In the boxes, in the corridors, in the offices backstage and in every dingy dressing-room last week the old Metropolitan Opera House seemed haunted. Over the boxes hovered the ghosts of the old New Yorkers who in 1883 built the Metropolitan, established it as Society's showplace. Great singers long dead seemed to have gathered in the wings as a reminder that the Metropolitan owed them its world-wide prestige. In the corridors it was easy to imagine the small erect figure of Otto Hermann Kahn, carnation in buttonhole, a quick shrewd word for...
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