All that Old Money Can Buy (cont.)

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All that Old Money Can Buy (cont.)
Vanderbilt's Newport mansion breaks the mold—and the bank.
Inside the house, the simple foyer, where Newport society was once received by footmen dressed in the Vanderbilts' trademark maroon livery, opens onto the mansion's spectacular Great Hall. Patterned after the central courtyards of ancient Roman villas, the Great Hall soars 45 feet—two full stories—to a richly carved and gilded ceiling with a trompe-l'oeil painting of clouds and blue sky. At both sides, grand staircases with ornate bronze and wrought-iron balustrades rise to the family's second-floor bedrooms. Four gigantic bronze chandeliers, each with 16 large globes, shed light on parchment-colored marble floors sparsely adorned with Oriental rugs, potted palms, and eight tall 16th-century-style bronze candelabra. The chandeliers, as well as all the mansion’s light fixtures, were fitted for both electricity and gas, since Mrs. Vanderbilt—like then-still-reigning Queen Victoria—considered Edison's electric light invention unreliable.

Adorning the Library's gilded and coffered Circassian-walnut ceiling are painted emblems of Neptune holding his trident—yet another symbol of the family fortune's seagoing origins.

On August 14, 1895, the Great Hall hosted The Breakers' inaugural party as well as the society debut, or Midnight Ball, for the Vanderbilt's eldest daughter, Gertrude. A year later, on August 25, 1896, Gertrude, dressed in satin wedding finery, swept down the Great Hall's north staircase (its underside featuring a shell-shaped marble fountain guarded by twin dolphins) to marry Harry Payne Whitney, son of corporate lawyer and Washington power-broker William C. Whitney.

Just off the Great Hall are The Breakers' public rooms. The Library, cozy but ornate, provides a revealing glimpse into the Vanderbilt family's triumphs and tragedies. Above the massive doors, two smiling cherubs hold a locomotive and a steamboat on either side of a bas-relief likeness of architect Richard Morris Hunt, who died two weeks before the house's inauguration. Adorning the Library's gilded and coffered Circassian-walnut ceiling are painted emblems of Neptune holding his trident—yet another symbol of the family fortune's seagoing origins. Glass-fronted bookcases, still holding the family's leather-bound collection, are built into the walls, paneled in Circassian walnut and topped by gold-embossed panels of green Spanish leather.

Carved into the mantelpiece above the stone fireplace is a quotation in archaic French, translated: "I laugh at great riches and never miss them; only wisdom matters in the end." Whether Cornelius II saw any irony in the quote remains a mystery. Certainly, The Breakers was, and remains, the ultimate symbol of all that money can buy. But the Library's handsome bronze bust of Cornelius Vanderbilt II's beloved oldest son and one-time heir apparent remains a tragic reminder of what it cannot buy. William Henry II died of typhoid fever at age 22, while a junior at Yale University. Cornelius II, who suffered a stroke in 1896 and died in 1899, spent only a few summers at The Breakers. And, his third son and heir, Alfred Gwynne, went down on the Lusitania when the Germans torpedoed that English passenger ship in 1915, early in World War I.

If the Library evokes tragedy, the Billiards Room conjures up images of leisure, of men enjoying cigars while relaxing in overstuffed green velvet chairs or playing a few games on the richly carved Dominican mahogany table. Apart from its clubby feel, the Billiards Room is every bit as opulent as the rest of the house. The British jockey scale sitting to one side is a playful nod to the family's passion for horses.

If the Billiards Room offered Vanderbilt men some hard-won frivolity, The Music Room, or Grand Salon, was Mrs. Vanderbilt's arena for serious social gamesmanship. During the six-week summer season, Newport hostesses vied with one another to stage fabulous dinners and fancy-dress balls. The practical reason for these entertainments was to find suitable husbands for their daughters and thereby maintain, or possibly augment, the families' wealth and social standing. (For instance, consider the case of Gertrude Vanderbilt. After her alliance with the not-immodestly supported and prestigious Harry Payne Whitney, she was able to pursue art studies without bringing the Vanderbilt name's hard-won reputation for stolidity into question. Later she became a noted sculptor and, in 1931, founder of New York City's Whitney Museum of American Art.)

All too often, however, pleasure-seeking in this super-wealthy summer colony eclipsed practicality. At one Newport society dinner, the table was covered with sand, and guests were given small sterling-silver pails and matching shovels to dig out the party favors—thousands of dollars' worth of glittering rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. At the notorious "Dog's Dinner"—staged at the bottom of the 1893 Depression, and roundly denounced by newspapers of the day—100 pampered pooches, most in fancy dress, were served stewed liver and rice, fricassee of bones, and shredded dog biscuit.

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