Ovations for Sale

They number about 40 men, mostly Italians. They band together whenever Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera gives a performance. They have no tickets and they need none. A leader passes them in, huggermugger, at the 39th Street entrance before the carriage trade arrives. Inside, they station themselves on either side of the house, as near the stage as possible. Perhaps 15 climb to the tip-top gallery. Upstairs or downstairs their job is the same--to clap.

Last week the horny-palmed gentlemen of the Claque were worried, for the whisper was that they would no longer be wanted after Herbert Witherspoon takes command at the Metropolitan (TIME, March 18). The Metropolitan management had nothing to say, for it has never officially acknowledged its professional clappers. Their Leader, one Harold Lodovichetti, was melancholy. Having inherited his job from his father. Claqueur Lodovichetti has trained his men not only to promote enthusiasm at the right time but also to curb it. An inexperienced operagoer gets a resounding hiss if he applauds at a wrong moment. If the Claque happens to be standing behind him, he may be fairly deafened when the cued moment comes.

The Metropolitan pays its Claque nothing but the singers may buy special service. Caruso rarely sang without a Claque. Gigli had his and Martinelli's top notes still bring cheers from the men at the rail. In the old days singers were known to pay as high as $1,000 for an evening's "success." Now $25 will buy a fairly noisy ovation.

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