From under my hat (1952)

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Quaker Girl; not as the Quaker Girl but as second lead, the primadonna part. I saved the notices I got that year for singing. There weren't many— barely enough to fill three pages of a scrapbook— but I valued them because I knew my limitations. They were the only notices I ever kept. Rehearsals for The Quaker Girl were at the Hudson Theatre on Forty-fourth Street just off Sixth Avenue. In winter the janitor doubled as doorman, opening carriage doors. One day he was sweeping the sidewalk when I came out of the theater after rehearsal. He leaned on his broom, smiled kindly at me, and said, "Oh, miss, you've got the most beautiful voice I've ever listened to." I knew how wrong he was, but I needed that kind of encouragement just then. I hadn't cultivated aggressiveness and a sharp tongue yet; I did that later, turning aside approval or flattery because, having been without it so long while growing up, I never learned really to accept it— or believe it at all. Still, for years after that I'd walk blocks out of my way to greet that janitor and shake his hand. In every town we played The Quaker Girl a letter from Wolfie would be waiting for me; and how he hated to write! The people in the company were dying to know who my faithful swain was. They knew that Wolfie and I had been friendly when I was in his company, but I never had mentioned him by name. Just let 'em guess. They say women can't keep a secret. Well, I did. But the strain on me was so great I've never been able to keep one since. The Quaker Girl closed in Albany. The afternoon before the last performance I went to a jewelry store on a most personal errand. "Please show me your wedding rings," I said. The jeweler looked interested. "For a lady?" "For a lady," I replied, not batting an eye. His eyebrows up, he got out the tray. "This one," I said. "How much?" He told me, adding, as he watched me out of the corner of his eye, "How shall I engrave it?" "That will be taken care of later," I said, giving him no satisfac ii