He always asked me to dinner when his old friend
Greene came to visit him, and then we had an Italian time together, with
more or less repetition in our talk, of what we had said before of
Italian poetry and Italian character. One day there came a note from him
saying, in effect, "Salvini is coming out to dine with me tomorrow night,
and I want you to come too. There will be no one else but Greene and
myself, and we will have an Italian dinner."
Unhappily I had accepted a dinner in Boston for that night, and this
invitation put me in great misery. I must keep my engagement, but how
could I bear to miss meeting Salvini at Longfellow's table on terms like
these? We consulted at home together and questioned whether I might not
rush into Boston, seek out my host there, possess him of the facts, and
frankly throw myself on his mercy. Then a sudden thought struck us: Go
to Longfellow, and submit the case to him! I went, and he entered with
delicate sympathy into the affair. But he decided that, taking the large
view of it, I must keep my engagement, lest I should run even a remote
risk of wounding my friend's susceptibilities. I obeyed, and I had a
very good time, but I still feel that I missed the best time of my life,
and that I ought to be rewarded for my sacrifice, somewhere.
Longfellow so rarely spoke of himself in any way that one heard from him
few of those experiences of the distinguished man in contact with the
undistinguished, which he must have had so abundantly.
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