Daytonian in Manhattan

A House Where Art was Created -- No. 61 Perry Street

2013-05-23T03:26:00.003-07:00

photo by Alice Lum

In 1828 the population of the Village of Greenwich was steadily increasing. Attractive brick homes in the Federal style were quickly appearing on its winding streets to accommodate the new residents. That year two identical homes were constructed at Nos. 61 and 63 Perry Street; each two and a half stories tall with Flemish bond brickwork. A narrow horse walk burrowed between the houses which led to a small building in the rear yard.

The horse walk, today, is protected by an attractive iron gate -- photo by Alice Lum

New Jersey real estate investor James P. Demarest built the homes which would have been sold to financially-stable working families. Demarest added small architectural touches like the wooden enframement of the entrance carved to mimic rusticated stone, the two columns flanking the eight-paneled door, and the delicate iron railings and newels with their cast pineapples—the symbol of hospitality.

Cast iron pineapples top the newels -- photo by Alice Lum

Throughout the Civil War years and afterward the family of Chardavoyne W. Smith lived in the house. Smith was listed in city directories as a “builder.” Havilah M. Smith followed in the family tradition and for at least two years, in 1879 and 1880, was Chairman of the Finance Committee of the General Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen of the City of New-York.

By the turn of the century the little house had become a multi-family building and in 1906 the owner was cited for his failure to provide fire escapes. Robert Johnson was living here around that time. The tenant would find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time a year later.

Campbell & Co. was a trucking firm located at No. 436 West 57^th Street and the Irish-owned operation employed Italians to drive their carts and Irishmen to drive the trucks. “Recently the Italians discovered that the truck drivers were getting $18 a week while they were getting only $12,” reported The New York Times.

The Italian workers requested $15.50 a week and demanded that the Irish workers’ wages be reduced to $15. Management refused the demands and the already-strained relations between the Irish and Italians grew more heated.

The foreman of the truck drivers, an Irishman named George McAuliffe, had only one arm. On the morning of January 19, 1907 the Italian cart drivers “pitched upon” him. In the attack Dominick Leddo bit off a piece of McAuliffe’s ear. While the melee was going on, Robert Johnson was innocently passing by the Campbell stable.

McAuliffe may have had only one arm, but he had a revolver. “He fired it when he was attacked, but instead of hitting any of the Italians, he hit Robert Johnson,” reported The Times.

Johnson suffered a hole through his hand and a bullet wound to the left cheek. (Leddo, by the way, was held on $1,000 bail for biting off the chunk of McAuliffe’s ear.)

By now Greenwich Village was becoming the Bohemian section of Manhattan, drawing artists, musicians, writers and poets to its quaint winding streets. In 1904, artist John Sloan and his wife Dolly had moved into No. 61 Perry Street.

The artist, whose studio was at No. 35 Sixth Avenue, represented a stark change in American art. A founder of the Ashcan School, he presented life as it was—often gritty and always realistic. While living here he produced some of his best works—McSorley’s Bar, Wake of the Ferry, and the Sixth Avenue Elevated at Third Street among them.

Although he had created dozens of oil paintings, Sloan had not yet established himself as a force in the art world and earned his income by drawing weekly puzzles for The Philadelphia Press and doing illustrations for Collier’s Weekly, Good Housekeeping, Harper’s Weekly, Scribner’s and the Saturday Evening Post.

Sloan captured McSorley's Bar while living here -- http://www.the-athenaeum.org/art/full.php?ID=27194

John and Dolly Sloan joined the Socialist Party in 1910 as their disenchantment with the political status quo festered. He became art editor of The Masses and provided stirring anti-capitalist and anti-war drawings to the magazine as well as other socialist periodicals.

In February 1913 the Sloans moved to No. 240 West 4^th Street in order to be nearer to the studio.

Architect Arthur Paul Hess was hired to reconvert the house to a single-family home in 1927.

In 1936 sculptor Alice Decker left her husband, political activist and sculptor John Calvin Ferguson. Two years earlier, while still married, she had entered into an affair with the widely-talented and married Lewis Mumford. Although she attempted twice to end the relationship (at her husband’s demand), she was extremely unhappy in her marriage and, instead, ended that.

photo by Alice Lum

By 1942 she was living in the house at No. 61 Perry Street and turned the little two-story building in the rear into her studio. Using a variety of materials she created modern art sculptures ranging from social comment, like her Scrubwoman carved from wood, to purely artistic forms like sleeping cats.

In 1949, although Department of Buildings records still listed it as a single-family dwelling, it was listed for sale as a “four-family home with rear two-story studio house.”

The artistic tradition of the house continued when it became home to poet Lloyd Frankenberg and his wife, artist Loren MacIver. The pair became close friends with poet E. E. Cummings who also lived in the Village in Patchin Place, and poet Robert Lowell.

A frequent house guest was poet and short story writer Elizabeth Bishop who would stay extended periods. Bishop was the Poet Laureate of the United States from 1949 to 1950 and a Pulitzer Prize winner for Poetry in 1956.

On March 4, 1975 poet, critic and anthologist Lloyd Frankenberg died in the house on Perry Street at the age of 67. Loren MacIver lived on in the house until she died at the age of 90 on May 3, 1998. The artist whose work was exhibited in retrospectives in museums like the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Phillips Collection in Washington DC, and the Newport Harbor Museum once said “I never thought of painting as a career. I cannot tell you how casual it was. I never intended to be a painter. I just like to paint.”

photo by Alice Lum

The house, today, is divided into two duplex apartments. The Federal-period interiors have been gutted and modernized; but the exterior retains its 1828 appearance. Through its charming doorway have passed some of America’s most talented artists, poets and writers.

The Remnants of the 1912 Audubon Theatre and Ballroom --Broadway at 165th St.

2013-05-22T02:46:00.002-07:00

photo by wikiWhat as part of Wikipedia Takes Manhattan Project

In 1912, three years before he would immortalize his name by founding the Fox Film Corporation (later to become 20^th Century-Fox), the Hungarian-born William Fox embarked on an ambitious project in the rapidly-developing Washington Heights. The area was ripe for a multi-functional entertainment venue and Fox sought out the services of theater architect Thomas W. Lamb to fill the void.

Filling the block on Broadway between 165^th and 166^th Streets, the duel-purpose Audubon Hall opened for business on November 28, 1912. Lamb had created a 2,368-seat theater on the first floor, and on the second a “ballroom” and an assembly-type room that seated 200 persons. Lamb lavished the two-story structure with mythological imagery and Roman-inspired motifs. The colorful terra cotta façade featured griffins in the spandrels of the rhythmic two-story arches that defined the building. Above the entrance an immense head of Poseidon served as the figurehead to an approaching Roman galley, before which a mermaid swam toward the passerby.

photo by wikiWhat as part of Wikipedia Takes Manhattan Project

Paired monumental Roman columns flanked the entrance and, with a nod to the dramatic arts inside, a series of lyres lined the grand arch. Colorful satyr heads appeared throughout the design—over the entrance, within the lyres of the arch, and within the column capitals, for instance.

The architect strayed from the mythical theme by including full-relief terra cotta fox heads between each arch, an obvious nod to his patron.

Fox heads pay tribune to William Fox --photo by wikiWhat as part of Wikipedia Takes Manhattan Project (photo cropped)

Inside Lamb carried on the Roman motif. Reportedly the auditorium boxes featured satyr heads flanked by maidens.

While vaudeville played downstairs, the Audubon Ballroom upstairs offered dance lessons, including all the latest fads, and events like dance contests. The Ballroom was managed by George D. Grundy, a master of marketing who packed the space through special events. He scored a coup in January 1919 when he lured the Dancing Carnival away from the Grand Central Palace where it had been traditionally held.

The Evening World, on January 18, reported that “The Audubon Ballrom of the Dancing Carnival, formerly at the Grand Central Palace, is being patronized by so many of its former friends that it seems like the original place. The management has provided a place for the whole family to enjoy dancing.”

The newspaper went on to say that “The Audubon provides an evening’s amusement for slight cost. Men are admitted for 40 cents, women 25 cents. They can dance to their hearts’ content.”

Fifty-cents bought eight dance lessons in 1916 -- The Evening World, December 4, 1916 (copyright expired)

By 1921 the Audubon Theater was offering motion pictures as well as vaudeville. One of the acts during Christmas Week that year involved trained seals. Early in the morning of December 27 fire broke out in the cellar of the Corn Exchange Bank next door.

The fire spread rapidly into the Ballroom. Meanwhile firefighters fought to save the theater portion. “Firemen kept the flames from the Audubon Theater, a motion picture and vaudeville house, at the south end of the building, and rescued, much against their will, three trained seals which were backstage in their cages,” reported the New-York Tribune.

The New York Times reported that several firemen were hurt fighting the blaze. The Ballroom “was put out of commission” and the lobby of the theater was heavily damaged by water.

With the Ballroom repaired, George Grundy jumped at the latest fad of the Roaring Twenties: the dance marathon. The craze had swept the country’s large cities and young men and women vied to capture the endurance title. The problem was that communities, including New York City, began outlawing the contests out of concern for the dancers’ physical well-being.

On Saturday March 31 at 6:57 p.m. Alma Cummings started dancing. As George Grundy kept vigil, the 32-year old Alma (whose real name surname was Stappenback) danced the fox trot, waltz and one-step with one young man after another. When the band quit for the night, two phonographs kept the music playing.

Alma was a dance instructor at the Audubon Ballroom and 27 hours later was still hoofing her way around the floor. On Sunday night the band which, according to The New York Times “had slept, eaten, been to church and returned,” played “The Star-Spangled Banner” and Alma Cummings was declared world champion (without police interference). She attributed her success to being from Texas and “in part to nine years of vegetarian diet.”

The achievement sparked perhaps the most astounding incident in dance marathon history. A month later a group of young people started dancing here in an effort to crush Alma’s record. After 28 hours and 50 minutes there were still five men and three women dancing. And then word arrived that the police were on the way. Parents and friends rushed to obtain a moving van. The phonographs were taken aboard and the contestants danced their way into the van.

The hoofers danced inside the van as it took them to the ferry to New Jersey. Once on the other side of the Hudson, another van moved them to the Pekin Dance Hall in Fort Lee, New Jersey. But they were met by expectant police who made them move along.

Inside the van the dancers continued moving while they were transported to East Port Chester, Connecticut. Local police allowed the last remaining dancer, Vera Sheppard, to continued until dawn broke on Sunday morning. At that point they had to invoke the blue law and stop her dancing on the Sabbath.

Vera Sheppard had clearly broken the Alma’s record. When she returned to the Audubon Ballroom (having danced through three states, a ferry boat and four moving vans) she received the unhappy news that simultaneously a girl in Cleveland, June Curry, had beaten her record.

The building caught fire again on January 12, 1927 while 800 people were viewing a motion picture. As smoke entered the auditorium the patrons, many of them children, calmly gathered their belongings and filed out through emergency exits. The organist, according to The New York Times the following day, played “Home Sweet Home” to keep the crowd calm.

“The lights of the theatre were turned on. The doors were opened, and the wind carried in a great cloud of choking smoke,” reported the newspaper, “but not one person showed alarm. Each walked out of the theatre in a normal way, and everyone reached the street without mishap.”

The three-alarm fire resulted in between $150,000 to $200,000 in damage to the auditorium and ballroom. “The building, which is two stories high and of masonry, was burning throughout almost all its interior save the theatre auditorium,” said The Times.

Not all the events in the Ballroom during the Roaring Twenties ended happily. On September 21, 1929 the Lantern Athletic Club hosted a dance. Uninvited, 18-year old Betty Marshall and her date, 27-year old Jack King, crashed the party.

The intrusion did not go unnoticed and King became involved in a confrontation with club members. Shots were fired and Betty Marshall was shot in the chest and King in the shoulder. Two stray shots hit the wall behind the pair.

When police arrived most of the revelers had fled and those who were left “could shed no light on the shooting.” Betty Marshall was hospitalized in dangerous condition and, according to The Times, “The dance broke up.”

In 1946 the city was terrorized by a gang of youths ranging from 16 to 20 years old who committed thefts using two-way radios to communicate between the burglars and the look-outs. The leader boasted he wanted to be the master mind of “the largest and brainiest gang in New York City.”

On April 30 that year the gang rented the Audubon Ballroom to throw a going-away party for a friend inducted into the Army. The Times reported that they “invited 100 guests and made sure they had a supply of meat by stealing fifteen hams from the Swift & Co., plant at Twelfth Avenue and 131^st Street.

“Needing funds to keep the party going, they broke into an automobile dealer’s office at 132d Street and Broadway and ‘cracked’ the safe, which contained several hundred dollars. The party continued until well into the morning.”

A month later police arrested four gang members—two of them 16-years old, one 17 and one 20—for committing 75 burglaries, including 42 “safe jobs.”

After World War II the Audubon Theatre became the Beverly Hills Theater. Later it was the San Juan, a Spanish movie house which finally closed in 1975.

Meanwhile upstairs, the Ballroom would earn infamy on February 21, 1965. A year earlier Malcolm X had broken from the Nation of Islam, changed his name to El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz and began presenting a less confrontational and separatist stand on race relations. In response he received numerous death threats from the Nation of Islam and on February 18, 1965 told The New York Times “I’m a marked man. It doesn’t frighten me for myself as long as I felt they would not hurt my family.” He added “No one can get out without trouble, and this thing with me will be resolved by death and violence.”

Death and violence came three days later when the 39-year old stood up at the Audubon Ballroom to address the Organization of Afro-American Unity. He was gunned down by assassins later identified as Black Muslims. His death, however, became a sort of martyrdom that raised him to a symbol of black pride.

The stage and podium where Malcolm X was assassinated was photographed immediately after -- photograph Library of Congress

Throughout the 1970s the care-worn Audubon Ballroom above the empty theater was a favorite venue for prize fights. Eventually, though, that too closed and, having been taken by the City for back taxes, the old William Fox Theatre Building sat empty and deteriorating.

Then, in 1983, Columbia University purchased the building for back taxes and announced plans to build “a space-age medical research center on the site.”

In reporting on the impending demolition, The Times said “The two-story ballroom on the corner of 166^th Street and Broadway…was a major showcase for jazz, popular and bigband music during the late 1930’s, the 40’s and early 50’s. It became the focus of national attention in February 1965 when Malcolm X was shot to death there.”

The announcement sparked protests from African American community activists, preservationists and Columbia University students. Even after demolition began the protest waged on, with Manhattan Borough President Ruth Messinger among its most outspoken leaders.

An outraged New York Times called Messinger obstructionist and irresponsible and warned readers that saving the Audubon Ballrom “could hasten the decline of a deteriorating community and leave those who want to honor Malcom X, murdered in the ballroom 25 years ago, with nothing but a building in ruins.”

Despite the newspaper’s ranting, a compromise was reached to preserve about two-thirds of the original face and about 40 percent of the remaining Ballroom. An excruciating $7 million restoration was initiated on the exterior and what was left of the Ballroom.

In 2005 the Malcom X and Dr. Betty Shabazz memorial and educational facility opened while behind the six-story Center for Commercial Biotech Research building, designed by Davis, Brody & Associates was erected.

The restoration brought the colorful terra cotta facade, nearly lost, back to life -- photo by wikiWhat as part of Wikipedia Takes Manhattan Project

The New York Preservation Archive Project notes that “the compromise exemplifies that preservation can work with new development by using innovative solutions for its protection.”

many thanks to reader Connie Allen for requesting this post

The 1899 Fabbri Mansion -- No. 11 East 62nd Street

2013-05-21T03:27:00.002-07:00

photo by Alice Lum

In 1898 Margaret Louisa Vanderbilt Shepard was busy building mansions to give away as gifts. For her daughter, Maria Louise Vanderbilt Shepard Schieffelin, and her husband she had purchased two residences at Nos. 5 and 7 East 66^th Street and set Richard H. Hunt to work designing a frothy brick and limestone house in their place.

Simultaneously, a block away on East 62^nd Street a similar but even grander mansion was rising for daughter Edith S. Fabbri and her husband Ernesto. Designed by Haydel & Shepard, it would be completed in 1899; a five-story confection of pale buff brick and limestone that brought France to 62^nd Street.

The architects entered the above sketch into the exhibit of the Architectural League of New York -- Catalogue of the Year Book of the Architectural League of New York, Volume 14 February 1899 (copyright expired)

Margaret’s choice of architects was no doubt influenced by the fact that Augustus D. Shepard was her nephew (and, therefore, Edith’s cousin). The opulent Beaux Arts mansion reflected the pedigree of its owners, their social status and their wealth.

Sitting back from the sidewalk and protected by a high, exquisite iron fence the mansion asserted its grandeur with double-height fluted Corinthian pilasters, three sets of French doors opening onto reserved stone balconies at the second floor, and exceptionally-high hooded dormers.

photo by Alice Lum

The great-granddaughter of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, Edith Shepard Fabbri was expected to entertain lavishly. The house was built to accommodate dinner parties and dances with a ballroom, and a 42-foot long dining room, 25-feet wide, paneled in mahogany.

While Edith was busy with her social routine, Ernesto worked in the financial firm of Drexel, Morgan and served as president of the Society of Italian Immigrants in New York. Just seven years after moving into the new house, Fabbri was transferred to Europe by Drexel, Morgan. The couple would live overseas for several years.

The Fabbris were still in the house in 1900 when this photograph was taken -- from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

The house was leased to railroad mogul Edward Henry Harriman and his family for the winter season of 1906-07. Grand entertainments continued and in January 1907 Mrs. Harriman hosted a dance for her daughters, Mary and Cornelia.

The Harrimans leased the house with all the Fabbri furnishings and artwork -- photo NYPL Collection

The New York Times noted that “This house has a large and beautiful ballroom and a splendid suite of drawing rooms admirably adapted for entertaining. The dance, however, will be a small affair and the invitations limited to the young friends of the Misses Harriman.”

On April 2, as the winter season was coming to a close, Harriman announced plans to build “a handsome residence at the northeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-second Street,” as reported by The New York Times.

The Harrimans extended their stay in the Fabbri mansion as their own house was being constructed. The sidewalk along East 62^nd Street would be crowded with newspapermen and gawkers as the scandalous affair of the “Harriman Papers” hit the news that summer.

There were in 1904 a series of letters between Harriman and President Theodore Roosevelt, a friend and confidante. The letters, leaked to the press by a discharged secretary in 1907, intimated corruption regarding campaign funds and contributions.

The documents of the United States Congress subcommittee testimonies contained references to the press circus that surrounded Harriman and the Fabbri mansion. “Mr. Harriman left his home, No. 11 East Sixty-second Street, yesterday morning in company with Jacob H. Schiff, who had been conferring with him…Mr. Harriman was surrounded by newspaper men when he reached his office in the Equitable Building an hour before noon.”

The exasperated tycoon finally lashed out at the reporters. “You newspaper men ought to get together and purify things instead of always looking for the sensational. It’s like taking an emetic to read from morning newspapers nowadays. But don’t make me out an enemy of all newspapers. This craze for sensationalism should not continue. You will overdo your market like some of these people down in Wall Street do.”

The intricate French ironwork included the Fabbri monogram in the design -- photo by Alice Lum

Although they continued to live, mostly, abroad; the Fabbris held on to the 62^nd Street property. On November 1, 1908 The Times noted that “Mr. and Mrs. Ernesto G. Fabbri have closed their Bar Harbor cottage and are at 11 East Sixty-second Street. Mrs. Fabbri, Mr. Fabbri’s mother, is with them.”

In September 1910 the house was leased to Alfred G. Vanderbilt at the annual rent of $20,000 (about $355,000 today). Freddy’s brother, Reginald and his wife, were guests at the house two months later for Horse Show Week. “Mr. Vanderbilt will be brought down next week on his brother’s private car from Newport,” announced The New York Times on November 4.

Society was most interested in Freddy Vanderbilt’s taking the grand mansion that had been explicitly designed with entertaining in mind. A year earlier his wife, Elsie French Vanderbilt, had divorced him and he steadfastly insisted, according to The Times, “that he would not open another New York residence unless he should marry again.”

Magnificent iron fences protect the mansion -- photo by Alice Lum

Because Vanderbilt had been keeping company with the newly divorced Mrs. Margaret Emerson McKim, rumors flew. She “was with Mr. Vanderbilt a great deal at the Belmont Park aviation meet two weeks ago,” reported the newspaper. “the expectation was further strengthened by the fact that Mr. Vanderbilt had been registered at the Plaza, while Mrs. McKim was a guest there soon after her return from the divorce colony at Reno late this Summer, and had been his guest at a theatre box party as recent as a week ago.”

More grist for the rumor mill came in the form of whispers that Vanderbilt played a part in Margaret’s April 30 divorce from Dr. Smith Hollins Mckim; although her complaint was based on “cruelty and drunkenness.”

Nevertheless Mrs. McKim was notably absent when Vanderbilt “formerly threw open the doors of his new house” at a luncheon on November 9 for the directors and visiting exhibitors of the Horse Show. Deemed by The Times as “quite an elaborate affair,” it was held in the dining room which was “tastefully decorated with chrysanthemums, evergreens, and palms, while arranged along the dining room table were numerous silver cups captured as prizes by the champions of Alfred G. Vanderbilt’s stable. Huge bouquets of American Beauty roses protruded from the trophies, other roses in the centre carrying out the maroon and white effect of the Horse Color colors.”

The Reginald Vanderbilts stayed on as guests through the winter, along with their daughter Cathleen and Tony, her pet toy bulldog. The pedigree pup was brought to New York from Newport in November to keep Cathleen company. “His apartments were in the basement, where he could be looked after by the servants when his mistress was tired playing with him,” explained The Times.

Late in January the dog went missing. “Tony was taken to his room one day for his lunch, and after being fed was left alone. He was so gentle that any one could have taken him away with ease, and when Cathleen called for him that evening he had disappeared.”

After nearly a week the family had still not told Cathleen that Tony was missing. An advertisement was put in the newspapers that read “LOST—Jan. 20, toy bulldog, white, with brindle and spotted back; whosoever can bring same to 11 East 62d St. will receive a handsome reward.”

The Times mused that while Cathleen “is still unaware that her pet toy bulldog, Tony, has been missing from her home…for nearly a week;” if she read the advertisement “her anxiety for her pet will be increased.”

The following month the McKim divorce was finalized and stories that Freddy Vanderbilt would marry Margaret McKim resurfaced. Dr. McKim agreed to release Alfred Vanderbilt from “all pending or possible litigation” and, in return, the doctor received “a large sum of money, in semi-annual installments, as well as a lump sum, awarded chiefly for counsel fees,” reported The Times on February 22, 1911.

Less than two months later, on April 5, The Sun reported “It was rumored yesterday that Alfred O. Vanderbilt is among those interested in the gigantic apartment to be built at the corner of Fifth avenue and Seventy-second street and that he will take an apartment therein upon its completion.”

The suspicions of Newport and New York society were finally put to rest when Reginald Vanderbilt sent a formal notice to the newspapers regarding the marriage of his brother and Mrs. McKim, the daughter of the wealthy drug manufacturer Isaac E. Emerson . In its full-page story covering the marriage The New York Times could not resist commenting that “Every member of the Emerson family, of which the new Mrs. Vanderbilt is a member, has figured in the divorce courts.”

Now married, Alfred Vanderbilt left the 62^nd Street house and the Fabbris leased it to C. Ledyard Blair for the 1911-1912 winter season. The magnificent mansion was a perfect choice for the family, for 1911 was the year daughters Florence and Marjorie were introduced to society.

The entertainments began on December 2 with a “large and information tea” in the house. “There were many callers during the afternoon,” noted The Times, which deemed the reception “one of the most important.” The following week, on December 15, the mansion dazzled for the debutante dance.

“The house with its unusually artistic interior, was beautifully decorated with Christmas colors,” reported The Times. “the entrance hall was banked with evergreens and the foyer hall was hung with garlands of green and holly and masses of green and flaming poinsettias covered the railing of the winding marble stairs. The high-ceilinged dining room with its high wainscoting and the gray stone walls rising above were hung with large plaque sprays of green with holly, and the small tables for the midnight supper were also decorated with holly.”

Two hundred and fifty guests filed into the mansion that night. The newspapers wrote of the floral decorations of the music room ("done in antique oak and pale green, poinsettia, holly, mistletoe, and greens banked the mantels and garlands and huge clusters of the red and green were placed here and there"), the salons and drawing rooms.

Finally, as the Newport season of 1912 drew to a close, Edith Fabbri sold the 62^nd Street house to J. P. Morgan & Co. partner Charles Steele and his wife Nannie. Steele paid for the mansion, in part, with three houses on the north side of East 64^th Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. The Times noted that “He had previously purchased the Sixty-fourth Street plot with the intention of erecting a large residence there.”

The Steeles’ move was made easier in that along with the mansion they received “all the artistic and handsome furnishings therein contained.”

The couple’s eldest daughter was married in October 1910, becoming Countess Jean de la Greze. Along with their other daughters, Kathryne and Nancy, the Steele family divided their time between the 62^nd Street house and their estate at Westbury, Long Island.

On June 22, 1913 Charles and Nannie Steele announced the engagement of Nancy to Devereux Milburn, described by The Times as “a well-known polo player.” The newspaper’s readers learned that Nancy had “been an enthusiastic spectator at all of the outdoor events this season on Long Island at which Mr. Milburg took park, and attended both of the polo match games at Meadow Brook…with her parents and sister.”

The polo-playing millionaire was the son of John G. Milburn. The entire family had moved from Buffalo to New York only eight years earlier. It was in the Milburn house there that President William McKinley died.

Polo-players seem to have turned the heads of the Steele girls, for two years later Kathryn’s engagement to F. Skiddy von Stade, “a well-known polo player,” was announced. Her fiancé’s other athletic interests were reflected in his exclusive club memberships. He belonged to the Racquet and Tennis, Meadow Brook, Turf and Field, Riding Club, Knickerbocker, Piping Rock and Union Clubs.

As the decades passed, Charles and Nannie French Steele lived on in the grand French mansion. Nannie developed heart problems as she aged and on the night of December 18, 1932 she died quietly in her sleep.

Carved limestone lions' heads flank the iron entrance gates -- photo by Alice Lum

Charles was bequeathed the family homes—62^nd Street, Westbury and Southampton, Long Island (common practice was for real estate titles to be placed in the wife’s name to ensure her financial security). The couple’s lifestyle was reflected in the list of other items Nannie willed to him: “all household furniture, pictures, paintings, engravings, tapestry, horses, carriages, automobiles and other personal property.”

Nannie put aside $340,000 to be distributed to charities—over $4.5 million in today’s dollars.

The Treasurer of the Protestant Episcopal Church of America, Charles was an ardent supporter of the St. Thomas’ Choir School. Over the years he contributed $200,000 towards the establishment of a permanent choir school building. Following his death on August 5, 1939 his funeral was held in St. Thomas Episcopal. He left a gross estate of over $32 million; including the house on East 62^nd Street which was valued at $105,000.

photo by Alice Lum

The mansion was purchased in foreclosure by the Stevens Institute of Technology which initiated a renovation that was completed in 1943. The grand rooms that were once banked with evergreens and roses now became five floors of “offices and rooms used for scientific research in aptitude testing,” according to Department of Buildings documents.

Grandeur would return to No. 11 East 62^nd Street when the Government of Japan purchased it in 1998 as the residence of its ambassador to the United Nations. The $21.5 million price tag was at the time the highest price ever paid for a Manhattan townhouse. The house, which The New York Observer deemed “a real fixer-upper” had been seriously considered by only one potential individual buyer—Michael Jackson.

A four-year renovation took place that focused on restoring the mansion’s glory. “You really need to renovate it properly,” a spokesman for the Japanese government told the New York Observer in April 2003. “We want to preserve the beauty of this Beaux-Arts building, and at the same time, it’s necessary to meet the requirements of current landmark building rules.”

photo by Alice Lum

The renovation, indeed, preserved the beauty of the Beaux Arts building. It remains one of the Upper East Side showplaces--a reminder of a day when unlimited wealth resulted in monumental urban palaces.