THE DRAMATIC IMPULSE
At five I was sent to school. Among my teachers in the Grove Street School, Melrose, was Miss Alice Swett, who remains a dear, good friend to this day. She was ever kind and sympathetic to me, and I always loved her, although I was often rebellious and unmanageable. My own reckless nature, impatient at restraint, could never endure the order and confinement of the classroom.
The dynamic energy, which has suffered little curb in the passing of years, was even then a characteristic to be reckoned with; displays of lively temper were not infrequent, but the method of punishment at an isolated desk in view of the entire class was far too enjoyable to serve as a correction for my ebullient spirits and was abruptly discontinued.
Miss Swett was my teacher for several years. While her affection and trust never wavered, I doubt if she ever quite understood the harum-scarum girl in her charge.
Only the other day, visiting me in my New York home and commenting upon some unconventional act of mine, she sighed and said: "Geraldine, where are you going to end?"
"Well, I may brush the gallows in the wild flight of my career," I replied laughingly, "but I'll never be really hanged."
Those years at the Grove Street School, when I was developing from childhood into young girlhood, were full of excitement, romance, and expectations. But I looked upon them as a trying period which had to be endured before I could devote myself entirely to my ambition. I was full of both temper and temperament, and an unlimited supply of high spirits which manifested themselves in various unusual ways—singing and acting, idealizing myself as many of the heroines whose gracious images intoxicated my imagination. At times I walked on air, and always my head was filled with dreams and hopes of this marvelous career.
It was at this time that I wrote a play, "Rapunzel of the Golden Hair," based upon an old fairy story. As usual I wished always to be the heroine, yet Fate had not bestowed the necessary golden locks upon me. My dark hair was worn short, and I must have looked much like an impish boy. Then, my dramatic vision had soulful eyes and an angelic expression. But instead of looking like an angel I was more like a gypsy at the distressing gosling stage, too undeveloped; yet I dreamed of the times when I would appear before immense audiences as the beautiful heroine of my dreams and hold them fascinated by my song and personality. I always had the utmost faith in a certain power of magnetism; it seemed as though from my youngest days I felt that I could influence others, and often I experimented just to see what effects I could produce.
The impulse to dramatize everything found an opportunity, when I was about ten years old, in the arrival in town of the brother of a girl friend. This boy, slightly older than I, had been educated in England and had brought back exquisite manners and an English accent that greatly impressed the young ladies of my class. I need hardly mention the fact that these attributes were looked upon with contempt by the masculine element, who had no small measure of derision for the youthful Chesterfield. I had cared little for and never encouraged boy sweethearts, but this youngster's exclusive admiration did arouse my interest. I felt flattered for a short time. But alas! he was unmusical to a degree, and companionship suddenly terminated, on my side, when I found that he was to be neither subjugated by my singing nor thrilled by my acting.