Bonfire of the Vanderbilts

4. Vanderbilt’s Albany Affair

Chapter Four

Vanderbilt’s Albany Affair

Late Sunday, May 5, 1889, Paris

The night the two men were drinking heavily before the opening of the Exposition, Bennett eventually got around to telling Jules the scandalous story about Vanderbilt. But it wasn’t so much shameful as silly. Simply put, Bennett judged Vanderbilt to be a pompous fool. And this anecdote, minor as the episode might seem, was the perfect illustration.

Bennett topped off both their glasses, although Stewart’s didn’t need filling. “I have this on the highest authority. Ever hear of Henry Codman Potter?”

“Nope. Sounds like some stuffed shirt if he insists on using his middle name.” Stewart smiled. Julius LeBlanc Stewart never used his middle name, but James Gordon Bennett did.

“Henry Codman Potter is the top Episcopal pooh-bah in New York. It’s a technical distinction but important to my story.” Bennett said. “His Uncle Horatio holds the job officially. But the old man’s so ill, he is only seen in his robes Christmas and Easter. No better, if you’re grading for attendance, than a backslider like me. Henry C. was appointed assistant bishop in ’eighty-five and is doing a slap-up job of filling the old man’s shoes.”

“You said it was a story about Vanderbilt,” Stewart prompted, fearing Bennett had lost his thread.

Bennett’s lids were drooping, but he rallied — inspired, no doubt, by the sheer entertainment value of a story he was in no hurry to finish. “Potter the younger takes over the reins, see, and he’s got wild horses on his hands, right off.”

Jules smiled as he recalled the often-repeated story of Bennett at the reins of a couch-in-four, stinking drunk and stark naked, one particularly festive and chilly night in rural Connecticut. If only he’d tell that story.

Bennett pressed on: “He takes a look at the books and, lo and behold, the diocese is a welsher! Uncle Horatio and the boys had promised to subsidize a new congregation in Albany, back in ’eighty-two. Now, these Albany fellows went right ahead, floated their construction bonds, hired their workmen, and built themselves a substantial place of worship. Happy as clams, these upstate Episcopalians. Never mind they spend half their lives digging out of snowdrifts…”

“Potter finds the diocese in arrears,” Jules said, trying to help Bennett back on track.

“A quarter — million — dollars!” Bennett declared, eyes bulging as his sallow face went red. “That’s what they promised ’em, and that’s what they did not got no-how!” He expected his novel attack on the language to have better effect. But he could see from Stewart’s rapt expression that he was doing fine on entertainment value, so he continued: “Now, Cornelius is friendly with the new bish. He even put in a good word with the higher-ups to get him the job when the uncle got sick. Wants to be absolutely sure, Vanderbilt does, that he’s got a connection right to the top, in this world and in the next. He’s a big contributor to Saint Bart’s, head of the Foreign Missions Committee, and the little wife Alice hustles her bustle to church twice a day to seal the deal with her prayers. Stuffed-shirt, arrogant, social climbers of the most obnoxious sort.” He slammed his fist on the table so hard the shock to the newly topped-off glasses created little puddles of absinthe. For a moment, Jules was afraid Bennett would put his tongue on the table and lap it up.

“Potter finds the whole thing embarrassing,” Bennett continued with an expansive wave of the hand. “Bad reputation for the new administration. Clear out the old debts. A promise is a promise, that sort of thing. So he invites himself over to Saint Bart’s one Sunday, and old Sam Cooke lets him have his turn in the pulpit. He delivers a stem-winder on keeping your word, tells his sad yarn about Albany needing help, and finishes with an appeal to the well-heeled members of the congregation — which is every last one of that crowd, I can tell you. Says he needs a few men of high conscience to step up to this little, ahem, monetary requirement.”

Noticing the sleeve of his black felt cutaway was beginning to sop up the spilled absinthe, Bennett adjusted his position. He tried to sit up straight again and shot Jules a glance in the hope his gaffe was unobserved.

“Perhaps we’ve had enough for one night,” Jules said.

“Nonsense,” replied Bennett. “Good story needs some lubrication in the telling. So what do you think happened?”

“They passed the plate and came up short?”

“Short? It was pocket change! Just what Potter expected from those miserly snobs. But he doesn’t let on, doesn’t so much as have it counted. He casts his steely gaze on Vanderbilt, sitting there in his starch among the parishioners. ‘How about it, Mr. Vanderbilt?’ asks Potter to the man’s face. ‘Will you meet my challenge and make up the difference?’ Now, Vanderbilt is cool. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. ‘Your Eminence,’ says he, ‘I will, and gladly, but our gifts in the eyes of God and men must not be personal. Let my esteemed friend Mr. Morgan join me in this worthy effort. We’ll say it came from all of us, with a proviso that we agree among ourselves there will be no disclosure as to the amounts of our individual gifts.”

“Righteous enough,” observed Jules, who was not often found in church, but he admired both Vanderbilt’s diplomacy and his seeming sense of fair play. “This was J. Pierpont Morgan, I assume?”

“The very same. Seated not two rows away. Dozing, probably. Throw a bomb into that congregation and you’d derail the entire economy of the northeastern United States. Morgan gets a bony elbow in the ribs from his wife, barks his agreement not knowing what for — and they’re both in, he and Corny — neither of them knowing whether it’s for a lamb or a sheep or a whole damn flock!”

Bennett paused for effect. “Only, the deal’s not quite done, you see. Vanderbilt lets two days go by, then rings Potter — yes, they give the good bishop his own mansion and a telephone. ‘Did you receive Mr. Morgan’s generous gift yet?’ he wants to know. Potter tells him yes, he had the man’s check on Monday. It’s Wednesday, remember, so maybe Potter’s getting a bit nervous. He’s wondering, Is Vanderbilt having second thoughts? But Vanderbilt demands, right out, ‘For how much?’ Now the bishop is on the spot. ‘Well, you see, Mr. Morgan inquired first thing Monday as to the tally of our receipts at the church. I told him, of course. And he made his check out for exactly half the difference.’ And he names the sum, all six figures of it. Now you’d think it’s Vanderbilt’s turn to be coy. But he comes back, ‘Bishop Potter, I’ll send my check around this very afternoon…’ and he hesitates while Potter’s glee becomes unbearable, ‘… if only you’ll grant me a small request.’ By now, Potter is ready to grant the man anything within reason, and he knows that Cornelius Vanderbilt is, above all, a reasonable man. ‘Gladly,’ says Potter, thinking he’ll have to do some society wedding for the price of his supper.”

Bennett smirked. His love of this story was surpassed only by his bitterness toward Vanderbilt. He grinned and continued, “That’s when the iron jaws close around the poor bishop’s neck. ‘Might it be possible, then,’ Vanderbilt says without a hint of slyness, ‘to increase my gift so as to make it the greater share?’ Potter is delighted! The man’s generosity knows no earthly bounds!” Bennett cackled and slapped his thigh. “Vanderbilt goes on, ‘Did we not agree on Sunday we would keep the specific amounts of the contributions confidential?’ Potter thinks he’s been trapped and Vanderbilt is about to scold him for letting it slip how much Morgan gave. ‘We did,’ Potter says humbly, waiting for the pious rich man to rebuke him. ‘I would simply ask you, then,’ says Vanderbilt, ‘keeping to our agreement and discreetly, of course. Please let it be known to our brothers on the vestry committee of Albany Church that the Vanderbilt contribution is the preponderance of the gift.’ Now, Potter is not only relieved he hasn’t offended Vanderbilt in his handling of the matter, but he’s also thinking the overage must be a considerable sum. He doesn’t dare to press his luck and ask how much. He agrees immediately, before Vanderbilt can change his mind.”

“I thought you said this was a scandalous story, Jimmy,” Jules said. “I fail to see how Vanderbilt can be faulted for being the most generous man in his congregation.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Bennett said, and his chuckling became a series of coughing wheezes. “Potter had given his word. Vanderbilt had made sure of it at the outset, and he knew he had the bishop by the strength of his own vow. Sure enough, that very afternoon, Potter receives Vanderbilt’s messenger. He tears open the envelope, and he finds a check made out for exactly the same amount Morgan gave — plus a penny!” Bennett laughed so hard he shook, which gave rise to such a fit of coughing and wheezing that the barman began to approach with a concerned look.

Bennett saw the man coming and held him off with a gesture as he tossed back another shot. He smacked his lips, refreshed from the drink and satisfied with the concluding effect of his story. As if congratulating both Vanderbilt and himself, he said, “Vanderbilt had Potter trapped. The bishop might be able to tell God what this man had worked on him, but he wouldn’t dare repeat it to any living soul!”

“So who did you get the story from — God himself?” Jules asked. “Surely Potter knows better than to tell the newspapers?”

“Don’t be insolent, dear boy,” Bennett said gruffly. “I got it from Morgan’s wife.” Bennett basked in self-adoration. “Potter felt honor-bound to tell Morgan, you see. Only fair, and Vanderbilt must have counted on it! Otherwise, he’d have no satisfaction. Vanderbilt’s pleasure would not be complete unless Morgan knew he’d been bettered — by a better man!”

“I take the point of your story, Jimmy,” said Jules. “Cornelius Vanderbilt is a self-righteous churchman who doesn’t let his religion prevent him from being a sharp dealer in his business affairs. Still, I’m not so sure it merits making the man a laughingstock.”

“You miss the point entirely, my dear Jules,” said Bennett. “The lesson is this — to work a ruse on Vanderbilt would be the crowning achievement of my gloriously unprincipled career. This man’s monstrous vanity is a prize worth taking.” Then he continued with a quiet sobriety Jules didn’t think possible, “I want the man’s privacy invaded. Something so personal, so intimate — done as an enormous piece — it must dominate the entire wall of a public exhibition.” He paused, painting his own masterpiece in the air. “A picture of his beloved Alice on the crapper would do nicely.”

“Well, if we’re going to be crude, I know a better subject,” proposed Jules, forming a mental picture of the most infamous event of the newspaperman’s unprincipled career. “A portentous moment I never witnessed. There you stand in the May’s drawing room on a festive New Year’s Eve, surrounded by distinguished men in their best bib and tucker and their ladies swathed à la mode in gorgeous silk creations from Worth. You’re enjoying a cheroot, the smoke rings your head, and you’re holding a crystal snifter of brandy the size of a fishbowl. All while you urinate artfully into the fireplace.”

“I did no such thing,” muttered Bennett, but the painter knew better. It was the inciting incident of the curmudgeon’s mature manhood, in which he shamed his betrothed and caused her to break off their wedding, endured a literal flogging by her brother the next day, challenged him to a duel that ended in a draw, and thereby became a pariah of polite New York society, motivating him to take up permanent residence in Europe.

“Come now, Jimmy,” said Jules, “you’re as proud of that stunt as anything you’ve done in your life.”

“Damn right,” said Bennett, “but you’ve got a cub reporter’s command of the facts. It wasn’t the fireplace. It was the grand piano.” He took a long pull on the bottle, drained it to the dregs, smiled broadly, and let out a burp of sheer pleasure. “Damned cuter trick,” he added, “considering the angle involved.” Another fit of wheezing chuckles, then: “Thought to myself, there’s a good girl, she’s left the lid raised. Good thing I had a whopper of an erection at the time.”