“Won’t do.” Mr. Macaulay cut in decisively. “You’re telling me why other people think you can act. What I want to know is why you think you can act.”
This time, Peggy answered with more control. “I don’t really think I can, Mr. Macaulay,” she said calmly and earnestly, “even though I did get those good notices. But I know that I want to, and I hope that I can learn here.”
“A good answer!” the little director thundered happily. “Now tell me why you want to act, and how you know it’s what you really want to do, and we’ll be well on the way to a lasting friendship.”
Peggy thought for a minute before answering. She sensed that her answer would be important in deciding whether she would be accepted as a member of the Academy or not, and she wanted to be sure that the words were a true reflection of what she wanted to say.
“Mr. Macaulay, I want to act for the same reason that I grew up in Rockport, Wisconsin. It just happened. I didn’t choose it; it chose me. And I know it’s what I really want because when I’m acting, I feel about one hundred per cent more alive than when I’m not—and it’s a wonderful feeling.”
Mr. Macaulay nodded solemnly, removed his foot from the chair and walked twice around the room in silence, neatly dodging the chairs and tables that filled the place. As he seemed to be starting a third circuit of the room, he stopped, turned and replaced his foot on the chair.
“Young lady,” the little director said softly, “if you’re any more alive on the stage than you are right here in this room, you’ll light up the audience like an arc lamp!”
Then he strode rapidly to the door, opened it, and turned to smile warmly at Peggy. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said.
“But, Mr. Macaulay,” Peggy said, “won’t you even give me a chance to read for you? I’ve got three short selections prepared, and—”
“Not for at least six months,” the director cut in. “I never hear readings from beginners.”