bought," he said, "a play of a poor young writer which I thought I could make something of; but when we came to rehearse it for the last time before representation, it seemed to me utterly flat and unprofitable. The piece was called _La Suonatrice d'Arpa_ ('The Harp-Girl'). The actors all said the last act was so stupid that we should make a _fiasco_. I at last hit upon an idea. We had, however, only a few hours to execute it in. I changed the story: instead of the play ending happily, I made the father kill his daughter accidentally, and then die of grief. All the dialogue had to be improvised by the leading actress and myself. I played the father, and Signora Piamonti the daughter. Such was the success of our invention that the piece was played eight nights in succession, and a rival actor, hearing of the triumph achieved by _The Harp-Girl_, bought from the author for a handsome sum the privilege of acting it in certain districts which were not included in my purchase of the drama. Not being aware of the alterations we had made, and performing it according to the letter of the text, he made _un fiasco solenne_--a dead failure."