Free Life at the Dakota by Stephen; Birmingham

gentlemen’s cloakroom, white envelopes were arranged on a silver tray, with a gentleman’s name on each envelope. Inside was a card with a lady’s name on it—the lady he was to escort in to dinner. The ladies and gentlemen gathered again downstairs, and there their hostess received them in her black wig and nearly always wearing black, the better to show off her jewels, which included “the costliest necklace of emeralds and diamonds in America,” or “the finest sapphire”—all, of course, from Tiffany’s.
    A butler appeared with a tray, and cocktails were served. There was never a choice of drinks. Mrs. Astor preferred something called a Jack Rose, and a Jack Rose was therefore what was offered, one to a guest, and in rather small glasses. A maid then entered with a tray of canapés—one apiece. Nobody would have dreamed of asking for a second canapé, much less a second drink. In exactly fifteen minutes dinner was announced. At the table were printed place cards and menus, each embossed with the Astor crest, outlining the courses through the appetizer, soup, fish, meat or game, salad, cheese and fruit, dessert and coffee, with perhaps a sherbet course somewhere in the middle.
    Dinner lasted at least two hours, and through it all one had to keep an attentive eye on the hostess to catch the exact moment when she “changed the conversation.” When Mrs. Astor shifted the focus of her attention from one dinner partner to the other, the entire table shifted with her. At approximately half-past nine, Mrs. Astor rose, and the table did likewise. The ladies and gentlemen separated—the men to the library for brandy and cigars, the ladies to the adjacent drawing room for mirabelle and gossip. In exactly half an hour a butler opened the doors between the two rooms, and the gentlemen joined the ladiesfor another thirty minutes. At half-past ten, Mrs. Astor rose again, the signal that it was time for everyone to go home.
    But the new residents of the Dakota were a rather different sort of folk, with different notions of what civilized New York life might consist of—notions which Mrs. Astor would have found dangerously radical. There were the Steinways, for example (ironically, Theodor Steinway, perhaps because of his sensitive musical ears, frequently complained about the sound of pianos being played in nearby apartments). As piano merchants, the Steinways would never have been eligible to join the Astor set; even worse, they were immigrants, having arrived in New York from Germany as recently as 1850, and they spoke with accents. Then there was John Browning, an educator, and the founder of the Browning School on the West Side, which later on would educate a whole generation of Rockefeller brothers. (Mr. Browning’s two daughters, Miss Edna and Miss Adele, were both born in the Dakota in the early 1890’s and continue to live there to this day.) Then there was Mr. Gustav Schirmer, the great music publisher.
    The Schirmers were the building’s leading host and hostess of the day, and their guest lists indicated that New York social life might have a bit more to offer than the Four Hundred. The Schirmers had the odd notion that there were actually interesting people in New York, and that interesting people also passed through from out of town. Herman Melville, by then well into his seventies, often walked with his little granddaughter in Central Park. He had been living quietly in New York for years, convinced that his literary career was over, working as a customs inspector on the Hudson River piers. The Schirmers “discovered” the almost-forgotten author of Moby Dick, and gave a dinner for Melville and his wife. The Schirmers apparently found Melville charming but a little sad. He was working again on a final novel, to be called Billy Budd. But, he said, he was sure his book would never be published unless he had it privately printed, because his