Beatrice: Benedick, kill him—­kill him if you can.

    Benedick: As sure as I’m alive, I will!

I protested, and implored Henry not to do it.  He said that it was necessary:  otherwise the “curtain” would be received in dead silence.  I assured him that we had often had seven and eight calls without it.  I used every argument, artistic and otherwise.  Henry, according to his custom, was gentle, would not discuss it much, but remained obdurate.  After holding out for a week, I gave in.  “It’s my duty to obey your orders, and do it,” I said, “but I do it under protest.”  Then I burst into tears.  It was really for his sake just as much as for mine.  I thought it must bring such disgrace on him!  Looking back on the incident, I find that the most humorous thing in connection with it was that the critics, never reluctant to accuse Henry of “monkeying” with Shakespeare if they could find cause, never noticed the gag at all!

Such disagreements occurred very seldom.  In “The Merchant of Venice” I found that Henry Irving’s Shylock necessitated an entire revision of my conception of Portia, especially in the trial scene, but here there was no point of honor involved.  I had considered, and still am of the same mind, that Portia in the trial scene ought to be very quiet.  I saw an extraordinary effect in this quietness.  But as Henry’s Shylock was quiet, I had to give it up.  His heroic saint was splendid, but it wasn’t good for Portia.

Of course, there were always injudicious friends to say that I had not “chances” enough at the Lyceum.  Even my father said to me after “Othello”: 

“We must have no more of these Ophelias and Desdemonas!”

“Father!” I cried out, really shocked.

“They’re second fiddle parts—­not the parts for you, Duchess.”

“Father!” I gasped out again, for really I thought Ophelia a pretty good part, and was delighted at my success with it.

But granting these were “second fiddle” parts, I want to make quite clear that I had my turn of “first fiddle” ones.  “Romeo and Juliet,” “Much Ado About Nothing,” “Olivia,” and “The Cup” all gave me finer opportunities than they gave Henry.  In “The Merchant of Venice” and “Charles I.” they were at least equal to his.

I have sometimes wondered what I should have accomplished without Henry Irving.  I might have had “bigger” parts, but it doesn’t follow that they would have been better ones, and if they had been written by contemporary dramatists my success would have been less durable.  “No actor or actress who doesn’t play in the ’classics’—­in Shakespeare or old comedy—­will be heard of long,” was one of Henry Irving’s sayings, by the way, and he was right.

It was a long time before we had much talk with each other.  In the “Hamlet” days, Henry Irving’s melancholy was appalling.  I remember feeling as if I had laughed in church when he came to the foot of the stairs leading to my dressing-room, and caught me sliding down the banisters!  He smiled at me, but didn’t seem able to get over it.