Last Days of the Old Lady

Leontyne Price wants a chunk of the stage floor. Richard Tucker has his bid in for a slab of the proscenium arch inscribed VERDI. Rise Stevens has al ready filched the brass numeral 11 from the door of her old dressing room. Regine Crespin would like the toilet seat from No. 10; she plans to install it in her own bathroom.

Ever since Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera announced that it would abandon its historic old house for new quarters in Lincoln Center, requests for souvenirs have been pouring in by the thousands from opera lovers as well as opera stars around the world. Their eagerness is understandable: the proud Old Lady of 39th Street has been allowed to waste away, and next month, when the wrecking crews get started, there will be nothing left.

Choked Baritone. Built in 1883 at a cost of $1.7 million, the six-story, soot-encrusted exterior of the old house resembles a National Guard armory; the gilt and crimson interior has become a tawdry relic of bygone splendor. The grimy walls are veined with ominous cracks, the plaster is flaking, the gold leaf is peeling, the faded red carpeting is frayed and splotched. The creaking red velvet seats are worn slick and the stage floor is pitted and warped. Backstage, the dingy corridors are cluttered with props and tarpaulins. In Caruso's old dressing room, illuminated by a naked light bulb, cracks in the window have been plugged with paper and Scotch tape. When a bevy of ballerinas swept onstage recently, they stirred up billows of dust that all but choked off the lead baritone. Admits one Met official: "There isn't one square foot in the house where we haven't broken at least ten city ordinances."

Worse yet, with three more weeks of the season still to go, opera-buffs-turned-scavengers are already at work. Chunks of plaster and strips of damask wall covering have been torn away and the crystal pendants on some of the light fixtures have been stolen, as have many of the name cards on the dressing-room doors. To discourage further looting, the Met has removed most of the paintings, sculpture and memorabilia on display.

Caruso's Stockings. Fortunately, the mementos most in demand are not easily pilfered. Over 2,000 requests have been made for pieces of the gold brocade curtain, but RCA Victor has cornered that market. The record company bought the curtain for $10,000, and plans to cut it up into 45,000 three-inch squares for inclusion in an album of arias by Met stars. All 1,611 of the curtain's tassels have been sold by the Met for $5 apiece. The house's eight ceramic water fountains ($500 each) have been snapped up, as have the 280 chairs ($15 each) in the boxes. Says House Manager Alfred Hubay: "Old subscribers have been complaining about those chairs for years--now they want to buy them!" Among other items sold: 15 pairs of Caruso's flesh-colored stockings (at $15 per pair), dressing-room doors ($10), brass spittoons ($25), wall sconces ($15 to $75), chandeliers ($500), columns, banisters, hat trees, and several hundred planks from the stage floor.

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