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Updated: July 25, 2025
She felt at home on the stage; she felt at home in her part, whatever it happened to be. She was giving what could really be called a performance. Streathern, when he was sure Brent could not hear, congratulated her.
"It's wonderfully plucky of you, my dear," said he, "quite amazingly plucky to get yourself together and go straight ahead, in spite of what your American friend has been doing to you." "In spite of it." cried Susan. "Why, don't you see that it's because of what he's been doing? I felt it, all the time. I see it now." "Oh, really do you think so?" said Streathern.
Yet the one indisputable fact about the great geniuses of long ago is that in their own country and age "the common people heard them gladly." Streathern could not now close his mouth upon one last appeal on behalf of the clever and lovely and so amiable victim of Brent's mania. "I say, Mr.
Brent and Palmer accompanied Susan; and every day for several hours Brent and the stage manager his real name was Thomas Boil and his professional name was Herbert Streathern coached the patient but most unhappy Susan line by line, word by word, gesture by gesture, in the little parts she was playing.
Brent," pleaded he, "don't you think Really now, if you'll permit a chap not without experience to say so Don't you think that by drilling her so much and so so beastly minutely you're making her wooden machine-like?" "I hope so," said Brent, in a tone that sent Streathern scurrying away to a place where he could express himself unseen and unheard. In her fifth week she began to improve.
"Exactly," said Brent. Streathern regarded him with a certain nervousness and veiled pity. Streathern had been brought into contact with many great men. He had found them, each and every one, with this same streak of wild folly, this habit of doing things that were to him obviously useless and ridiculous.
He said: "When the booing began and you didn't break down and run off the stage, I knew that what I hoped and believed about you was true." Streathern joined them. His large, soft eyes were full of sympathetic tears. He was so moved that he braved Brent. He said to Susan: "It wasn't your fault, Miss Lenox. You were doing exactly as Mr. Brent ordered, when the booing broke out."
Streathern regarded Brent as a crank, and had to call into service all his humility as a poor Englishman toward a rich man to keep from showing his contempt. And Brent seemed to be indeed was testing her forbearance to the uttermost. He offered not the slightest explanation of his method. He simply ordered her blindly to pursue the course he marked out.
And you we'd better assume are merely talented." Streathern, who had a deserved reputation as a coach, was disgusted with Brent's degradation of an art. As openly as he dared, he warned Susan against the danger of becoming a mere machine a puppet, responding stiffly to the pulling of strings.
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