“The nerve of you kids!” he said. “You think the Lord has made you an actress, don’t you? All you need is a chance at a leading part, in order to startle New York!”
Isabelle tried to reply, but he swept on.
“This is an Art; you want to desecrate a great, important Art! It takes long years of preparation, hard labour, infinite patience, aching disappointment; it takes brain, and passion, and intelligence to make an actor. Now where do you come in?”
“Well, but you thought this summer——”
“I thought you were a clever little girl doing a sleight-of-hand performance,” was his crushing answer.
“But——”
“Can you dance? Can you fence? Can you run? Is your body as mobile and lithe as an animal’s? Do you breathe properly? Can you sing? Is your voice a cultivated instrument with an octave and a half of tones, or have you five tones at your command? Do you know how to fill a theatre with a whisper? Can you carry your body with distinction? Can you sit and rise with grace? Is your speech perfect?” He hurled the questions at her.
“No,” she admitted.
“Then you don’t know the a-b-c’s of this art. When you can say ‘yes’ to all these questions, then you are ready to begin, and not until then. Mind you—to begin!”