_A Post-Knickerbocker Petronius_
A Post-Knickerbocker Petronius--The Early Life of Mr. Ward McAllister--A
Discovery of Europe--A Glimpse of British High Life--The Judgment of a
Diplomat--The South and Newport--Organizing New York Society--The
"Four Hundred"--Maxims of a Master and Maître d'Hotel.
He does not reign in Russia cold,
Nor yet in far Cathay,
But o'er this town he's come to hold
An undisputed sway.
When in their might the ladies rose,
"To put the Despot down,"
As blandly as Ah Sin, he goes
His way without a frown.
Alas! though he's but one alone,
He's one too many still--
He's fought the fight, he's held his own,
And to the end he will.
--_From a Lady after the Ball of February 25, 1884._
Mrs. Burton Harrison, in "Recollections, Grave and Gay," told of a visit
made in 1892 as one of a party of invited guests travelling by special
train to the newly built Four Seasons Hotel at Cumberland Gap, in
Tennessee, where the directors of a new land company and health-resort
scheme had arranged a week of sports and entertainments. About forty
congenial persons from New York and Washington made the trip, the
mountaineers and their families along the route assembling at stations
to see the notabilities among them. The chief attraction, Mrs. Harrison
recorded, seemed to be Ward McAllister, who had been expected, but did
not go. At one station, James Brown Potter, engaged in taking a
constitutional to remove train stiffness, was pointed out by another of
the party to a group of staring natives as the famous arbiter of New
York fashion.
"I want to know!" said a gaunt mountain horseman. "Wal, I've rid fifteen
miles a-purpus to see that dude McAllister, and I don't begrutch it, not
a mite."
All over the land there were yokels and the spouses of yokels and even
the children of yokels, moved by a like interest and curiosity; while
rural visitors to New York, and also New Yorkers born for that
matter--if such a person as a born New Yorker actually existed--craned
their necks from the tops of the Fifth Avenue buses in the hope of
catching a glimpse of the great man, who, for a brief, flitting moment
was an institution of as much importance as the Obelisk or the
Metropolitan Museum of Art.
But so far as the great world beyond the Weehawken Hills went, Ward
McAllister's was an ephemeral glory. It was a clear case of
anachronism. He was born one hundred years too late, or two hundred
years, or two thousand. His was the soul of the Roman Petronius, or of
one of the Corinthian eccentrics, who strutted in St. James's Park or
past Carlton House in the early days of the Regency, and gave colour to
that otherwise grim England that was grappling for life with the
Corsican; or of "King" Nash of Bath. It was the "King," perhaps, that he
suggested most of all. But in the Carlton House circle he might have
out-Brummelled Brummel, and supplanted that famous Beau as the object of
the fat Prince's attentions and ingratitude. Indeed there was a flavour
of Brummel's biting insolence in some of the sayings that were
attributed to the New Yorker. For example, there was a well-known
literary woman of New York, who had in some way incurred the arbiter's
august disapproval.
"She write stories of New York society!" he said. "Why, I have seen her
myself, buying her Madeira at Park & Tilford's in a demijohn."
When Thackeray was contemplating writing "The Virginians," he desired
information about the personality of Washington, and applied to the
American historian Kennedy. Kennedy began to impart his knowledge in the
manner that might have been expected from a historian when the
Englishman interrupted rather testily, "No, no. That's not what I want.
Tell me, was he a fussy old gentleman in a wig, who spilled snuff down
the front of his coat?" It was in some such spirit that I applied to
that old friend of the fine Italian manner, and the profound personal
and inherited knowledge of the ways and the men and women of New York. I
did not, I explained, wish to be unkind, but the memory of that
latter-day Petronius was one of the most mirth-provoking memories of my
boyhood. Was he fair game for a chapter of a flippant nature? But why
not? was the retort. He himself would have adored it.
Fame came to him through the newspaper reporter. It was a smaller New
York, a more limited Fifth Avenue in those days, and Mrs. Astor ruled
its society without any one to question her sovereignty. She was about
to give a great ball, and Ward McAllister, as the self-appointed and
generally accepted secretary of society, was in charge of the list of
invitations.
To the reporter sent to interview him Mr. McAllister explained that,
owing to problems of space, only four hundred cards were to be sent out,
commenting: "After all, there are only four hundred persons in New York
who count in a social way."
"And who are those four hundred persons?" asked the quick-witted
reporter.
On that point Mr. McAllister was more reticent. But the reporter
obtained the list of those who were to be invited to the ball, and the
names were printed as those who constituted New York's "Four Hundred."
"Society," said my friend sagely, "needs to be managed just as a circus
is managed. Of good family, with an independent income large enough to
make him free from the necessity of work, and small enough to keep him
from the time-using diversions of extravagance, with a knowledge of
wines, and a bent for selecting the proper kind of buttons for the coat
in which to attend a cock-fight, he was the man for his circle and age.
A Brummel? Hardly that. There was nothing of the ill-starred Beau in his
appearance. His influence was good, as Brummel's was occasionally good.
You recall the saying of the Duchess of York to the effect that it
was Brummel's influence which more or less reformed the manners of
the smart young men who were notorious for their excesses, their
self-assertiveness, their want of courtesy. He was more akin to the
ill-favoured Richard Nash, whose wise autocracy helped so much in the
redeeming of the city of Bath."
After all, whether it was part pose, or whether the man was quite
sincere in his professed belief in the profound importance of what most
of the world is inclined to regard as trivialities, he was always
consistent. As a youth he went to live in the house of a relative, in
Tenth Street, New York, when that neighbourhood retained a flavour of
aristocracy. A legacy of one thousand dollars fell to him. It was his
first legacy. A cannier soul would have made the money go a long way. He
spent it all for the costume that he was to wear at the fancy dress ball
that was to be given by Mrs. John C. Stevens at her residence in College
Place. "I flattered myself that it was the handsomest and richest
costume at the ball." A little later, in 1850, he went to San Francisco,
to join his father in the practice of law. It was in the first days of
the gold rush, when the city was in the making, and fabulous prices were
paid for the commodities of life. In the make-up of a man there had to
be a certain amount of stern stuff if he was to survive in that struggle
for existence. Young McAllister prospered, and in the course of time
built himself a house. "My furniture," he recorded, "just from Paris,
was acajou and white and blue horse-hair. My bed quilt cost me $250. It
was a lovely Chinese floss silk shawl." His talents as a giver of
dinners were in evidence at that early age, and his father made use of
them in connection with the law business. There was a French _chef_, at
a salary of ten thousand dollars a year. High prices and scarcity
served only as spurs to the young Petronius.
"Such dinners as I gave I have never seen surpassed anywhere," he
complacently recorded in later years. Some one spoke to the elder
McAllister of the admirable manner in which his son kept house. "Yes,"
was the sapient retort. "He keeps everything but the Ten Commandments."
Two years of California, and then he returned East. At that period of
his life the idea of the Diplomatic Service as a career appealed to him.
Mr. Buchanan was going to England as Minister, and Ward McAllister
applied to President Pierce for the post of Secretary of Legation. He
was _persona grata_ with Buchanan, he had the influence necessary to
push his petition, and the matter seemed settled. But just then along
came his father, who wanted to be made Circuit Judge of the United
States for the State of California. Two appointments at the same time to
one family were out of the question, so the young man stepped aside as
became a dutiful son. But see Europe he would, and if he could not go in
the Government's service and at the public expense as a dabbler with
official sealing wax, he would go as a private citizen. The record he
preserved of that journey gives a marvellous picture of the man.
In London he met a Californian, in with all the sporting world, on
intimate terms with the champion prize-fighter of England, the Queen's
pages, and the Tattersalls crowd. Chaperoned by this curious countryman,
McAllister's first introduction to London life took the form of a dinner
at a great house in the suburbs. It was a strange house and a strange
company, more in keeping with the eighteenth century than the middle of
the nineteenth. The rat-pit, the drawing of the badger, the bloody
battling of the bull terriers, the high betting, the Gargantuan eating
and drinking and shouting, the smashing of glasses and plates, the
imperturbable footmen in green and gold liveries calmly replacing in
their chairs the guests overcome by strong potations--it was a picture
for Hogarth's pencil at its best, or Gillray's at its craziest.
The intimation is that, in the course of this and similar adventures,
McAllister was defraying his own expenses and those of his Californian
companion. Provided it was the kind of life he wanted to see, it was
money well spent.
Then he went off to Windsor, and there, at the village inn, dined with
Her Majesty's _chef_ and the keeper of the jewel-room. Again it was
probably the visitor from across the seas who gave the dinner, as a
result of which he was permitted to visit the royal kitchen, and see the
roasts turning on the spits.
"I saw Prince Albert and the Prince of Wales that morning shooting
pheasants alongside of the Windsor Long Walk, and stood within a few
yards of them. I feel sure we ate, that day, the pheasants that had been
shot by Prince Albert." Doesn't it read like a bit of Thackeray--say
from the paper in "The Book of Snobs" on "The Court Circular" with its
references to the shooting methods of a certain German Prince-Consort?
"A tiny bit of orange peel,
The butt of a cigar,
Once trod on by a Princely heel,
How beautiful they are!"
Having exhausted England the young discoverer travelled to Paris and
thence to Florence. There are believed to be a few art galleries in
Florence and some monuments of historical interest. But about these
Lochinvar did not disturb his head greatly. Instead he discovered a
cook--"I paid the fellow twenty-four Pauls a day"--whose manner of
roasting a turkey was most extraordinary. He cultivated the English
doctor of the city and through him procured invitations to the balls
given by the Grand Duke of Tuscany. The King of Bavaria attended one of
these balls, and something very terrible happened. It was _lèse-majesté_
in its most virulent form.
The offender was an American girl who committed the crime while being
whirled about in McAllister's arms. "I did it! I was determined to do
it! As I passed the King I dug him in in the ribs with my elbow. Now I
am satisfied." "I soon disposed of the young woman," recorded her
partner of the dance, "and never 'attempted her' again."
There were other eccentric Americans at large in Europe in those days
besides the fair belle of Stonington. One of them, in Rome, wore a
decoration that excited the curiosity of his host, the Austrian
Minister. His Excellency finally found the opportunity to refer to it
questioningly. "Sir!" said the American, drawing himself up. "My country
is a Republic. If it had been a Monarchy, I would have been the Duke of
Pennsylvania. The order I wear is that of the Cincinnati." The Minister,
deeply impressed, withdrew. In Rome McAllister found that the American
Minister was in the habit of inviting Italians to meet Italians, and
Americans to meet Americans. When asked the reason, he replied: "I have
the greatest admiration for my countrymen: they are enterprising,
money-getting, in fact, a wonderful nation, but there is not a gentleman
among them."
In reading the blasting comment I am moved to wonder what manner of man
the Minister was who took no shame in giving expression to such an
opinion of his brethren of the western world. "And then," Thackeray
might have written, "I sink another shaft, and come upon another rich
vein of Snob-ore. The Diplomatic Snob, etc." Yesterday Americans
travelling in other lands had every reason to resent a type of
representative that had been sent abroad to uphold the honour and
dignity of our flag; the uncouth manners, the shirt sleeves, the narrow
intolerance, that told all too plainly the story of party reward. Yet,
somehow, I rather prefer that man, unpleasant as he was, and humiliating
to patriotic pride as he was, to the dandy and ingrate of whom Mr.
McAllister told. I like to think that, however Europeans may have
laughed and wondered at the yokel out of place, for the sycophant
denying his compatriots was reserved the bitterest of their contempt.
From Italy McAllister went to spend the summer at Baden-Baden. The
Prince of Prussia, later the Emperor William, was there. It pained the
young American to find that the royal visitor was no connoisseur,
gulping his wine instead of sipping and lingering over it. But there is
haste to express intense admiration. "His habit of walking two hours
under the trees of the Allée Lichtenthal was also mine, and it was with
pleasure I bowed most respectfully to him day by day." The final touch
to the McAllister education came at Pau, where he passed the following
winter, and the winter after. He ran down to Bordeaux, made friends with
all the wine fraternity there, tasted and criticized, wormed himself
into the good graces of the owners of the enormous Bordeaux caves, and
learned there for the first time what claret was. "There I learned how
to give dinners; to esteem and value the Coq de Bruyère of the Pyrénées,
and the Pic de Mars."
Thus equipped for the serious business of life as he conceived it, he
returned home. He entertained old Commodore Vanderbilt at a dinner that
caused the ex-Staten Island ferryman to remark: "My young friend, if you
go on giving such dinners as these you need have no fear of planting
yourself in this city." He was at first disappointed at the reception
accorded him by his native city of Savannah. He had prided himself on
giving that town the benefit of his European education. But there was a
certain resentment at his attitude until "I took up the young fry, who
let their elders very soon know that I had certainly learned something
and that Mc's dinners were bound to be a feature of Savannah." Then came
his _coup_. Certain noble lords were expected from England, the son of
the Duke of Devonshire and the son of the Earl of Shaftesbury, and all
wondered who would have the honour of entertaining them.
The British Consul counted on the distinction. "He was a great
character there, giving the finest dinners, and being an authority on
wine, _i.e._, Madeira, 'Her Majesty's Consul will have the honour.' I
secretly smiled, as I knew they were coming to me, and I expected them
the next day. This same good old Consul had ignored me, hearing that I
had the audacity to give at my table _filet de boeuf aux truffes et
champignons_. I returned home feeling sure that these young noblemen
would be but a few hours under my roof before Her Majesty's Consul would
give me the honour of a visit." He was right. The strangers had not been
settled an hour when the tactful Briton rushed up the front steps.
Throwing his arms around McAllister's neck, he exclaimed: "My dear boy,
I was in love with your mother thirty years ago; you are her image;
carry me to your noble guests." "Ever after," is the naïve record of our
hero, "I had the respect and esteem of this dear old man."
Let us get back to our sheep. The narrative has been rambling too far
from Fifth Avenue, and it is with the arbiter of the Avenue that we have
to do. Behold him launched, laughed at perhaps, occasionally, but feared
and courted. He was at the ball given to the Prince of Wales in the
Academy of Music, being the first after the royal guest to take the
floor for the waltz.
He devoted an entire day in railway travel in order to procure a
dress-suit, as he called it, in which to appear at a dinner to two
English lords. He began to arrange for cotillon dinners, figuring the
cost, checking off the invitations, standing at the door of the salon,
naming to each man the lady he was to take in.
There was one point to which his subserviency to British visitors would
not go. Gastronomically he was as sturdy a patriot as any farmer who
blazed away at the Red Coats from behind the Lexington hedges. Stoutly
he defended the "saddle" of venison instead of the "haunch." Our
tenderloin steak was quite as good as the English rump. Of Madeira he
once said, with the spirit of Nathan Hale, "You have none to liken unto
ours."
That Prince of Wales who afterwards became George the Fourth, in the
vigour of his youth, and the prime force of his invention, invented a
shoe-buckle. The crowning work in the life of Ward McAllister was
probably the institution of the F.C.D.C.'s, abbreviation for the Family
Circle Dancing Class. The Patriarch Balls, of which the first were given
in the winters of 1872 and 1873, were growing too large and were being
monopolized by the married women. The new association was for the _jeune
fille_, and was to be more limited and intimate. Its dances were held
at Dodworth's, later Delmonico's, and in the _foyer_ of the Metropolitan
Opera House. The arbiter paid the price of his greatness. "From the
giving of the first to the time of my giving them up, I had no peace
either at home or abroad. I was assailed on all sides, became in a sense
a diplomat, committed myself to nothing, promised much and performed as
little as possible....
"My mornings were given up to being interviewed of and about them;
mothers would call at my house, entirely unknown to me, the sole words
of introduction being, 'Kind sir, I have a daughter.' These words were
cabalistic; I would spring up, bow to the ground, and reply: 'My dear
Madam, say no more, you have my sympathy; we are in accord; no
introduction is necessary; you have a daughter and want her to go to the
F.C.D.C.'s. I will do all in my power to do this for you; but my dear
lady, please understand, that in all matters concerning these little
dances I must consult the powers that be. I am their humble servant; I
must take orders from them.' All of which was a figure of speech on my
part." The arbiter would then diplomatically suggest the possibility of
a friend of social influence, and make some allusion to family. That
always started the fair visitor. The family always went back to King
John and, in some instances, to William the Conqueror. "'My dear
Madam,' I would reply, 'does it not satisfy any one to come into
existence with the birth of one's country? In my opinion, four
generations of gentlemen make as good and true a gentleman as forty. I
know my English brethren will not agree with me in this, but, in spite
of them, it is my belief.' With disdain, my visitor would reply: 'You
are easily satisfied, sir.' And so on, from day to day, these interviews
would go on; all were Huguenots, Pilgrims, or Puritans. I would
sometimes call one a Pilgrim instead of a Puritan, and by this would
uncork the vials of wrath."
To the credit of the post-Knickerbocker Petronius it must be said that
he was ever content with his lot. If there were poses to laugh at, there
were qualities to respect. A meaner soul might have turned the peacock
prestige to financial account. "Had I charged a fee for every
consultation with anxious mothers on this subject" (that of introducing
a young girl into New York society) "I would be a rich man." A Wall
Street banker visiting him in his modest home in Twenty-first Street
exclaimed against the surroundings, offering to buy a certain stock at
the opening of the Board, and send the resulting profits in the
afternoon of the same day. Commodore Vanderbilt, who apparently never
forgot that first dinner, once advised: "Mac, sell everything you have
and put it in Harlem stock; it is now twenty-four; you will make more
money than you know how to take care of."
But steadfastly McAllister refused to be tempted. So long as his cottage
was a "cottage of gentility," why try to augment his fortune? "A
gentleman can afford to walk; he cannot afford to have a shabby
equipage," he once said. That distinction which he felt to be his was
not to be impaired by his trudging afoot.
It is not in the pictures of his youth, winning his way into society to
rule it; but come to ripe years, secure in his position, imparting his
creed on points of social usage, with mellow dogmatism laying down the
law in all matters of vintages and viands, that he is most impressive.
"My dear sir, I do not argue, I inform."
It was that spirit that led to the dictum that made him famous. "My dear
boy, there are only four hundred persons in New York who really count
socially." It was as if he had said: "Decant all your clarets before
serving them, even your _vin ordinaire_. If at a dinner you give both
Burgundy and claret, give your finest claret with the roast, your
Burgundy with the cheese. Stand up both wines the morning of the dinner,
and in decanting, hold the decanter in your left hand, and let the wine
first pour against the inside of the neck of the decanter, so as to
break its fall." Doubtless, t'other side of Styx, his spirit has found
congenial companions. I see his shade in dignified disputation with
other shades. He argues with Brummel about the tying of a cravat, with
Nash about a minuet, the proper composition of a sauce is the subject of
a weighty dialogue with the great Vatel.