The Jews in America Trilogy

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Not all affairs could be terminated with such surgical neatness, as was demonstrated by another unfortunate “family problem,” involving, of all people, the Seligmans. By the turn of the century very little scandal had attached itself to that elegant and redoubtable family, though they had been around longer than anybody else. They had their “peculiar branch,” but otherwise they seemed serenely above the tribulations certain others had to endure. In fact, it didn’t seem fair, and the Seligmans were resented for this.

  In 1900 the Seligman veneer began to crack. Alfred Lincoln Seligman, Joseph’s fifth and last son, was—like a number of his brothers and cousins, like Solomon’s two sons Jim and Morris Loeb, and like Ben and Will Guggenheim—not interested in business, and was more disposed to be a gentleman of leisure. Alfred was an easygoing, soft-spoken fellow with a dilettantish interest in the arts. He played the cello nicely, and was also an amateur sculptor. He was fond of children, though he and his wife had none, and gave a charming monument to New York, a bronze statue in Morningside Park, at 114th Street, which depicts a fawn cowering under a rock while a fierce bear crouches above. The inscription reads:

  To the children of New York City,

  Given by Alfred Lincoln Seligman,

  Vice-President of the National Highways Protection Society,

  and erected under their auspices, 1914

  The fawn’s position is symbolic of the position Alfred found himself in fourteen years earlier. He was married to the former Florine Arnold, and he and his wife liked to consider themselves “Bohemian.” They loved to entertain artists, writers, composers, and musicians in their big apartment in the old Murray Hill Hotel. And, wrote the late George S. Hellman in an unpublished account of the Seligmans, “Alfred’s kind heart beat with a childish faith in the goodness of human nature—a faith so childish, so unbelievably trustful, that it was to lead to the first profound tragedy of the Seligman family.” (Mr. Hellman is a bit of a romantic when it comes to his Seligman relatives.)

  The year 1901, as old New Yorkers will remember, was the year of the great fire in the Murray Hill Hotel. The building was rocked with a series of violent explosions, the wounded and dying lay in the corridors, and much of the hotel was destroyed. But, for some reason, the Forty-first Street side of the building was completely untouched by the fire, and Alfred’s and Florine’s apartment was in this northern side. Alfred was out of the building when the fire occurred, but a Seligman nephew happened to be in the neighborhood and, explaining that he had a relative who lived in the building, he was allowed through the fire lines to check on Florine. (Mr. Hellman does not say that he was this nephew but, from the evidence he presents, this seems likely.) “He found Florine,” writes Mr. Hellman, “seated in her drawing-room. She was alone, looking lovelier than ever, with a tinge of excitement heightening the color of her peach-blossom cheeks.” (She was, in other words, exercising perfect Seligman composure in the crisis, and the “tinge of excitement” can be excused by the fact that she was in a burning building, and the noise of the blasts, the screech of the sirens, and the screams of the dying must have been perturbing.) The gallant Mr. Hellman cannot resist adding at this point, “Fair-haired, blue-eyed, perfect nose and mouth, Florine Arnold was one of the most beautiful of New York women.”

  Graciously, beautiful Florine Arnold Seligman arose from her chair, thanked her young nephew for so considerately dropping by—“But as you can see, I’m perfectly well”—and then said, almost gaily, “I want to show you how terrific the explosions were!”

  She then led him through her own bedroom, into an adjoining bedroom, and said, “Look what’s happened to Monsieur Journet’s nightgown!”

  (A nightgown, Mr. Hellman explains, is what men of the period wore instead of pajamas.)

  The nephew looked at the nightgown in question. Clearly male, it had been flung, by the force of the blast, from the surface of the bed where it had obviously been lying, and now hung from the ceiling over the bed, draped across a crystal chandelier. But the young nephew was less impressed by this phenomenon than by the news that Monsieur Journet occupied a bedroom in the Seligman apartment next door to Mrs. Seligman’s, while Mr. Seligman’s bedroom was across the hall beyond the sitting room.

  Monsieur Journet was Marcel Journet, a handsome French opera singer, who was filling an engagement at the Metropolitan Opera House at the time.

  “Perfectly astonishing,” murmured the young nephew, recalling, as he said this, certain related facts. Alfred and Florine Seligman had recently returned from California, traveling with Journet, and they were now due to leave for Europe soon, again accompanied by M. Journet. Clearly, a “situation” had developed that required the most delicate handling by the family.

  In the days that followed the fire, Florine continued to tell the story of the remarkable flying nightgown, taking visitors into Journet’s bedroom to see where it had happened, oblivious, apparently, of the appearances of the thing. More and more eyebrows were raised. Finally, the story reached the ears of Alfred’s older brother Isaac and their sister Frances, and it was decided that a confidential talk with Alfred was in order.

  “Of course, Alfred,” the older Seligmans said, “we are all very fond of Florine, and we know there’s nothing wrong. But we think you have been somewhat … indiscreet.”

  Alfred’s reaction was so shocked that the others were convinced he was sincere when he cried, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  Isaac was more specific. “Well, you’ve recently come back from California, where you were traveling with Journet. Now he has a room in your apartment. Next Saturday you are going to Europe together. People are beginning to talk.”

  “You aren’t implying—” gasped Alfred.

  “Of course not,” said Isaac. “But there is talk, and you should take that into account. It’s embarrassing for all of us.”

  “But, Ike,” said Alfred, “you don’t quite understand. I’m just as much devoted to Journet as Florine is.”

  “Certainly,” said Isaac a little stiffly, “and I like him very much too. But people are gossiping more than you realize.”

  Isaac then went on to point out a solution. Alfred was to go home, without mentioning their conversation, and tell Florine that “the press of business” would mean that he could not take the Saturday boat to Europe. Journet would depart alone. The talk would stop. With obvious reluctance, Alfred agreed.

  When he approached Florine with the proposed change in plans, Florine became agitated. She was counting on the trip. She was tired of New York and had to get to Europe. It was her favorite boat. She didn’t believe the trumped-up story about the “press of business.” Alfred had no “business.” Isaac ran the investment house. The more she protested, the more excited she became.

  Finally, Alfred said flatly, “Well, whether you like it or not, I’ve decided that we’re not sailing Saturday.”

  “We are!” she screamed. “At least I am!” She burst into tears and cried, “You might as well know! Journet is my lover!”

  Thunderstruck, Alfred Seligman walked out of the Murray Hill Hotel. He went to live with his mother, who then shared a house with his sister Frances, and for months was sunk in a terrible depression. He would sit for hours in his chair, refusing to speak or leave the house, staring into space, seeing no one. At times, tears would well in his eyes.

  Meanwhile, the Seligman family took sides. Frances, though she loved Alfred, blamed her brother for his laxness and his blindness. Florine’s aunt, who was married to one of James Seligman’s sons, also insisted it was Alfred’s fault. Edwin Seligman, to save the good name of the family, led a sturdy band of Seligmans who blamed Florine.

  A deep breach between the James and Joseph branches of the family—which had begun over religion, and James’s insistence that a rabbi speak at Joseph’s grave, and which had continued over the “family skeleton” of James’s mistress—widened and deepened as that most terrible of things was contemplated: a Seligman d
ivorce. “One could see it happening to people like the Googs,” wrote Henriette Hellman Seligman despairingly, “but not to us!”

  As the Seligman lawyers began preparing their briefs, fate stepped in. Florine became ill and was rushed to a hospital, where she underwent an emergency operation and then developed blood poisoning. Dying, she summoned Alfred to her side. In tears, she told him that the affair with Journet had been nothing more than an “obsession.” It was, she said, just like his cousin Angeline’s dream of her love affair with the druggist Balch. She begged Alfred to forgive her, but there was really nothing to forgive. She swore that Alfred was the only man she ever loved, and that she had made a will leaving everything she owned to him (which was true, and Alfred, in turn, donated everything she left him to charity). She died in his arms.

  Alfred went on with his life, painting, sculpting, playing his cello, working for causes devoted to children’s welfare, and never married again. He was killed, a few years later, in an automobile accident.

  Florine was buried in the Seligman mausoleum at Salem Fields. Though he had been specifically forbidden to enter, M. Journet used to manage to visit the mausoleum on each of his trips to America through the years until he died. He always left a small nosegay of flowers at the foot of the marble entablature that bore her name.

  Florine’s story had a pretty-picture, almost operetta ending. A year later when Albert Seligman’s son, Jesse II, shot and killed his wife, who had been “unfaithful,” and then killed himself, it was not so pretty.*

  Even though it was a murder within the family and “within the crowd,” the Seligmans seemed to be having trouble maintaining their “social distinction.”

  * His remains were not admitted to the Seligman mausoleum, but were, for some reason, to the one belonging to his murdered wife’s family—where one would think they would be in even less friendly company.

  36

  THE GREAT BATTLE OF 1109 FIFTH AVENUE

  In 1904 Jacob Schiff was at the peak of his career. That summer he had met in London with Baron Korekiyo Takahashi, Financial Commissioner of the Japanese Government and president of the Yokohama Specie Bank. At the heart of their meeting was Japan’s need to raise at least five million pounds sterling—in days when the British pound was worth some six U.S. dollars—to finance its war with Russia. Britain was Japan’s political and commercial ally, but now London bankers were having difficulty supplying Japan with war financing, and in New York Japan’s chances of winning the war were considered remote. For several days Schiff and Takahashi discussed Japan’s problems. The meeting ended with Schiff’s agreement to handle the loan. It was, as Frieda wrote, “not so much my father’s interest in Japan, but rather his hatred of Imperial Russia and its anti-Semitic policies, that prompted him to take this great financial risk.”

  Schiff had been outraged by the Czarist pogroms, and had made a number of public statements in which he had called the Russian Government “the enemy of mankind,” and in which he had urged an armed revolution against the Czar. Takahashi quotes Schiff as saying, “A system of government … capable of such cruelties and outrages at home as well as in foreign relations must be overhauled from the foundations up in the interests of the oppressed race, the Russian people, and the world at large … and taught an object lesson.” Now Schiff set about singlehandedly to abet this overhauling process by helping Japan win her war.

  In his new position of peerdom with his old adversary, J. P. Morgan, Schiff approached both Morgan and George F. Baker of the. First National Bank, inviting them to join in the loan. When they agreed, there remained only the Rockefeller-Stillman interests, and the National City Bank, to be persuaded. With both Schiff and Morgan sponsoring the loan, the National City group quickly agreed to participate also. It was the first time in history that Japan had been able to obtain money outside of London, and it took three massive loans, engineered by Schiff, before Japan was declared the victor in 1905.

  Now began a long series of honors bestowed upon Schiff. England had backed Japan too, and King Edward VII invited Schiff to luncheon at Buckingham Palace, where Schiff found the King “an amiable fellow.” Next, the Japanese Emperor asked Schiff to come to Japan and receive one of the Empire’s highest honors, the Second Order of the Sacred Treasure. Schiff was to be given a private audience with the Mikado himself, and lunch at the imperial palace, where, he was pleased to note, “It is the first time the Emperor has invited a foreign private citizen to a repast at the palace, heretofore only foreign princes having been thus honored.” (The more successful he became, the more formal grew his literary style.)

  As a great American railroad financier, he was able to move as grandly across continents as he moved across rooms. Leaving New York for San Francisco, on the first leg of the journey, the Schiff party ensconced itself in two private railway cars, plus a baggage and officers’ car. With Mr. and Mrs. Schiff were Ernst Schiff, an unmarried nephew; Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Heidelbach (of the Heidelbach, Ickelheimer Heidelbachs); Mr. and Mrs. Sigmund Neustadt (of Hallgarten & Company); Mr. and Mrs. Henry Budge (Budge had been Mr. Schiff’s partner in his first brokerage business); a personal maid for each lady; and Joseph, the Schiff butler. They were accompanied by ninety-odd pieces of luggage, many of them large trunks. They were apparently cramped because they hitched on a fourth private car, a dining car, in Chicago. As the Schiff train rolled from one railroad line to another, it was ceremoniously greeted by railroad presidents and vice presidents who were keeping track of the progress of the entourage.

  Most of the passing landscape Mr. Schiff found uninteresting. But perhaps this was because it was considered proper private-car etiquette to travel with one’s curtains closed. Pausing in Salt Lake City, Schiff wrote that it contained “little of particular note or attraction except the Tabernacle and the Temple, the latter not accessible to those not belonging to the Mormon Church.” In San Francisco the Heidelbachs received news of an ailing relative and were forced, regretfully, to turn back for New York. The rest of the party boarded the S.S. Manchuria, where a large section of first class had been set aside for them.

  In Honolulu Mr. Schiff had word that Queen Liliuokalani wished to receive him and his party. Schiff was not one to turn down an invitation from a queen, even though Liliuokalani at that point was only an ex-queen, but there was a small difficulty. The Manchuria was scheduled to spend only an hour or two in Hawaii before continuing on to the Orient; the Queen’s invitation was for the following morning. Mr. Schiff took up this problem with the captain, who finally agreed to hold the ship in Hawaii an additional sixteen hours. (How the other passengers on the Manchuria felt about the delay is not recorded.)

  Even so, it was going to be nip and tuck. The Queen’s invitation was for 9:30 A.M. The Captain had explained that, because of the tides, he could not possibly hold the ship after 10 A.M. And Mr. Schiff, who was nowhere near so secure with steamship companies as he was with railroads, became quite nervous that the boat would sail without him. Jokingly, one of his party suggested that he kidnap a member of the Manchuria’s crew and hold him until the audience was over. Schiff thought this an excellent idea and, without more ado, commandeered the Manchuria’s captain to escort them to the Queen—“as hostage, in order to be certain not to be left behind,” as he explains in his journal of the trip. Jacob Schiff was not one to fool around with cabin boys.

  He found the Queen a “stately looking old brown lady, surrounded by some of her ladies-in-waiting who, we understand, are relatives.” This must have seemed quite appropriate to Schiff, who was surrounded by his own relatives.* It was a little after ten when the party reboarded the ship, which, as Schiff points out, “could not very well have left without us.”

  That evening at the captain’s table, where of course the Schiffs sat, Mr. Schiff said, “Captain, will the Manchuria be calling at any more ports where there will be kings or queens?”

  “No!” the captain replied. “No! No!”

  The rest of the trip was unrem
arkable.

  Schiff was a man of will and a man of tradition. Driving to lunch in the Japanese imperial palace, Schiff announced to the Imperial Chief of Protocol that he wished to propose a toast to the Emperor. In a dither, the Protocol Chief urged him not to, since a toast was a thing “not done” in the Japanese court; the Emperor might misunderstand. Nevertheless, when the guests were seated, Schiff rose and lifted his glass, “To the Emperor. First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.” To everyone’s relief, when the Schiff statement had been translated, the Emperor looked pleased.

  Not all Schiff’s remarks in Japan led to peaceful solutions. At dinner one evening Mr. Schiff found himself seated next to Baron Takahashi’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Wakiko, and, in the course of conversation said to her, through an interpreter, “You must come and visit us in New York some time.” A Schiff statement clearly carried as much weight in Tokyo as it did on Wall Street, for the next morning the Baron bowed himself into the Schiffs’ apartments and said that, though it was highly unusual for a young Japanese girl to leave her home and country at such a tender age, and to undertake such a long and arduous journey to a foreign land, he had, since Mr. Schiff had proved himself such a friend to Japan, agreed to let Wakiko return to New York with the Schiffs, but he truly felt—and he hoped Mr. Schiff would understand—that Wakiko should not visit the Schiffs for longer than three years.