The 1903 Heyl & Noethen Bldg - No. 9 West 19th Street

In 1850 Livingston Satterlee constructed a three-story brick-faced home at No. 9 West 19th Street.  A mirror-image of No. 7, the 25-foot wide residence featured the elegant details expected of wealthy homeowners just steps from Fifth Avenue.

By the 1880s it was home to Theodore Houston, his wife, Charlotte, and their son, Theodore, Jr.  Houston was vice-president of the New-York, Ontario and Western Railroad.  By the time the family moved in a seamless fourth floor had been added.

By late 1887 Theodore and Charlotte had moved into the apartment house at No. 80 Madison Avenue; possibly discouraged by the gradual change of the neighborhood from residential to commercial.   Houston retained ownership of the 19th Street house, however.  The New York Times noted in January 1888, "Mr. Houston was reported to have a comfortable fortune, and owned the house 9 West Nineteenth-street."

The reason that the journalist used the past tense was explained by the first line of the article.  "Just before the close of business yesterday a painful sensation was caused upon the Street by the announcement that Theodore Houston, well known as a railroad man...had committed suicide."

During the next decade developer Henry Corn would be highly instrumental in transforming the Lower Fifth Avenue district from one of brick and brownstone mansions to modern loft buildings.  In 1902 he purchased the 19th Street house, along with the similar one directly behind, at No. 8 West 20th Street.  He had earlier purchased the property abutting the 20th Street house.  The Evening Post Record of Real Estate Sales announced "He will erect a twelve-story loft building on the entire plot."

Something derailed Corn's plans and the proposed L-shaped structure never came to pass.  Instead he entered negotiations with restaurant operators Charles J. S. Heyl and Joseph Noethen to erect a five-story loft building that included a two-story restaurant at street level.

On April 4, 1903 The Real Estate Record & Guide reported that Heyl & Noethen had leased "the entire building to be erected at 9 West 19th st."  The lease for "a term of years" totaled $50,000 (or about $1.5 million today).

Henry Corn commissioned architect Robert Maynicke, who was already responsible for several of the developer's projects, to design the structure.   Completed in 1904 the neo-Renaissance structure was faced in gray-buff brick and terra cotta.  Maynicke had reserved the ornamental interest to the restaurant section, framing it in terra cotta garlands that trailed from an elaborate central cartouche.  A projecting shop window was flanked by two entrances--one to the upper floors and the other to the restaurant. Diners on the second floor could gaze out the four handsome sets of French windows.

Decoration of the upper floors was limited mainly to the scrolled terra cotta keystones and the rather ornate cast metal cornice.

Included in the stipulations of Heyl & Noethen were living quarters for at least one of the families.  Soon after moving in the Heyl family would suffer a devastating tragedy.  Dora Heyl joined the cheery group which boarded the steamboat General Slocum on the morning of June 15, 1904 headed to a picnic upriver.  Members of St. Mark's Evangelical Lutheran Church, the German group was composed mostly of women and children (it being a Wednesday and a workday).

Fire erupted on board and, in the worst loss of life in New York until the September 11, 2001 murders, the General Slocum rapidly burned to the waterline, killing an estimated 1,021.  Among the bodies identified was that of 18-year old Dora Heyl.

In 1906 Henry Corn sold the building to Stern Brothers, whose massive department store sat on West 23rd Street.  Heyl and Noethen still held the lease, subletting space on the upper floors to clothing manufacturers like Lion Infants Wear Co., on the fourth floor, and F. Hisch Co., makers of "cloaks and suits." 

In June 1911, with bankruptcy on the horizon, Heyl & Noethen took out a mortgage on their "restaurant, wine and liquor business" from another German restaurateur, the well-known August Luchow.    The influx of cash postponed the failure until April 1912.  Luchow was now legally justified in liquidating their fixtures and stock to repay his mortgage.  Instead, he magnanimously instructed the courts that the Heyl & Noethen remain in "quiet and peaceable possession...and free enjoyment of same."

At the time brothers Charles and John Seigel had lunch here every day.  They were partners in the Star Piece Dyeing and Finishing Corporation at block away at No. 139 West 19th Street.  Expected regulars every lunchtime, the men continued their routine for 20 years.  Then on April 7, 1932 40-year old Charles was found dead in the stairway of the restaurant.  He had swallowed poison.  No one could imagine the motive for his suicide.

The tragedy did not end with Charles's death.  Two years later, on April 8, 1934, The New York Times wrote that "Ever since Charles Siegel...committed suicide two years ago yesterday, his brother, John Siegel, 40 years old, who was secretary of the concern, had missed him."

John was unable to return to the restaurant where he and his brother had shared their daily lunches for two years. Then, as The Times reported, "Yesterday, the second anniversary of his brother's death, and within an hour of the time, John Siegel went to the restaurant and ate a large meal.   Then he walked out toward the street.  Taking a bottle of poison from his pocket, he drank a fatal dose."

By mid-century the garment district had moved north of 34th Street.  The former restaurant was the bookstore, Veterans Historical Book Service, by 1951.  The books dealt with military history, like the Pictorial History of the Korean War which sold for $4 that year.  The proceeds went to the rehabilitation funds for the National Veterans of Foreign Wars.

Upstairs was the Haberstroh Film Studio, Inc., headed by Alex Haberstrom.  He produced education films and was a science fiction special effects expert.   In the 1950s he pioneered low-budget space films and the popular Captain Video television series.  The Times noted in December 1973 that "In 1962, excerpts of his 'First Men Into Space' simulated for many TV viewers, the earth-orbiting space voyage of John Glenn, the astronaut.  Among Mr. Haberstroh's other films were 'Trip to the Planets' and 'Space Probes,' produced in cooperation with Encylopaedia Britannica Films, Inc."

The tradition of a bookstore in the former restaurant space was continued in August 1995 when Revolution Books moved in.  The not-for-profit store specialized in Communist and "leftist literature."  It remained here until about 2011.

Communist books gave way to decidedly capitalist enterprise when the store became home to Rafael Interiors (later Rafael Upholstery), specializing in "antique restoration, leather work, wall upholstery and custom built furniture."

In the meantime, Robert Maynicke's handsome building perseveres relatively intact.   Although the ground floor entrances have been replaced, the projecting 1904 show window (albeit with new plate glass) survives, as do the striking French windows of the restaurant's second floor.

photographs by the author

The Lost Hotel Marguery -- No. 270 Park Avenue

photo by Wurts Bros. from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

In 1913 the architecturally sumptuous Grand Central Terminal replaced the old Grand Central Depot.   Its construction was accompanied by the electrification of railroad tracks running down Park Avenue and their being covered over by a planted boulevard.

Suddenly Park Avenue—a rather marginal thoroughfare hitherto—had the potential of a high-class residential street like nearby Madison and Fifth Avenues.  At the same time luxurious residential hotels and house-like apartments had become fashionable.  It would all come together in a staggeringly ambitious project at 270 Park Avenue.

Real estate titan Dr. Charles V. Paterno (he earned his medical degree in 1899 at Columbia University, but did not practice) formed the Vanderbilt Av. Realty Corp. and commissioned the architectural firm of Warren & Wetmore to design design a massive U-shaped neo-Renaissance building stretching from Madison to Park Avenue, and from 47^th to 48^th Streets.

Paterno envisioned two distinct sections—the mansion-like apartments that took the address 270 Park Avenue, and the apartment hotel that used the name Hotel Marguery.  The residents would share a 70 by 275 foot garden with a private drive.  As the restrained brick and stone structure rose, Manhattan millionaires rushed to take apartments.

The drive into the into the garden afforded privacy to residents entering or leaving their limousines -- photo by Samuel H. Gottscho, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

On December 23, 1916, for instance, the Real Estate Record and Builders’ Guide reported that John T. Terry had signed a lease for a 15-room, 5 bathroom apartment in the “new building under construction.”  The Guide pointed out the building was “now practically 50 percent rented, although it will not be ready for occupancy until next fall.”

The rush for apartments flew in the face of doom-predictors.  The Sun later noted “Many experts were of the opinion that the builder had overestimated his market when he put up this house, but the agents lost no time filling it with tenants.”

Construction was completed, as predicted, in the fall of 1917, at a cost of around $8 million, exclusive of the land.  Twelve stories tall, there were 20 acres of floor space divided into 108 apartments.  Deemed the “largest apartment building in the world,” a December 1917 advertisement counted “1,536 living rooms; 1,476 closets; 100 kitchens; 100 sculleries.” 

The ad noted “In point of magnitude and cost this great structure exceeds anything ever attempted of its kind, and it is likely to stand for many years as the maximum result of the apartment builder’s art.  To achieve successful completion of such a stupendous operation is no small task under ordinary conditions, but to do so under the handicaps and obstacles of a country at war is to mar the builder and his associates as men of supreme ability in their craft.”

At the time of this photo, the train yards were not fully covered.  photo by Wurts Bros. from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Potential residents could choose apartments of six to ten rooms with three or four baths, at an annual rent of $4,000 to $6,500.  Larger apartments, from 12 to 19 rooms with four to six baths, would cost $7000 to $15000.  The highest rent would be equivalent to about $23,000 per month in 2015.  The moneyed residents could enjoy the convenience of the downstairs restaurant, run by the Ritz-Carlton restaurant.

The floor plan of a typical 14-room, 4 bath apartment -- Columbia University NY Real Estate Brochure Collection

The Sun noted “Housekeeping apartments do not as a rule have the conveniences of restaurants, but 270 Park avenue, as this great structure is known, is such a huge building, with so many tenants, that the extra accommodation seemed to the builder almost a necessity.”  The newspaper said “The principal dining room, tastefully decorated and furnished, is large, light and airy, and the café gives the impression of an attractive living room.”

Two views of the restaurant -- Architecture and Building, December 1918 (copyright expired

In June 1919, delegates from the Philadelphia Convention of the National Association of Owners and Building Managers arrived in New York for a weekend.  Among their activities was a visit to 270 Park Avenue to look over “several of the most expensive apartments in the world,” reported the Record and Guide on June 21, 1919.

Apartments, like the one of Mrs. A. W. Popper above, were outfitted like mansions.  photographer unknown, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

No. 270 Park Avenue was home to some of Manhattan’s most recognized names in society.   Harry S. Harkness, son of one of the largest stockholders in Standard Oil Company, was among the earliest renters.   Massively wealthy, he had donated his impressive yacht, the Wakiva II, to the U.S. Navy.  The converted craft was credited with sinking three German submarines before being sunk in a collision with a navy cargo carrier in 1918.  

The New York Times reported that Harkness had presented the apartment “fully furnished” to his wife as a Christmas present in December 1918.   Only a month after moving in, he died in his apartment on the night of January 23, 1919 at the age of 38, a victim of the devastating influenza pandemic.

When Harold S. Vanderbilt was released from the U.S. Navy a month later, he quickly signed a lease “for a term of years” for a “large apartment” as reported by the Record and Guide.

Society columns filled with receptions, dinners and teas hosted in the exclusive address.  Among these in 1919 were the debutante entertainments for Millicent Rogers, the daughter of millionaire Henry Huddleston Rogers, Jr.  They climaxed on the night of November 24 with what The New York Times proclaimed would “probably be the largest ball of the season” at the Ritz-Carlton.   Two thousand invitations were delivered for the event.

The extensive wealth of the building’s residents was exemplified by the theft of a single item of jewelry from Mrs. Clarence Millhiser.  The widow’s 30-pearl necklace was valued at $275,000 in 1920; detectives saying that “each pearl is supposed to be valued at $2,500.”

Ethel Hanan lived in style and luxury at 270 Park Avenue with her wealthy shoe manufacturer husband, Alfred P. Hanan.   When the couple moved in Hanan reportedly spent $25,000 to furnish the apartment, the rent of which was $10,000 per year.  They were catered to by a staff of three servants.  Ethel’s problems began when Albert died on November 26, 1919 and, apparently to the shock of Albert’s family, she almost immediately married a young soldier, recently discharged from the Army.

Albert’s nephew and executor, Herbert H. Hanan, withheld any inheritance from his aunt.  She complained to a judge that to support her new husband and herself, she first was “forced to sell the furniture, furnishings and automobiles of the summer home left to her by her husband at Sea Gate, Coney Island.”

After 16 months with no income, she pleaded with the courts for relief.  Now Mrs. Taylor, she said that she and her husband were living in Cannes, France.   Of her young husband, she said “although he is not now in position to contribute toward her support, his financial prospects are excellent.”  The judge recognized her “great necessity” and ordered Hanan to release $100,000 from the estate to Ethel.

With wealth comes celebrity, and celebrity often breeds scandal.  In 1901 James Alexander Stillman had married Anne Urquhart Potter in a fashionable Grace Church ceremony.   The Evening World called it “a social event” and reported “about 2,000 invitations had been issued, and a fashionable assemblage was present.”

But trouble came to the Stillman household in 1921.  James was by now Chairman of the National City Bank and Anne, according to The Evening World on March 11 that year, “has always been popular in society…With auburn tinted hair, hazel eyes, regular features, rich color, and a statuesque figure, she drew comment wherever she went.”  The newspaper noted “She plays golf, tennis and billiards well.”

So society was no doubt shocked that year when Stillman sued for divorce, suggesting that Anne’s youngest child was the son of “a half-blood Indian guide from Quebec.”  Newspapers covered the lurid trial as Anne refuted the accusations, and charged James of fathering two illegitimate children with a chorus girl, Florence H. Leeds.  Anne Stillman, the newspapers noted “has not been seen at the Park Avenue apartment for some time.”

The ugly court battle dragged on for five years until the judge refused Stillman’s request for divorce, saying he “had misbehaved.”   Anne then sued for divorce; but changed her mind when James presented her with a half-million dollar necklace.   In an unexpected twist, the couple sailed off to Europe to receive marriage counseling from Carl Jung.   It all ended happily (despite the $1 million legal bills incurred by Stillman) as they mended their marriage and continued to live together.

The socially prominent (August Belmont took a “large apartment” here in August 1921) rubbed shoulders with entertainers.  Operatic soprano Alma Clayburgh was here that same year; as was celebrated Irish tenor John McCormack. 

270 Park Avenue in 1922.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

In 1922 theater enthusiasts were given a scare when McCormack was reported “very near death from a throat affliction.”  Three physicians and four nurses stayed in constant attendance in the apartment, treating his “septic sore throat.”  The condition was such that his family was called to his bedside.

On April 16, The New York Times reported that after a third lancing of his throat, McCormack seemed to be doing better.  He was able to take nourishment for the first time in days and the newspaper said the “swelling had almost caused death by choking.”  Happily for fans and for the tenor, a week later it was reported he had taken an “auto tour of Central Park and through Riverside Drive.”

Also living at 270 Park Avenue at the time was James Byrne, President of the Bar Association of New York, and his wife Helen.  When Helen boarded the Channel steamer between France and England that summer, she personally carried her leather jewel case, hidden by a heavy traveling coat.  She was wise to guard her case, for inside was jewelry valued at around $75,000.

Only for a few minutes did she leave the case unguarded in her stateroom.  After arriving at her London hotel, Helen unlocked the case.  To her horror the jewels were gone.  The Evening World reported on August 31, 1922 that “The theory is the crooks obtained the jewels while in the cabin of the boat and Mrs. Byrne carried ashore an empty jewel case.”

Florence Harkness was still living at 270 Park Avenue two years after the death of Harry S. Harkness.  The apartment he had given her as her 1918 Christmas present was the scene of her wedding in May 1922 to Robert W. Schuette.  Florence, who had inherited $8 million, and her new husband boarded the Majestic on May 20 “to spend the Summer abroad.”  The New York Times reported “on their return [they] will occupy the bride’s apartment.”

Renowned scientist Nikola Tesla found himself in financial trouble in 1923.  He lived in Room 1607 in the St. Regis Hotel on Fifth Avenue where he amassed an unpaid balance of $3,000.  The frustrated management finally sued, and he was forced to find new accommodations.  He moved into the Hotel Marguery and would take midnight walks to Bryant Park “to feed the pigeons.”

Although he soon moved on to the Pennsylvania Hotel, he kept his room at the Marguery.  Eyebrows were raised and rumors circulated about the inventor’s pigeon feeding expeditions.  According to his biographer, Marc Seifer in his Wizard: The Life and Times of Nikola Tesla, “Tesla was a homosexual, and it was supposedly there, in the Hotel Marguery, that he liked to meet ‘his special friends.’”

Harold Vanderbilt had started a sort of family tradition in at 270 Park Avenue.  On March 7, 1923 newspapers reported on the marriage of Reginald Vanderbilt to Gloria Morgan in the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Glenn Stewart “where Miss Morgan is staying.”  Outside photographers and reporters waited for hours in the snow for the newlyweds to appear.

Dr. W. Seward Webb and his wife Eliza, the daughter of William H. Vanderbilt, were living here at the time.  On August 12, 1924 their apartment was the scene of the wedding of their daughter, Frederica Vanderbilt Webb to publisher Cyril Hamlen Jones.  Frederica had formerly been the wife of Ralph Pulitzer and Jones had been the Pulitzer boys’ tutor.  

Two years later, on October 19, W. Seward Webb died at the age of 76.  The Webbs were still living at 270 Park Avenue at the time.

Another resident, Rudolph Guglielmi, had a spacious apartment in the building in November 1925 when he applied for United States citizenship.  Better known to American audiences by his screen name, Rudolph Valentino, the movie star had to dodge a battery of questions.  His failure to do military service during the war was brought up—he explained it was due to “a slight defect in the vision of his left eye.” 

The Italian Government had listed him “as a slacker.”  The New York Times reported that “it was discovered to be an error which was later corrected.”  Then there was the question about why Valentine’s wife, Winifred, was living on 96^th Street and not in the Park Avenue apartment.

“Mrs. Valentino said that the only issue between her husband and herself was that he wished her to give up all business and settle down into home life, and this she would not do.”

The 1920's saw the comings and goings of other internationally-known names.  In 1926 Queen Marie of Rumania stayed briefly in the apartment of Ira Norris; and a year later Charles Lindbergh’s family, including his mother, stayed at 270 Park Avenue following his triumphant June 1927 return from Europe.  Acclaimed stage actress Gertrude Lawrence took an apartment in 1929.

Having avoided unwanted publicity throughout the years Florence Harkness Schuette hosted a party on the night of April 11, 1929.  It ended with one guest dead and another in jail charged with murder.

Robert Schuette had been in Paris for five weeks.  Florence planned to sail soon to meet him, and on that Thursday night she threw a small dinner party followed by bridge.   The guests were Mr. and Mrs. Walter Beinecke (he was in the insurance business and a director of Sperry & Hutchinson Company); and three wealthy out-of-towners:  Samuel E. Bell, “well-to-do oil producer;” Mrs. Robert L. Brown of Lexington Kentucky, who was staying at the Hotel Plaza; and Arthur Morgan Smith, described by The New York Times a “wealthy Clevelander” and secretary and treasurer of the Gas Machinery Company there.

Questioned later, the guests noted that Smith had “contented” himself with several drinks and conversing with Mrs. Brown, “to whom, they said, he was particularly attentive,” according to The New York Times on April 15, 1929.

Everyone left Florence’s apartment at 2:20 a.m.  Once on the street, Beinecke offered to give Smith a ride home, “but he refused, saying it was just a short distance to his hotel and he would walk.”  A taxi cab driver witnessed what happened next.  An apparent disagreement over who would escort Mrs. Brown to the Plaza ended in Smith’s tugging “at Bell’s coat collar” then Bell shoving Smith to the pavement as he climbed in a taxi with Mrs. Brown.

Reuben Gilbert pulled his cab over and helped Smith get up.  A few minutes later Smith was arrested by police as he stumbled along Park Avenue, apparently drunk.   Later it became obvious that Smith was not drunk—in fact he had suffered a fractured skull.  He died the following afternoon.

Although Florence Harkness Schuette had nothing to do with the messy affair, she was understandably devastated.  She avoided the press by going into hiding.  Her brother-in-law, William Schuette, Jr. told the reporters he did not know where she was.  “This thing is on my nerves,” he said.  “Mrs. Schuette had nothing to do with all this anyhow, and I don’t want to say anything about it.”

Expensive limousines wait within the courtyard in 1934 - photograph by Samuel H. Gottscho, from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

Equally lurid was the murder on June 4, 1945 of Albert E. Langford, “wealthy textile executive,” at 8:45 on the night of June 4, 1945.  The Langfords lived in what The New York Times described as a “luxuriously furnished six-room suite.”  Marion Mayer Langford had inherited a sizable fortune from her father.  Reportedly, her wealth and social position outranked Albert’s.  While she was dressing in the bedroom, her black Pekingese, Winnie, began acting strangely—sniffing and barking at the seldom-used service door.

When the 63 year old shirt manufacturer opened the door, he was confronted by two strangers.   The men asked to speak with Marion; however when he told her that there were two men at the door whom he did not recognize, she asked him to send them away.

The New York Times reported “Mrs. Langford heard the men talk, but did not see them.  Neither did she nor any other occupant of adjacent apartments hear a shot.”  Nevertheless, a moment later she heard a thump, called out Albert’s name, then found him lying on the carpet with a bullet in his brain.

Suspicion turned to Marion Langford as the intended target of the assassination.  Weeks earlier she had complained to police that “certain people” were trying to extort money from her.  And soon stories began circulating that she haunted illegal gambling dens, frequented nightclubs and held parties for questionable characters.   Some hinted that the 70-year-old gave gifts and money to much younger “protégés” in the theater.

Marion spent much time refuting these stories, saying she was  a “cultured woman, a refined woman.”  And when it was suggested that one of her closest friends was former showgirl and mistress of Stanford White, Evelyn Nesbit, she insisted she barely knew that “dreadful” woman.

In the end, the murder of Albert Langford was never solved.

The year after Langford’s shocking murder, the 2639 Corporation, a syndicate headed by William Zeckendorf, purchased 270 Park Avenue and attempts to ouster of the high-class residents began.    On May 30, 1946, the Office of the Price Administration denied the petitions for Certificates of Eviction, blocking the demolition of the building to clear the site for the proposed Time and Life Office Building.  The wealthy and powerful residents cited Government regulations limiting commercial construction.

But it was a delaying tactic at best.  Zeckendorf submitted the necessary permits and on June 24, 1947 plans were filed by architects Harrison & Abramovitz for the more than $21 million Time Life Building.   The Hotel Marguery, once the largest apartment building in the world, and its astonishingly colorful history, was soon bulldozed and is now largely forgotten.

photo The Squarefoot, https://www.thesquarefoot.com/buildings/ny/new-york/10017/midtown/270-park-avenue

Today the site is occupied by the JP Morgan Chase Tower, constructed in 1960 and designed by Skidmore, Owings & Merrill. 

Nos. 46 and 48 West 86th Street

The Central Building Improvement and Investment Company was a little late to the dance when it got into the speculative building frenzy on the Upper West Side in 1910.  In the past two decades the streets and avenues of the neighborhood had seen a frenzy of construction.  Now the firm commissioned Henri Fouchaux to design four upscale townhouses at Nos. 42 through 48 West 86^th Street.  The architect had already produced individual residents and five groups of rowhouses on the Upper West Side.

Fouchaux produced four identical 25-foot wide mansions which were completed the following year.  Faced in limestone, the haughty neo-Renaissance style homes had touches of Beaux Arts.  Imposing double-doored entrances sat above shallow stoops and nestled within concave-edged arched openings.  The rusticated bases supported three scantily-adorned stories, two bays wide.  Above a bracketed cornice, steep mansard roofs sprouted tall, stone dormers.

A gas streetlamp stands before Nos. 42, 44 and 46 seen here shortly after completion -- from the collection of the New York Public Library

No. 46 was purchased by Emilie Lang (whose name was sometimes reported as Emily Lange).  She leased it to Simon Frankel of Joseph Frankel’s Sons & Co., gem dealers.  A few years earlier, Simon Frankel inadvertently got his name and that of his family firm in the news when he purchased a particular diamond in London.

In 1901 the Frankels had heard of the financial problems of Lord Francis Hope.  He offered for sale the world famous gem known as the Hope Diamond.  Simon traveled to London and purchased the 44-1/4 carat stone for $150,000—about $4.25 million in today’s dollars.  Many thought that Frankel had bought more than a diamond.

Joseph Frankel’s Sons offered the magnificent stone to various millionaires for $250,000.  But the diamond was already tainted with rumors of curses and bad luck; and the Frankels could find no takers.  The Hope Diamond was placed in their vault where it remained for years.  So much capital was tied up in the single stone that the Frankel’s business was in danger of failing by 1907.

The firm finally found a buyer in 1908.  A year later The Sun provided its readers with a follow-up of the curse.  “The diamond was sold to the Russian Prince Kanitovski, who lent it to a beautiful actress of the Folies Bergeres in Paris, and shot her dead from a box the first night she wore it.  Subsequently, it is said, the diamond passed through the hands of a French broker, who went mad, a Russian Prince, who was stabbed by revolutionaries, and a Greek jeweler, who threw himself over a precipice.”

The Frankels lived at No. 46, left.  No. 48 was home to Peter W. Rouse.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

Back on their financial feet, the Simon Frankels could now afford the lease of No. 46.  While here Mrs. Frankel involved herself with the Hospital for Deformities and Joint Diseases, the Jewish Big Sisters and several other charitable causes.  But only a year after moving in, Simon Frankel died on May 17, 1911. 

Simon’s widow lived on in the mansion for decades, giving entertainments mostly for her favorite causes.  However an exclusively social event was the dinner she hosted in January 1916 in honor of Mischa Elman’s 25^th birthday.  The world-famous Russian prodigy had already played Carnegie Hall eight years earlier.

As the war in Europe made helpless victims of civilians, Mrs. Frankel joined other socialites and celebrities, like soprano Geraldine Farrar, in war relief projects.  In November 1918 she exhibited in the house “infant dresses, petticoats, caps and other garments made from worn out stockings and mill ends.”.   On November 18, 1918 the New-York Tribune said “Miss Farrar, who will attend the exposition, feels confident now that the supply of goods will be maintained and is anxious to enlist school children in making tiny garments, many hundreds of which have been already sent to France and Belgium.”

A few months earlier Emile Lang had sold No. 46 to Jacob Mattern who continued to lease it to Mrs. Frankel.  In the meantime Peter W. Rouse lived in the house next door at No. 48.   Peter’s father, millionaire owner of the Charles Broadway Rouse department store, had caused a stir around the turn of the century when optic nerve atrophy resulted in blindness.  He announced he would give $1 million to anyone who could restore his sight. 

In November 1900 the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal noted he “has not withdrawn that offer and resigned himself to the inevitable.  Ever since the announcement was made he has been besieged by all sorts of quacks and ‘healers,’ and during the greater portion of the time he has paid a substitute who was affected in the same manner a regular salary for submitting to experiments and various forms of treatment.”

Peter Rouse and Mrs. Simon Frankel would be next door neighbors for decades.   The Frankel mansion continued to be opened for benefit causes—like the “musicale, conference and tea” given here in March 1919 for the Jewish Big Sisters.    Later that year Mrs. Frankel established a cooperative home club.  It was intended “for working mothers, where they may board with their children,” explained the New-York Tribune on November 15.  “While the mothers are employed the children will be cared for by a matron and kindergarten.”

She was also highly involved in the University Settlement on Eldridge Street “where splendid work is being carried on,” according to The Sun on May 18, 1919

Mrs. Simon Frankel’s generous providing of her home for charitable functions was never more evident than in November 1921 when a week-long sale of dolls was held here.  The American Hebrew & Jewish Messenger announced “In anticipation of the coming Winter season a sale of dolls, big, little, funny, beautiful, hideous, and adorable, but all cheap, is to be held from November 13 to 20, inclusive, from 2 to 6 o’clock at the residence of Mrs. Simon Frankel, 46 West Eighty-sixth street.” 

The proceeds of the sale went to the A. Jacob Hospital Social Service, Inc.  The magazine made special note of dolls donated by celebrities.  “Geraldine Farrar, Mary Garden, Anna Pavlowa and Frieda Hempel are among those who have donated dressed dolls, accompanied by autographed photographs, to be sold at the sale.”

Eventually change would come to West 86^th Street.  In 1933, two years after Mrs. Frankel hosted a public concert of The Dorian String Quartet, a group of female musicians, in the mansion; Peter W. Rouses’s house next door was purchased by the exclusive Bentley School.   An adjunct to the East Side school at No. 112 East 71^st Street; young scholars from grades 6 through 12 were instructed here.

The Frankel mansion would hold out for another 14 years.  In 1947 No. 46 was converted to apartments—only one or two spacious apartments per floor.  Then in 1979 the Bentley School left No. 48 and it, too, was converted to apartments, one per floor.

A kitchenette in the former Frankel mansion (photo http://www.corcoran.com/nyc/Listings/Display/1551351) and, below, a room in its next door neighbor, No. 48 (http://www.elliman.com/new-york-city/48-west-86-street-3-manhattan-ujrreun)

The interiors of the Rouse mansion seem to have survived the conversion process less scathed than those in No. 46.  Handsome oaken paneling and built-ins were preserved.  Photographs of the Frankel house interiors reveal modernized spaces with no detailing.   And yet the exteriors of  both homes remain remarkably intact; remnants of a time when wealthy New Yorkers migrated to the west side of Central Park.

photographs by the author

An 1890s Souvenir -- No. 101 East 75th Street

Although in 1891 Cornelius Vanderbilt’s train tracks to Grand Central Depot had been submerged below Park Avenue for more than a decade, it would be another ten years before millionaires began constructing mansions on the avenue.  But the neighborhood was becoming more respectable.  Where small butcher and grocery shops and modest homes had stood, rows of Queen Anne rowhouses cropped up, along with French flats—the term used to distinguish upright apartment buildings from tenement houses.

Getting in on the trend was developer Lorenz Weiher.  A year earlier he had purchased the entire block of properties fronting Park Avenue on the east side, as well as the house at No. 101 East 75^th Street.  It was here in No. 101 in 1866 that 12-year old Richard Humphrey lived.  That year he blew his middle finger off “by the premature discharge of a pistol which he was loading” in preparation for the Independence Day celebration.

Weiher had the existing structures razed and in their place erected a row of seven brick, stone and terra cotta flats which he gave the impressive name, The Terrace.  The structures featured the latest in 1890s taste.  Generally neo-Renaissance, they included nubby terra cotta tiles borrowed from the Queen Anne style and incised lines within the two-story brick piers of the fourth and fifth floors, made popular by the Eastlake Movement.

Placing the entrance of the corner buildings on Park Avenue would have caused a logistical problem.  The architect would have to bisect the front apartments for the stair and hall; and residents might be faced with a long walk inside.   With the entrances placed on the side streets, the two apartments on each floor were separated by the stair hall—providing commodious flats six bays wide on the east and west sides of the hall.  The arrangement also provided store space on Park Avenue for the two buildings.

Weiher’s $170,000 project was completed in 1891 and No. 101 East 75^th Street, the southern anchor building, filled with a variety of tenants.  They were seemingly comfortable businessmen, like Nathaniel White who ran a watch business on Maiden Lane, and Louis N. Lake, a grain broker.

Hendrik-Dirk Kruseman Van Elten was also among the first residents.  Born and trained in Holland, he was an established landscape artist before first exhibited at the National Academy of Design in 1866.  By the time Van Elten moved into No. 101, his European style had become heavily influenced by the Hudson River School.

The comfortable financial conditions of the residents was reflected in Sophia Stitzer’s brush with a burglar on September 9, 1896.  When the widow returned home that afternoon, she realized that her door had been forced open.  As she entered, a man rushed past her and down the stairs.

Sophia Stitzer was right behind.  She caught the attention of a policeman and 40-year old Frank Coleman was promptly arrested.  The burglar was searched and The New York Times reported that “$700 worth of watches, jewelry, and diamonds was found on him.”  Although not all of the loot was Sophia’s (he had robbed the flat of Milton Pemberton at No. 101 East 78^th Street the same day), the haul would amount to over $18,000 today.

The retail space at No. 101 was home to Heinrich F. Holtorf’s grocery store.  The German-born immigrant lived upstairs with his wife, Christina, and their three children.  Like almost every other resident, they had servants—Gertrude Hecker was their cook and teenaged Freda Hense helped with the children.

By 1902 J. B. Henck, Jr. lived here.  He was a member of the Appalachian Mountain Club and apparently he found the racket of city life a distressing contrast to the calm of forest hiking.  On January 15, 1906 the New-York Tribune published his letter to the editor regarding the annoying whistles of Hudson River boat traffic.

“Whatever tends to reduce the wear and tear of nerves in a great city is worth serious attention, and that is my excuse for asking space to suggest what I believe would be a practicable substitute for the constant tooting of whistles on our rivers and harbors,” he began.

Henck suggested connecting the ship’s whistle cord to a pulley fastened to a shuttered lantern.  “Then whenever the whistle was blown the light would be uncovered, and there would be a flash for every toot.”  Henck suggested that after awhile, river captains would become accustomed to the lights and the annoying whistles would no longer be necessary.

Heinrich Holtorf was doing well for himself in his corner grocery store and when the building was put on the market in March 1909 he purchased it for $75,000 (about $1.85 million today).  Before the year ended, the rest of The Terrace buildings were purchased by a syndicate which demolished the row—leaving No. 101 the sole survivor.

A 1922 renovation resulted in the Victorian portico being replaced with a more modern entrance.

By the time of World War I Park Avenue was seeing the rise of brick and limestone mansions.  The street’s heightened upscale reputation was reflected in the tenant list of No. 101 East 75^th Street.  In December 1917 Louise Gardner married Frederick Rodgers, an exporter and the son of the late Rear Admiral Frederick Rodgers, in the fashionable Trinity Chapel.

The Gardner name was well-known in polite society.  Louise was the only child of John C. F. Gardner and the former Jane S. Hatch.  She had grown up in the family mansion at No. 25 West 55^th Street and summered in their Nantucket home.

The Sun noted on January 6, 1918 “On their return from their wedding trip Mr. and Mrs. Rodgers will live at 101 East Seventy-fifth street.”   Two days later The New York Times alerted society that the newlyweds were back home.

The war in Europe affected the couple the following year when Frederick served on the jury in the U.S. Government’s treason case against Albert Paul Fricke.  Fricke was charged with harboring a German spy, Hermann Wessells, and of arranging meetings with other persons in sympathy with Wessells’ mission.

While Frederick Rodgers was sitting on the jury for several weeks, other tenants in the building included author Geraldine Bonner.  Her popular novels included Tomorrow’s Tangle; The Black Eagle Mystery; Treasure and Trouble Therewith; and Rich Men’s Children.  Another creative resident was Marjory Peck.  In August 1919 she entered The Rieser Company’s contest on “Why I Prefer Venida Hair Nets.”  Of the more than 5,000 entries, Marjorie won the $35 third prize.

Also living here were Mrs. Lewis Broomall and her daughter Virginia.  Virginia left her mother in June 1921 following her wedding to George Winship Taylor in the Church of the Resurrection. 

Attorney Leland Blodget Duer and his wife, the former Dorothy Dean Tate, lived here at the time.  Duer’s diverse interests had led him to spend the summer of 1909 in Canada photographing moose, bear and other wild game; and later that year serving as secretary to Justice Holmes of the Supreme Court of the United States.  Now he was a member of the legal firm Simpson, Thacher & Barlett at No. 62 Cedar Street.

The Worthington family was also in the building.  Thomas Kimber Worthington had married Mary Grace Thomas in 1887 and they had two sons (their daughter died in 1912).  Mary was a graduate of Johns Hopkins University and was a Supervisor of Field Work at the New York School of Philanthropy.

Son Harold was still living with his parents in 1922.  A graduate of Yale, he had served in the U.S. Army during the war as a first lieutenant in Field Artillery.  Now he was in the import-export business and was affiliated with the Pennsylvania Railroad and General Electric Company.

That year Holtorf hoped to bring the 30-year old structure more into the jazz age.  He hired architects Schwartz & Gross to renovate the interiors and remove the Victorian portico on East 75^th Street.  He stopped short of reducing the size of the apartments, however; and maintained the original two flats on each floor. 

No. 101 East 75^th Street would continue to attract an interesting list of residents.  Glenn Hall lived here; a well-known tenor at the turn of the century and a singer with the Metropolitan Opera Company from 1909 to 1911.  And when French sculptress Jacqueline Zay visited Manhattan in 1939, she was the guest of honor at a cocktail party in the apartment of Henry d’Omano, Director of the French Government Tourist Bureau.

At some point in the 20^th century No. 101 was painted white; obliterating the contrast between brick, stone and terra cotta.  Heinrich (now referred to as Henry) Holtorf died in the building in 1937 and his family retained possession until 1951 when it was sold to Anna Efron.

A Russian immigrant, she would own the property for over three decades.  During this time the corner grocery store became a flower shop.  Efron sold the building in 1983 to Gran Sabana Corporation who, in the late 1990s stripped the paint off the old red brick.  The Landmarks Preservation Commission stepped in (the building is situated within the Upper East Side Historic District) when the firm decided to paint it yellow.

Although the retail store is distressing, the building escaped being painted yellow.

Today Henry Holtorf’s grocery is home to a gallery behind a pseudo-modern façade.  The rest of the building is a bit careworn; and the Victorian ornamentation above the cornice long ago disappeared.  And yet No. 101 East 75^th Street still retains its dignity, an 1890s artifact within a sea of 20^th century apartment buildings.

photographs taken by the author