The Glitter and the Gold Read online

  Now firmly established as a social leader, my mother, wishing still further to dominate her world, assumed the prerogatives of an arbiter elegantiarum, instructing her contemporaries both in the fine arts and the art of living. Ransacking the antique shops of Europe, she returned with pictures and furniture to adorn the mansions it became her passion to build. She thus set the fashion for period houses, which at that date were little known in this country. Once she was successfully installed in the three homes she had built, her restless energy must, I imagine, have turned to other projects. It was perhaps then that plans for my future were born.

  Courage was one of her prominent characteristics—a courage that was physical as well as spiritual. I shall never forget an incident when I had occasion to realize how intrepid and quick were her reactions. It took place at Idlehour, our home on Long Island. One day, when I, aged nine, was out driving, my pony started to run away with me, making straight for a water hydrant. My cart would undoubtedly have been overturned; but without the slightest hesitation my mother who was standing nearby threw herself between the hydrant and the racing pony and seized his bridle, thus preventing a serious accident.

  Reminiscences relating to one's childhood are apt to be tinged with a self-conscious pity, which in my generation might be considered justified, for we were the last to be subjected to a harsh parental discipline. In my youth, children were to be seen but not heard; implicit obedience was an obligation from which one could not conscientiously escape. Indeed we suffered a severe and rigorous upbringing. Corporal punishment for minor delinquencies was frequently administered with a riding whip. I have a vivid memory of the last such lashing my legs received as I stood while my mother wielded her crop. Being the elder, I had the privilege of the first taste of the whip—Willie followed. We had, my brother and I, been sailing in our boat on a pond. Our governess, Fraulein Wedekind, wished to bring us home, but, lost in the pleasure of the sport, we paid no attention to her calls. At length, as we neared the bank, she caught us and, imprudently straddling the water with one leg on shore, she tried to stop us. Alas, how could one prevent the wicked impulse to give a sudden shove with an oar, setting the boat free and seating Fraulein in the water? It seemed very funny at the time but as we neared home, our governess trailing her wet skirts straight up to our mother, the incident lost its charm.

  I bore these punishments stoically, but such repressive measures bred inhibitions and even now I can trace their effects. It is a melancholy fact that childhood, so short when compared with the average span of life, should exert such a strong and permanent influence on character that no amount of self-training afterward can ever completely counter it. How different is the child's education today! Prejudiced as I am by my own experience, I still think that, although my mother's standard was too severe, it was preferable to the complete lack of discipline I see in many homes today.

  Punishments, which were private affairs, were more easily borne than ridicule suffered in public. I remember an occasion when dressed in a period costume designed by my mother—for it was her wish that I should stand out from others, hallmarked like precious silver—I suffered the agonies of shame that the ridicule of adults can cause children. Then again I was particularly sensitive about my nose, for it had an upward curve which my mother and her friends discussed with complete disregard for my feelings. Since nothing could be done to guide its misguided progress, there seemed to me no point in stressing my misfortune. I developed an inferiority complex and became conscious not only of physical defects but also of faults that with gentler treatment might have been less painfully corrected. Introspection and heart searching caused hyper-sensitiveness and a quick temper to cloud an otherwise amiable disposition.

  My brother Willie was my junior by eighteen months, fie had inherited my father's charm and sweet temper. The wistful look of his big green eyes was appealing but he was mischievous and recklessly daring. He used to ride one of those old-fashioned high-wheeled bicycles at such speed that he took many tosses. One day my mother threatened to confiscate the bicycle at the next fall, and Willie went through a lesson before his tutor discovered that in falling he had broken his arm. I had for him the love little girls expend on their juniors and we shared a keen sense of fun.

  My brother Harold was born seven years later. Returning from a walk on a Sunday in July, 1884, we found him in my mother's arms. Nor were we further enlightened until Boya, my sainted nurse, informed me that God had sent him to us. What could be more pleasing than so poetic a version of birth and creation? Though we experienced a certain curiosity as the years went by, modesty was not sacrificed to the precocious knowledge sex education now confers. Harold, being so much younger than we, took little part in our games. In our eyes he was encircled by the halo his adoring nurse Bridget placed round his lovely head. She was an ardent Catholic—a faith that inspired her with sufficient courage one day to tax my mother with the number of houses she was building: "You have so many houses on earth, Mrs. Vanderbilt, don't you think it is time to build one in heaven?" To which my mother replied: "Oh no, Bridget—you live in my houses on earth, but I look forward to living in yours in heaven"—an answer of classic realism.

  We did not live for long in the little nondescript house in which I was born. Choosing Richard Morris Hunt as her architect, my mother built a large ornate white stone house in the French Renaissance style at the northwest corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-second Street. It was demolished after my father's death to make room for office buildings. This house stood back from the avenue and was approached by wide steps leading to an iron-grilled entrance. Inside, one saw on the right a great stairway running up three flights. I still remember how long and terrifying was that dark and endless upward sweep as, with acute sensations of fear I climbed to my room every night, leaving below the light and its comforting rays. For in that penumbra there were spirits lurking to destroy me, hands stretched out to touch me and sighs that breathed against my cheek. Sometimes I stumbled, and then all went black, and tensely kneeling on those steps, I prayed for courage to reach the safety of my room.

  In comparison with this recurrent nightmare, how gay were the gala evenings when the house was ablaze with lights and Willie and I, crouching on hands and knees behind the balustrade of the musicians' gallery, looked down on a festive scene below— the long dinner table covered with a damask cloth, a gold service and red roses, the lovely crystal and china, the grownups in their fine clothes. The dining room was enormous and had at one end twin Renaissance mantelpieces and on one side a huge stained-glass window, depicting the Field of the Cloth of Gold on which the kings of England and France were surrounded with their knights, all not more magnificently arrayed than the ladies a-glitter with jewels seated in high-backed tapestry chairs behind which stood footmen in knee breeches. Next to this big dining room was a small breakfast room adorned with Flemish tapestries and Rembrandt's portrait of the Turkish Chief. Then came a white drawing room hung with a fine set of Boucher tapestries; here were the beautiful lacquer secrétaire and commode, with bronzes chiseled by Gouthière, made for Marie Antoinette. Next door our living room, a paneled Renaissance salon, looked out on Fifth Avenue.

  My father's small dreary room saddened me—it seemed a dull place for so gay and dashing a cavalier who should, I thought, have the best of everything life could give. He was so invariably kind, so gentle and sweet to me, with a fund of humorous tales and jokes that as a child were my joy. But alas, he played only a small part in our lives; it seemed to us he was always shunted or sidetracked from our occupations. It was invariably our mother who dominated our upbringing, our education, our recreation and our thoughts. With children's clairvoyance we knew that she would prove adamant to any appeal our father made on our behalf and we never asked him to interfere. The hour we spent in our parents' company after the supper we took with our governess at six can in no sense be described as the Children's Hour. No books or games were provided; we sat and listened to the conversation of the
grownups and longed for the release that their departure to dress for dinner would bring.

  Occasionally Willie and I were permitted to join my mother in her handsome bedroom and watch her evening toilet. There was one memorable evening when the safe in which her jewels were kept could not be opened. My mother was going to a big dinner at which it would almost have been considered an offense to wear no jewels. Something of the prevailing feeling of panic must have reached me for I ran to my room and prayed fervently that a miracle would open the safe. And when I returned the safe was opened—my mother decked in her beautiful pearls. Small wonder that I believe in the efficacy of prayer.

  When I was old enough for a room of my own I was moved from the nurseries next to my mother to a room above hers, to which she had access by a spiral staircase in one of the towers that adorned the house. On this floor there was a colossal playroom where we used to bicycle and roller skate with our cousins and friends. But the chief memory it holds is of a Christmas tree that towered to the roof and was laden with gifts and toys for us and for every one of our cousins.

  After heavy snowfalls there were joyous sleigh drives to which we looked forward—the horses with their bells, the fat coachman wrapped in furs, and Willie and myself in the back seat with our small sleigh on which we were allowed to toboggan down slopes in the Park.

  After the holidays there were matinées at the Metropolitan Opera House to look forward to, when in my best dress I sat in my father's box near the stage. My earliest operatic recollection is of hearing the great Adelina Patti sing Martha. Her birdlike trills evoked scenes of wild enthusiasm, and mountains of bouquets were heaped round her diminutive form. Gounod's Faust was one of my favorites, but Mephistopheles terrified me and folly became associated with love after seeing Marguerite and later Lucia de Lammermoor in their affecting mad scenes.

  Every Saturday my mother made me recite endless poems in French, German and English, and in my tenth year there was a memorable occasion when our solfège class gave a concert in honor of our parents. Whether from stage fright or emotion, I gave a rendering of "Les Adieux de Marie Stuart" with so much feeling that I burst into tears. Somebody tossed me a bouquet and I am sure no prima donna ever felt a greater thrill.

  Willie and I also went to a weekly dancing class conducted by Mr. Dodsworth, an elderly and elegant instructor who had taught succeeding generations of New Yorkers how to dance and how to behave when in company. Willie disliked being dressed in his best sailor suit and having to dance with elderly girls who steered him around, but I liked wearing my prettiest dress, and the competition of boys who wished to dance with me gave me a sense of superiority I did not often enjoy at home.

  Sundays were special days. We went to morning service at St. Marks-In-The-Bouwerie, a long drive in the landau with Willie and myself in our best clothes facing my mother in an elegant costume and my father in a frock coat, top hat and an overcoat with a fine fur collar. Those long drives were always frightfully tiring, for I was made to sit up very straight and was not allowed to relax for a moment. When my legs began to fidget in uncontrollable twitches, I was strictly admonished against what for some unknown reason my mother dubbed "Vanderbilt fidgets," as if no other children had ever been afflicted thus. Sitting up straight was one of the crucial tests of ladylike behavior. A horrible instrument was devised which I had to wear when doing my lessons. It was a steel rod which ran down my spine and was strapped at my waist and over my shoulders—another strap went around my forehead to the rod. I had to hold my book high when reading, and it was almost impossible to write in so uncomfortable a position. However, I probably owe my straight back to those many hours of discomfort.

  Upon our return from church, we children lunched with our parents in the company of two boys of our age, and after a Scripture lesson spent delirious hours marching armies of tin soldiers across the carpet that represented land, or sailing them over the seas of parqueted floors to fight furious battles for the possession of the forts we built out of blocks.

  In contrast to this city life there was the welcome liberty we enjoyed at Idlehour, my father's place at Oakdale, Long Island, where we spent the early summer and autumn months. It was a rambling frame house close to a river; green lawns swept away to the gardens, stables, woods and farms. Here we crabbed and fished in the river and learned to sail a boat. We had ponies, which I rode sidesaddle, and a garden to plant, but we were bad gardeners, for my brother Willie, who was of an impatient nature, would pull up the potatoes long before they were ripe. Our earliest bets were made on the number we would find on each root.

  Good behavior found its reward in the pleasure of cooking our supper in the playhouse. Our German governess presided and indulged her taste for sauerkraut which we did not appreciate, but as compensation I was allowed the chocolate caramels I loved to make. This playhouse was an old bowling alley, and when my mother handed it over to us she insisted as a matter of training that we should do all the housework ourselves. Utterly happy, we would cook our meal, wash the dishes and then stroll home by the river in the cool of the evening.

  Boya, my nurse, as near a saint as it is possible for a human being to be, shared these outings with us. High-minded, simple and kind, she had none of the mawkish sentimentality that caused my governess to take affront at the slightest provocation.

  There were times when, possibly influenced by Boya, I reflected with some discomfort on the affluence that surrounded me, wondering whether I was entitled to so many of the good things of life. This feeling was sharply accentuated by a visit I paid to the sick child of one of our Bohemian workmen, whose duty it was to cut the grass lawns that surrounded the house. One morning when wishing him good day I noticed how sadly he answered. "Is anything the matter?" I inquired. Then he told me of his little girl, aged ten—"just my age," I commented—a cripple condemned for life to her bed. The sudden shock of so terrible a lot overwhelmed me; and when the next day I drove with my governess to see her, the pony cart filled with gifts, and found her in a miserable little room on a small unlovely cot, I realized the inequalities of human destinies with a vividness that never left me. How much I owe to Boya! It was from her I learned the happiness helping others brings. For she gave her all in alms and kindness and later, when she left us, spent her last years directing a Home for Swiss Girls in New York.

  When my grandfather died in 1885 leaving the bulk of his fortune equally divided between his two elder sons—Cornelius and my father—my mother was able to give full vent to her ambitions, and the yacht Alva, of 1 ,400 tons, was one of the first results of our new affluence. She was a beautiful and luxurious ship with appointments in simple good taste, but she was a bad sea boat, as we soon found to our discomfort, and was eventually sunk in a collision in a fog. On our first trips we visited the West Indies. In following years we crossed the Atlantic and cruised in the Mediterranean. On one occasion as we left Madeira and headed for Gibraltar a frightful storm overtook us. The waves broke over the high wooden bulwarks in such rapid succession that there was not enough time for the water to drain out through the freeing ports before the next wave hit us. I was lying in the forward deck cabin with my brother Willie and his tutor, who was both frightened and sick. "If we have seven such waves in succession," he informed us, "we must sink." Willie and I spent the rest of the day counting the waves in terrorized apprehension as the green water deepened on our deck. There were several casualties among the crew and the doctor who always accompanied us on our voyages was kept busy.

  These yachting expeditions were excessively boring to us children. The doctor, my brother's tutor, my governess and three men friends of my parents' made up our party. Heavy seas provided our only escape from the curriculum of work, for even sightseeing on our visits ashore became part of our education, and we were expected to write an account of all we had seen. Harold, still being in the nursery, was free to amuse himself within the limits a yacht made possible.

  On one of our cruises we visited Algiers, Tunis and Egyp
t. I recall being deeply impressed by the magnificent proportions of the temples of Egypt, but the tombs of the kings gave me the worst kind of claustrophobia and I was terrified by the hundreds of bats that clung to the low ceilings. There was something pathetic about the richly caparisoned mummies surrounded by the worldly possessions they deemed necessary to their future lives, and it seemed positively indecent to disturb the dignified seclusion they had taken such infinite precaution to insure.

  On leaving Egypt we went to Constantinople. At the entrance to the Dardanelles our yacht was rudely halted by two shots across the bow, for warships were then not admitted into the Bosporus and we had been mistaken for a small cruiser. After a twenty-four-hour delay during which the authorities were placated, we were allowed to proceed and soon anchored in that beautiful bay, with Constantinople and its lovely palaces and mosques spread before us. My parents had gone on shore when an anxious captain brought me the news that a pasha had arrived and wished to see my father. As the captain could not speak a word of French nor the pasha a word of English, it was arranged that I should entertain him, since he refused to leave without tendering the Sultan's apologies to my parents for the incivility of our reception. It must have been a new experience to the haughty and sophisticated Turk to talk to a little girl for an hour or more, and it was a proud moment when later a beautiful box of sweets arrived as a tribute to my exertions. At that time Turkish women were strictly secluded, their emancipation from the purdah only being accomplished by Mustapha Kemal in his policy of Westernization during the first quarter of the next century. My father had an audience with the Sultan, who showed us every courtesy, even having us visit palaces not usually opened to the public.