Now don’t believe what follows. Don’t believe that the month of May, which had already passed, and which is my favorite month because it is the burst of spring and the time of hope and promise, was three months long that summer, that it was May all summer that summer. The air of the place that May was sparkling and bright, as effervescent as soda. The camp twinkled with the games and the mischief of eager young artists. Don’t believe that all the sounds that long, long May were mellow and intimate, that there were no voices raised in rancor or rage, that everyone liked everyone else, that the directors, when they spoke, never spoke that eloquently again, or that the buzz of the actors eating supper together was never again as congenial. Don’t believe, if you are determined to be realistic, that there was an aura over all the people as they arrived, one that enlarged their talents and filled me with longing to become one of them. All that is how I remember my first summer with the Group and why I quickly made up my mind that no matter what it took in work and devotion, I’d hold on until I’d proved myself and become one of them. I had a passion at last.