A Palace for Horses -- The Gould Carriage House 213 West 58th Street

Photo Unity Center New York

When Jay Gould died in 1892 he left his four children between $65 and $70 million.

The Gould heirs reacted to the sudden flood of cash differently. Anna spent lavishly and married, successively Count Boniface de Castellane and the Duc de Talleyrand. Frank Jay loved gambling and was twice divorced. George Jay had three children with Guinevere Sinclair before marrying her.

Helen Miller Gould, however, was different.

Trained in finance by her father, she attended the New York University School of Law. While her siblings frolicked the summers away in Newport, she was content to spend quiet time at Lyndhurst, Jay Gould’s magnificent Gothic Revival estate in Tarrytown-on-Hudson. Embarrassed by her father’s cut-throat reputation, Helen spent the rest of her life supporting various charities.

Helen remained in the Gould mansion on 5th Avenue at 47th Street while her siblings moved on. As time passed, though, there was the problem of adequate accommodations for her horses and carriages.

On November 13, 1901 Helen M. Gould purchased for $107,500 the four-story brownstone residence of Lambert Suydam at 212 West 59th Street. The property extended south to 58th Street where the Suydam’s private stable was located, in line with the stables of other neighboring millionaires. Curious about the sale, The New York Times sent a reporter to the Fifth Avenue house for more information.

The Gould mansion -- 5th Avenue at 47th Street

“When inquiry was made at Miss Gould’s residence last evening she sent word that she did not care to say anything in regard to the purchase,” reported the Times.

It would not be long before Helen Gould’s intentions were obvious. The Suydam stable was demolished to make way for her own private carriage house; one fit for royalty.

Designed by York & Sawyer the grand brick and limestone stable was based on King Henry IV’s 17th Century Place des Vosges in Paris. Completed in 1903, the four levels of the French Renaissance structure housed the Gould horses and carriages, hay and feed, as well as apartments for the coachman and groom.

The great, soaring chimneys on either end, the attenuated, hipped slate roof and the ornate iron-railed balcony on over the arched entranceway joined to create a palatial structure for draft animals. Sawyer added a near-whimsical touch in the huge, carved limestone tethering rings on either side of the entrance.

Helen Gould finally married in 1913 at the age of 45. Time Magazine said of her “she was plain, plump, not much concerned with ‘Society’ – she dedicated herself to good works while her brothers and sister went out in the world.” She died in 1938, The New York Times calling her “the best loved woman in the country.”

Helen Miller Gould

The Gould carriage house is now the headquarters of The Unity Center New York, which describes itself as a “worldwide Spiritual Movement dedicated to helping people discover and express their divine potential.”

The regal Parisian-style stable was designated a New York City landmark on August 29, 1989.

Where Hats were Made -- Brunner & Tryon's 1892 No. 661 Broadway

photo by Beyond My Ken

When Moses Sachlein acquired 661 Broadway around 1890, a five-story masonry building had stood on the site for half a century. Here for decades George P. Putnam ran his publishing business until his death in 1872.

Sachlein razed the old structure in 1891 and in its place he commissioned architects Brunner & Tryon to design an 8-story store and loft building. Arnold Brunner and Thomas Tyron had only recently established the firm and had completed the headquarters of Downtown Hebrew Institute just two years earlier.

The building was completed in 1892, a handsome French Renaissance Revival structure with angles, textures and a mixture of materials similar to the highly-popular Queen Anne and Eastlake styles of the day. The architects placed the building on a solid two-story base of cast iron and rusticated granite piers. The third through sixth floors were of buff-colored brick with cast iron window frames and terra cotta detailing. The top two floors burst forth with terra cotta embellishment of palm fronds, swags, wreaths, Corinthian capitals and an elaborate pediment over the eighth floor dormer.

Terra cotta, cast iron and brick combine below a slate-covered roof -- photo by Alice Lum

The property stretched back through the entire block where the less elaborate façade had the address of No. 228 Mercer Street.

The building filled with a variety of tenants, one of the earliest being George W. Nathan. In February 1894 Mr. Nathan took Thomas Hays to court, charging him with stealing a diamond pin at his offices here, valued at $30.  The case took an embarrassing turn when on February 11 The World reported that Hays was let go “because Nathan was not sure but he might have lost the pin. He got it back again.”

At the turn of the century the majority of tenants were millinery and haberdashery manufacturers. In 1906 Alland Brothers & Co. operated here, importers and wholesalers of ladies’ and misses’ “headwear in every branch of the trade.” The Washington Post said of them, “This firm is famed all over the country for the beauty and exclusiveness of its trimmed hats. Their creations are accepted as the standard of correctness. French conceptions fresh from the Paris style-creators, and their own adaptations of foreign and American ideas are represented”

In 1910 the ground floor store was the home of M. Kalischer, Flowers and Feathers while upstairs were the Florence Hat Company, Samuel D. Lasdon, manufacturers of ladies hats and novelties, Samuel Blum and the Gingold Brothers, clothiers, among others.

It was a time when no woman or man would be seen in public without a hat. Men wore different hats for business, boating, picnics, leisure and evening wear.  And for every hat a gentleman owned a lady would have two. Through World War I the building was home to The Western Hat Company, The Practical Clothing Company and Linder & Berger, wholesale dealers in women’s and misses’ hats.

Here, in 1925, the Needlebook Specialty Company had its headquarters  In its nationwide ads it promised “$20 profit daily selling needlebooks.” The ambitious entrepreneur would buy the books for three to five cents each and sell them for a quarter, emphasizing to the customer that their value was fifty cents.

The building, as well as the adjoining 663-665 Broadway, was purchased in April 1941 by the Adam Hat Stores – a chain of stores that had formed an affiliate called Adam 665 Broadway Corporation.  The combined buildings, acquired from the Emigrant Industrial Savings Bank, formed a Broadway frontage of 120 feet. Rental income from the combined structures was estimated at $50,000 per year.

In 1954 Adam Hats sold the buildings to realty operator Jack Braus but remained on, immediately signing a ten-year lease for the 50,000 square feet they occupied.  Brause announced his intentions to modernize the old buildings.

No. 661 Broadway continued to be popular with garment firms and a year later Irving Raincoat Company was doing business from here.

Styles change and, for better or worse, by the 1960s hats for men were out of fashion. In 1962 A. Rosen & Sons who had manufactured men’s hats and hatters supplies from the building declared bankruptcy. The golden years of haberdashers was over.

photo by Alice Lum

Brunner & Tryon’s handsome design has sustained some modernization, especially at street level; but overall the façade is relatively untouched. It is a delightful stand-out among the many and varied architectural treasures along this stretch of Broadway.

The Lost Jennings-McCullough Mansions -- 86-88 Park Ave

photograph Palatial Homes in the City of New York and the Dwellers Therein, 1910 (copyright expired)

Laura Hall Park and her sister, Eliza Hall Park, enjoyed a privileged upbringing in Bennington, Vermont.  Their grandfather, Hiland Hall, had been state governor and their father, Trenor W. Park, had made a fortune in railroads and banking.  The girls’ close relationship would eventually be manifested in the form of a magnificent mansion miles away in New York City.

In 1871 Eliza married John Griffith McCullough.  Born near Newark, Delaware, he had been orphaned at the age of eight; but managed to obtain a “common school” education, graduated from Delaware College at the head of his class and studied law in Philadelphia.  By the time McCullough met Eliza, he had served as California’s Attorney General and State Senator.  Like Trenor Park, he gave up law to go into the banking and railroad businesses.

John Beach McCullough -- The Interstate Journal & Adviser, May 1900 (copyright expired)

Nine years later, on July 27, 1880, Vermont-born Frederic Beach Jennings was back home to marry Laura.  The wedding took place in the Park mansion.  The New York Times mentioned that the impressive guest list included the U. S. Secretary of State, William M. Evarts, and “a number of New-York families who are Summering among the Green Mountains.”  Following the ceremony, a special train was waiting to take the newlyweds on their honeymoon in Canada.

By now McCullough was spending more and more time in New York City, where Jennings’s law practice was based.  Neither Laura nor Eliza would have have to give up Vermont totally.  They both maintained magnificent summer estates there.  But throughout the fall and winter seasons, the sisters would take on the roles of Manhattan socialites. 

In 1890 the McCulloughs and the Jennings spawned a plan to make their wives' daily interactions simpler.  A few years earlier William Vanderbilt had constructed three mansions—one for himself and his wife Louisa, and one each for his daughters Margaret and Emily—which successfully pretended to be one massive home.  John Jacob Astor would do the same, erecting a huge chateau on upper Fifth Avenue which was in realty two mansions—one for himself and one for his mother, Caroline Schermerhorn Astor.  But before Astor’s plans would take shape, ground would be broken for the Jennings-McCullough residences.

Land was purchased on the northwest corner of Park Avenue and 39^th Street.  Architect J. Lawrence Aspinwall was commissioned to design an imposing double residence for the two families; one that would suggest a single palatial dwelling.  He designed an immense chateau in a toned-down version of the French Renaissance style.  The angles, oriels and bays required that Jennings submit a request to the Department of Parks in 1891 “to erect projections on his proposed house at the north-west corner of Park avenue and Thirty-ninth street.  Apparently the request was approved, for the 39^th Street entrance crept beyond the property line.

The Engineering Record published a sketch of the mansions in November 1893 (copyright expired)

Laura and Frederic would take the southern half, at No. 86 Park Avenue (although the entrance was clearly on 39^th Street) and the McCulloughs would move in to No. 88, with its sweeping entrance staircase.  What the Jennings lost in a Park Avenue entrance, they gained in additional light into the rooms.

The mansions were completed just in time for Elizabeth McCullough’s coming-out and the paint was barely dry before the sisters began entertaining.  On January 4, 1893 Eliza hosted a tea for Elizabeth from 4:00 to 7:00 in No. 88; and on January 20, 1893 Laura gave a debutante dinner for her in No. 86.  Socially important young men and women with names like Rockefeller, Lambert, and Brewster chatted in the dining room that evening.

On April 26 that year Laura gave what The New York Timescalled “a large dinner party.”  The word “large” by society columnists in describing dinners in 1893 was not tossed about lightly.  The newspaper added “The table was handsomely decorated by Thorley with Elric [sic] Brunner roses.”

The immense size of the mansions was evidenced on March 30, 1895 when Eliza McCullough hosted a charity “international tea” to benefit the Daisy Fields Hospital and Home for Crippled Children in Englewood, New Jersey.  Booths were set up representing America, France, Africa, Holland, Spain, Ireland and Germany, from which “pretty girls in costumes sold articles peculiar to each country,” reported The Timesthe following day.

“In the café chantant there was a continuous performance during the afternoon and evening.  In the booth were waitresses dressed as French shepherdesses, ready to serve the hungry and little cripples from the Daisy Fields Home sold flowers.”

Eliza seems to have been more interested in entertaining than her sister; repeatedly appearing in society columns as the hostess of receptions, dinners and teas.  On February 21, 1897 The Times noted “Besides her tea on Thursday, Mrs. J. G. McCullough of 88 Park Avenue gave dinners on Wednesday and Friday of last week to parties of twenty each.  Her last reception will be held on next Thursday.”

Perhaps the reason that Eliza’s “last reception” was so early in the season that year was because of John’s increasing political aspirations.  Within the year he would be elected to the Vermont State Senate and by 1900 was eying the Governor’s mansion.  But despite John’s increasing focus on Vermont, on March 29, 1901, when Hall Park McCullough’s engagement was announced, the Yale graduate’s address was still listed as No. 88 Park Avenue.  The young man whose father had started out as a penniless orphan was a member of the University, Union League and Metropolitan Clubs.

It was not just Laura and Eliza who had a close relationship.  Frederic and John worked closely together as well.  Such was the case in 1901 when they returned to the firm of Renwick, Aspinwall & Owan to design their 12-story hotel at Nos. 12-14 West 44^th Street.  (Frederic Jennings would commission the firm once again in 1904; this time to design a new country house in North Bennington, Vermont.)

By now John McCullough had served his two years as Governor of Vermont and returned to New York.  He held the positions of either president or director in the First National Bank of North Bennington, the Bank of New York, the Fidelity & Casualty Co., no fewer than three railroads and the Lackawanna Steel Company.

In 1906 it was the Jennings’s daughter, also named Elizabeth, who was feted with debutante entertainments; followed by her cousin, Esther Morgan McCullough, two years later.

The Interstate Journal & Adviser, May 1900 (copyright expired)

A near-tragedy came in 1913 when Frederic B. Jennings, Jr. was traveling on the Boston Express near Stamford, Connecticut.  At 5:03 on the afternoon of June 12 the train smashed into another that was stopped waiting to be coupled to an electric locomotive.  Five passengers were killed instantly and dozens were severely injured.  Among them was young Frederic.  A Stanford reporter listed his injuries as “probably fatal.”  Much to the relief of both families, Frederic survived.

On May 29, 1915 John G. McCullough died.  His children received generous if unequal inheritances; $100,000 went to Ella, Esther inherited $150,000, Hall Park McCullough received the North Bennington home and $75,000, and his sister, Mrs. Thornton F. Turner, received “a similar amount.”  Eliza received the bulk of the immense estate, including the Park Avenue mansion.

Eliza stayed in the house next door to her sister.  By now the Jennings boys were growing up and entering the world.  Frederic Jr. had graduated from Yale in 1914 and on August 16, 1919 his engagement to Elizabeth Holt was announced.

A few months later Frederic’s father fell ill.  After just a brief illness Frederic Beach Jennings died in the Park Avenue mansion on May 26, 1920.  Similarly to his brother-in-law, in addition to his legal practice he had been director of many corporations, and was vice-president of the First National Bank of North Bennington and a trustee of Williams and Barnard colleges, the Provident Loan Society and the New York Trust Company.

Somewhat surprisingly, just four months after her husband’s death and during what should have been her deepest period of mourning; Laura announced the engagement of son Edward to Margaret Huntington Trumbull. 

With their children gone, the widowed sisters decided to abandon their hulking mansions.  On April 2, 1921 The New York Times reported that the Princeton Club was in negotiations with the two women for the structures.  Within two weeks a deal had been struck.

On April 23 it was announced that the club had purchased both mansions, as well as the brownstone house directly behind on39th Street, also owned by the sisters.  “It was proposed that the two houses on the corner be utilized as the main clubhouse, with as few alterations as possible, and the brownstone dwelling in the rear be torn down and a fireproof building erected, connecting with the main clubhouse” reported The Times.

It was projected that the new annex would contain “billiard rooms, dressing rooms, shower baths, four squash courts, a gymnasium and four or five floors of additional bedrooms, so that the club would have available about seventy bedrooms.”

By August renovations were well under way and the club had purchased, in addition, the Cleveland H. Dodge house next door at No. 90 Park Avenue.  Architect Aymar Embury II was commissioned to remodel Nos. 86 and 88.  “There will be little change in the exterior, for the houses are well built, of attractive architecture and command attention among the best homes in that section,” reported The Times on August 21.

Plans were announced for the 10-story annex at No. 39 East 39^th Street in May 1922, which would cost the club $150,000.  The alterations to the Jennings and McCullough mansions were expected to cost $40,000—in the neighborhood of $525,000 today.  Once completed, the two houses would be joined internally and include a café and library in the basement; dining room, card room and another library on the first floor; and bedrooms on the upper floors.

Only three years later, on May 26, 1925, The New York Timesnoted the drastic changes taking place in the once residential neighborhood.  “Park Avenue north of Fortieth Street is occupied almost entirely by office and loft buildings and other commercial structures, many of which exceed fifteen stories in height.”  But despite the demolition of the elegant mansions that lined Park Avenue throughout the ensuing decades, the Princeton Club hung on for nearly 40 more years.

The end of J. Lawrence Aspinwall’s magnificent double mansion finally came in 1963 when it was demolished to make way for the 41-story building known as 90 Park Avenue.

photograph by the author

The Jeremiah Milbanks Mansion -- Nos. 14-16 East 67th Street

Two houses were remodeled and melded together as one -- photo by Alice Lum

In 1879 real estate speculator Anthony Mowbray commissioned architects Hugh Lamb and Lorenzo B. Wheeler to design six houses on East 67th Street, just steps from Central Park. The Park had been officially opened just six years earlier and although this area was still sparsely developed it held tremendous potential as an upper class neighborhood.

Mowbray’s row of four-story brownstone houses stretched from No. 12 to No. 22 and for two decades they sat quietly in the comfortable setting. By the turn of the century, however, Manhattan’s wealthy were moving steadily northward on Fifth Avenue along the Park, building on the undeveloped plots or razing existing structures for their marble and limestone palaces.

Change would come to the block before long.

Justice H. W. Bookstaver was living in No. 14 until December of 1900 when he sold it to Edward C. Hoyt. Within two years William Post and his wife would take up residence in the house.

Next door to the Posts at No. 16 were Charles Henry Adams, his wife and their three daughters. Adams sold the property in 1905 to C. W. Luyster, Jr., a real estate developer who recognized the financial potential of old brownstone houses in a neighborhood filling with Astors, Havemeyers and Beekmans.

Luyster demolished the old residence and commissioned architect John H. Duncan to design a new, stately house on the site. The result was a five-story stone-clad residence with an American basement; much more up-to-date than the old-fashioned brownstone stoop.

The developer sold the newly completed house in 1906 to Benjamin F. Yoakum who moved in with his wife and daughter, Bessie.

The Director of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, Jeremiah Milbank, purchased both houses in 1919. He hired architects Dodge & Morrison to combine the two, melding them into a single grand mansion. Milbank spent $38,000 on the renovations which resulted in a limestone clad, 48-foot wide mansion that still looked suspiciously like two houses.

Despite valiant attempts by the architects, the newly-formed single residence still looked like two houses -- photo by Alice Lum

Dodge & Morrison designed the house in the au currant French 18th Century style. The rusticated façade of No. 14 rose four floors to a mansard roof over a deeply-overhanging cornice, while that of No. 16 was two stories shorter. Despite the somewhat disparate renovation of the combined structures, the mansion would be a center of lavish entertainment.

Graceful limestone carvings swathe the entrance -- photo by Alice Lum

Milbank was as religious and conservative as he was wealthy. In January 1925 he was approached by motion picture director Cecil B. DeMille. DeMille was on the verge of leaving Famous Players-Lasky and striking out on his own. But he needed money to do so.

Jeremiah Milbank had other things to do with his money than invest in moving pictures. DeMille’s biographer Scott Eyman noted that “Milbank was evincing only polite interest in investing in a proposed company until DeMille mentioned that his great dream was to make a movie about the life of Christ.”

The director would later recall “The only thing that moved Jeremiah Milbank to put his resources behind me was that first mention of The King of Kings.”

When DeMille walked away from the meeting an important chapter in motion picture history had begun.

The Milbank house glittered as New York’s elite passed through its doors. In December 1932 the couple gave “an old-fashioned reception,” as The Times referred to it, to introduce their daughter Margaret to society. When their niece Ella D. Milbank became engaged in January 1938 they hosted an elegant dinner and theater party here. And three decades after moving in Mrs. Milbank was still giving teas and socials to benefit charities.

The 1919 renovation include delicate details like the lions' heads above the carved scrolled brackets -- photo by Alice Lum

No subsequent owner of the mansion could be so different from the politically conservative and deeply religious Jeremiah Milbank than Bob Guccione, the notorious publisher of Penthouse Magazine. Using the fortune he made in the soft-porn industry, the publisher purchased the property around 1977.

While Guccione left the historic exterior intact, he personalized the living space in Penthouse style with, for instance, a Roman-inspired indoor pool with marble columns (with his face etched into them) and “classic” statuary. Although he managed to live relatively quietly here; one “Pet of the Year” sued him for keeping her as a sex slave in the house.

Guccione "updated" the interiors with a Mediterranean touch --  photo The New York Observer

It was the sort of thing that had never happened while the Milbanks lived here.

Penthouse Magazine along with the rest of Guccione’s empire came crashing down as the internet took over the off-color industry. In 2006 the Milbank mansion was put on the market for $59 million and purchased by investment banker J. Christopher Flowers.

A Mediterranean courtyard was created on the set-back -- photo Curbed New York

But Flowers would not be here long. On February 14, 2008 The New York Post reported that hedge-fund manager Philip Falcone and his wife Lisa had bought the 27-room mansion. The couple, who paid $49 million for the house, set about undoing Guccione’s “Caligula” touches.

While Lisa Falcone insisted to BusinessWeek Magazine that they intended to “restore it to its pre-Guccione elegant,” the renovations included a movie theater, sauna, gym, plunge pool and walk-in closet with a bar.

In 2011 renovations continue, with fiberglass and cast-stone elements replacing lost stonework -- photo by Alice Lum

In 2011 the mansion, which The New York Observer once termed the “brashest mansion in Manhattan,” is still undergoing construction. The dignified, if somewhat unusual, façade remains as Jeremiah Milbank’s 1919 renovations intended. The happenings inside during the past 90 years, however, have given the Milbank mansion one of the most extraordinary histories in the city.

The Kleeberg Mansion -- No. 3 Riverside Drive

In 1919, two decades after the fact, The Northeastern Reporter explained the rise of a string of lavish mansions at the foot of Riverside Drive, all designed separately by a single architect.

“In 1896 one John S. Sutphen was the owner of the entire block between Seventy-Second and Seventy-Third streets fronting on Riverside Drive.  He formed a general plan to improve and develop the land, and filed in the office of the register a map dividing it into lots.”  The first sale, according to the Reporter was in June, 1896, including a plot “to one Kleeberg.”

Philip Kleeberg’s deed included restrictions similar to the others.  Kleeberg, “his heirs and assigns, shall, within two years from the date hereof, cause to be erected and fully completed upon said lot, a first-class building, adapted for and which shall be used only as a private residence for one family, and which shall conform to the plans made of being made by C. P. H. Gilbert, architect.”

At the time developers intended that Riverside Drive would rival or surpass Fifth Avenue with palatial dwellings.  Its superb views from above the Hudson River and the manicured Riverside Park were its answer to Fifth Avenue’s Central Park.  Sutphen may have been friendly with the mansion architect Gilbert; or perhaps he chose him to do the work simply because he knew and trusted his well-earned reputation.

Philip Kleeberg and his wife, Maria, wasted little time in setting the gears in motion.  Within four months, on October 3, 1896, The American Architect and Building News announced Kleeberg’s plans to build a “four-story brick dwelling to cost $55,000, on Riverside Drive, near 73d St.”  Including the price of the land, $145,000 according to The New York Times, the outlay would be more in the neighborhood of $5 million today.

The Kleebergs were relatively young and the aggressive businessman’s fortune came from a variety of enterprises.  Originally involved in the wholesale lace business, he was by now also President of the Frog Mountain Ore Company, Vice-President of the Colonial Oil Company, and held directorships in the New York Petroleum Company, the William Radam Microbe Killer Company, the Alabama and Georgia Iron Company, and the Empire Steel and Iron Company.  Years later he would invent a calculator and in 1916 become President of the National Calculator Company.

Construction of No. 3 Riverside Drive took two years and as it neared completion, The Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide gave a hint at the high-end details when it reported that the Hernsheim Architectural Iron Works was at work on a “bronze vestibule gate for the handsome dwelling No. 3 Riverside Drive, Chas. P. H. Gilbert, architect.”  Construction was completed in 1898 and the Kleebergs, who had lived at No. 56 East 73^rd Street, now defected in a nearly straight line across the park. 

Charles Pierrepont Henry Gilbert had produced a sumptuous confection in a frothy style so nebulous as to put architectural historians at odds.  The AIA Guide to New York City calls it “freely interpreted Dutch Renaissance;” while the Landmarks Preservation Commission argues it is “French Renaissance Revival.”  Late 19^thcentury American architects were not wont to concern themselves with historical purity; and elements of both styles can be detected in Gilbert’s design.

American Architect and Architecture (copyright expired)

The architect set the entrance to the side, allowing for a spacious parlor looking onto the park.  The mansion’s bow-fronted façade stopped at three floors, allowing Gilbert to provide a “terrace” at the fourth floor accessed by a long square-columned gallery to the side.  The elaborate stone gables, ornamented with spiky finials and florid s-shaped brackets, culminated in deeply-carved shells.  In a somewhat tongue-in-cheek gesture, Gilbert perched a stone cherub holding a bowl of fruit at the pinnacle.

High above it all a stone cherub (one has been lost) surveys Riverside Drive.  The "terrace" would be the scene of tragedy.

The Kleebergs’s marriage may have been a bit shaky.  The title to the new mansion was put in Maria’s name, as was expected.  And the family, including three sons, moved in and outside appearances were maintained.  However Philip reportedly acquired a second home on the Upper West Side for his own use. 

Gradually the row of houses around No. 3 was constructed.  By September 7, 1901 the Record & Guide reported “three lots of the plot have been sold, one to Philip Kleeberg, one to Colonel W.L. Trenholm, and one to Mrs. Prentiss, all of which have been improved.”

For years nothing other than the expected entertainments and social functions at No. 3 was the norm.  Then, six years later after moving in, a heart wrenching tragedy would occur.  The Kleebergs participated in the routines of wealthy New Yorkers.  Philip and Maria spent the first two months of the summer of 1903 in Europe and upon their return she left for “the country.”  Society women at the time would summer in resorts or estates like Newport and Bar Harbor, while their working husbands would join them on the weekends.

On August 18 the 48-year old socialite returned to New York, a bit early in the season.  Six days later she hosted a dinner party “and a number of Mr. and Mrs. Kleeberg’s relative and friends were present,” said The Sun on August 24.  Following dinner the party took a drive along Riverside Park, then returned to the terrace of the mansion where they sat and chatted.

At one point Maria Kleeberg excused herself, saying she was going to the bathroom.  When she did not return, her sister became concerned and followed.  The Sun reported “She opened the door just as Mrs. Kleeberg put a bottle to her lips.  Mrs. Sands knocked the bottle, which was filled with carbolic acid, to the floor.”

In doing so, Maria’s sister was badly burned on the hands.  She rushed downstairs and instructed the servants to find a doctor.  Three doctors were sent for, but none of them was at home.

Notoriety was one thing the wealthy desperately attempted to avoid; so it was only through desperation that an ambulance was called for from Roosevelt Hospital.  It caused precisely the attention the family was attempting to avoid.

“The arrival of the ambulance caused great excitement in the neighborhood.  One of the rumors which were circulated had it that some one had been murdered in the Kleeberg house.  At one time there were at least 300 persons in front of the house,” said The Sun.

By the time the ambulance had arrived, Maria Kleeberg was dead.  The police, attracted by the ambulance call and the crowd, attempted to investigate.  In an attempt to avoid even worse publicity and scandal, the doors were barred against the police.  No information was given out until Detective Culhane refused to allow the body to be removed until he was let in.

Forced to face reporters, Philip Kleeberg insisted there was no reason why his wife should have committed suicide.  His only explanation was that she may have had “a fit of the blues.”

Kleeberg soon transferred the title to his son, 21-year old Gordon S. P. Kleeberg.  The young homeowner was possibly a difficult man to work for.  On February 23, 1906 he placed an ad in the New-York Tribune seeking a coachman.  “Good, careful driver; competent; painstaking.”  He asked for the “best written and personal references.”  Later that year another advertisement was placed, for the same position.  Then on September 21, 1906 yet another advertisement appeared.  “Coachman—Thorough horseman; care of horses, carriages, and harness; strictly sober, honest, willing and obliging.”  It would seem that young Kleeberg had unusually bad luck in finding a coachman; or he was simply too difficult to work for.

In the meantime the home life of William Guggenheim, known as “The Smelting King,” had become rocky.  Born into the fabulously wealthy mining family, his domestic differences with his wife, Aimee, became such that the couple separated.  In 1908 he purchased No. 3 Riverside Drive.  But he barely had time to unpack his bags.

On May 3, 1910 the New-York Tribune reported that Guggenheim had sold the house to “a Mr. Hopkins, who will occupy it.”  The development of the block was reflected in the asking price--$200,000, or about $4.75 million today.  The Tribune said that a negotiated price of $165,000 was said to be the actual sale price.  In commenting on the sale, the newspaper said “The house is one of the finest in the lower part of the drive.”

It was not uncommon in the first decades of the 20^thcentury for wealthy purchasers of real estate to play a cat-and-mouse game with the press regarding their identities.  A little over a month later, on June 14, the New-York Tribune said “The new owner is said to be a woman, who by the purchase obtains control of half the block.”

Finally, on July 16, 1910, the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide ended the speculation, naming Mrs. Angie M. Booth as the buyer.  “Mrs. Booth is the owner of the adjoining property on the north, including the southeast corner of 73d st.”

Angie Booth was the wife of Henry P. Booth, and in a surprising turn of events, she resold the property prior to 1915—to William Guggenheim.  Angie Booth would live to regret it.  Rather than move back into the mansion, Guggenheim initially ran it as a boarding house; then rented it to Dr. William H. Wellington Knipe at $4,000 a year for the first year, and $5,000 a year for the next four years.  It was a hefty rental price; but Knipe had income-producing plans for the property.

Dr. Knipe was “one of the first physicians in New York to become interested in twilight sleep,” said The Sun on January 22, 1916.  “Twilight sleep” was a procedure used on women going into labor that was intended to reduce the pain of childbirth.  The Guggenheim mansion became Dr. Knipe’s “twilight sleep sanitarium.”

Angie Booth, who lived next door to the house, and Mary T.Sutphen whose own mansion was at the corner of Riverside Drive and 72^ndStreet, were outraged.  They filed suit to close down the sanitarium.

Recalling the restrictions in the original Kleeberg deed, their lawyer explained “The plaintiffs contend that the block is restricted to residential purposes and barred from trade and business.”  His female clients were a bit more pointed, calling the sanitarium “a menace to the peace and quiet of the neighboring landowners,” and “obnoxious and offensive.”

The Sun said that Knipe felt his neighbors were “needlessly alarmed” and “said he had talked with many of his neighbors and they told him they preferred the proposed sanitarium to the ‘exclusive’ boarding house formerly conducted here.”  One of these was Lydia Prentiss.

The wealthy woman, who lived at No. 1 Riverside Drive, was placed in an uncomfortable position when her neighbors knocked on her door, asking her to join them as a plaintiff.  The stalwart socialite held her ground, however, telling the press she “didn’t think women should lend themselves to opposing the development of any treatment that would alleviate or diminish the pains of childbirth.”  It most likely put an end to Lydia Prentiss’s invitations to tea at either the Sutphen or Booth residences.

Although the courts ruled in Dr. Knipe’s favor; things returned to normal on lower Riverside Drive.  Eventually William Guggenheim moved back in and used the mansion as his private dwelling, restoring peace among the neighbors.  Highly educated and erudite, he was the author of several publications, many of them patriotic.  Among them were Our Republic Triumphant; Peace by Victory at Last, but with a Warning; A Greater America; and What Price Government.  His ardent patriotism was evidenced in 1940 when Italy declared war against Great Britain and France.  In 1920 he had been decorated with the Commendatore dell’ Ordine della Corona d’Italia by the Italian Government.  Now he renounced and returned the title, saying that the declaration of war came as “a profound shock.”

He remained in the Riverside Drive mansion until his death at the age of 72 on June 27, 1941.  The house became the property of the Seamen’s Bank for Savings, which leased it to General Boleslaw Wieniawa-D’Lugoszewski and his wife and daughter.  The Polish Ambassador to Italy at the outbreak of war in 1939, he had also been the aide to Marshal Pilsudski, dictator of Poland.

The 60-year old diplomat was subject to what the Polish Consul General referred to as “dizzy spells.”  On the evening of July 1, 1942, the general received word that he had been appointed as Envoy to Cuba.  Shortly afterward, wearing his pajamas and bedroom slippers, he went to the roof “to get a little fresh air,” according to Sylvyn Strakacz, the Police Consul General.  Moments later he fell to his death.

Despite the Consul’s assertions that the fall was the result of recurrent dizziness; The New York Times said “Police of the West Sixty-eighth Street Station, who helped remove the general to the hospital were uncertain whether the death was an accident or suicide.”

Like William Guggenheim, Gordon Kleeberg could not stay away from No. 3 Riverside Drive.  On New Year’s Day, 1944 The New York Times reported “One of the finest town houses on the West Side figured in the news yesterday when Lieut. Col. Gordon S. P. Kleeberg purchased the building at 3 Riverside Drive which was erected by his father in 1896.”

Although the newspaper got the architect’s name wrong, citing Cass Gilbert rather than C. P. H. Gilbert; it correctly described the interiors.  “Among its features still in a good state of preservation are a marble stairway, solid cherrywood floors and bronze grill entrance doors.”  The article said “Colonel Kleeberg intends to remodel the building into small apartments after the war and occupy the terrace suite.”

As promised, in 1951 the 37-foot wide mansion was divided into two apartments per floor.  Happily, much of C. P. H. Gilbert’s interior detailing was preserved.  In 1995 it was purchased by real estate developer Regina Kislin for $10 million.  She and her husband, photographer Anatoly Siyagine, embarked on a long restoration project to bring the house back to a private home.

Much of the interior detailing survives.  http://streeteasy.com/building/philip-and-maria-kleeberg-house

Included in the renovation were modern touches that Maria Kleeberg would have found shocking—an indoor pool, sauna and gym, for instance.  Seventeen years later she put the 18-room house on the market for $40 million.  Real estate listings noted “six bedrooms, eight and a half bathrooms, a two-room staff suite, four terraces, and an elevator.”  When no buyers appeared, Kislin reduced the price to $30 million in September 2014.  

The magnificent Gilbert-designed mansion survives as a stunning reminder of the first days of the development of Riverside Drive when developers lured millionaires from the east side of Central Park.

uncredited photographs taken by the author