_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!"