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Jessica Dragonette, "Angel of Song," of the Cities Service program.
NO star today — with the possible exception of Greta Garbo — has sacrificed as much personally for a career as Jessica Dragonette.
She began her career in Reinhardt's The Miracle, as the voice of an unseen angel. And she's never been permitted to come down to earth since.
During her ten years of winged success on the air, the pedestal on which others placed her has been built higher and higher. The curtains of seclusion have been drawn closer and closer about her Her remoteness, it seems, has increased with her popularity. Until she has become a kind of golden-voiced goddess, wor , shipped by manv but known by few.
With her studio but a block from the heart of Broadway, and her penthouse apartment looking down on the most exciting citv in the world, she lives an almost cloistered, solitary existence. She is beautiful and young. Within her reach— within her very sight— are the gaiety and romance most girls yearn for: the bright beauty of New York by night, the swing of dance music, handsome companions, lights and laughter.
But these things figure little in the pattern of her life. Jessica speaks of song and poetry, art and inspiration. Ask her about her work and she murmurs: "It is my destiny." Ask her how she happened to come to New York to launch her career and she answers : "1 chase rainbows. In a cloud''
Her very entrance at her broadcasts seems to be designed to a'ceent the ethereal, to set her apart. She usually wears white. Perhaps her gown is touched with silver. In the auditorium fifteen hundred people wait breathlessly for her entrance. No applause is permitted. A tiny, white-gowned figure, her golden head held high, she walks in to hushed silence. She is introduced formally, almost solemnly, and after the introduction there follows a second of awed quiet. There are no friendly, informal comments with the announcer, no bright exchange of greetings.
It is a beautiful program — lovely to hear, impressive to watch. But as the young singer makes her dignified entrances, her silent exits, you wonder if, sometimes, she doesn't yearn for a spontaneous burst of applause, a friendlv: "That was grand, Jessica!" from the man at the mike.
Some remember her before the wall of reserve was built quite so high. When she was permitted to stoop occasionally to informalities or a sudden impulse. Once, a few years ago. interviewed over the air. an announcer kept addressing her as Miss Dragonetti
She stopped in the midst of the program and said to him : "Don't you like my first name?"
The announcer, surprised, answered. "I think it is a lovelv name " 4 . .
"Do call me 'Jessica' then." she said. ^ 'Ibis is an informal program.' Please let's keep it so "
Yet today, around the studio, this same girl is treated with a formality that approaches reverence
There is something sad and ironic about that statement today. It makes one want to tear down the wall oi rcsei v< they've built up, lift her down from the pedestal on to the earth For she must find the atmosphere ol awe most oppressive at times. She must get very tired of hearing them tell and re-tell of her years in the convent with nuns to guide her and organ music lor her inspiration