EXCERPTS



The following articles are excerpts from OLD MONEY AMERICA or Can The Obamas' Save America's Upper Class?, by John Hazard Forbes, due out in early 2010:

CHAPTER FOUR: THE IVY CHARITY GALA REGISTER

      The Ivy League. Charity Galas. The Social Register. They are the hallmarks of Old Money ascendancy. All denote divine, snotty splendor. Oh, to pass into those Promised Lands, to blithely step across the divide that separates the aristocratic we, from the plebian them. But it the author's sad mission to demystify them -- sad, if one is an aspiring social climber. Each is misunderstood. Yet all are typical of the patricians' mania to preserve their prestige, by wile if necessary.

      The author did graduate from the Ivy League, The University of Pennsylvania, '74. He has a cousin and a nephew who also went to Penn, and a brother-in-law who taught at Wharton. With all its professional schools, Penn was down to earth. Everyone was friendly and unaffected -- at least all the guys -- and nobody worried about
financial status. That somebody was very rich or very poor was never a topic of conversation. It was college, not a credit bureau. While Old Money preens over Ivy League connections, theirs is an Ivy League of white flannels, straw boaters and "Boolah Boolah". Anyone who has actually been in the Ivies knows that such crap went out with rumble seats and raccoon coats.

      In the spirit of full disclosure, the author was accepted to a number of excellent schools, none of which he could hope of entering today. To say that admissions standards were looser then is a gross understatement. Still, admissions were tighter in nineteen-seventy than in nineteen-eighteen, when the author's grandfather entered Dartmouth. Rather than making a formal application, he just sent a note saying that they should expect him in the fall.

      What elitism the author saw at Penn was limited to a couple twitty fraternities. But in the early 'seventies, fraternities were hopelessly unhip and had practically no impact on student life. The hoity frat boys all had flippy-floppy hair, chain smoked, and acted so, so bored. They wore the standard Old Money uniform: Lacoste shirts, rumpled chinos and loafers in deplorable condition. If they were determined to be inconspicuous, they certainly succeeded. Nobody gave them the slightest heed. Yet even these ducks never clomped around in polo gear or white tie, nor did they speak through clenched jaws. The Hollywood version of the Ivy League -- rich playboys having I-say-old-chap-rather-smashing-good times -- is hokum.

      What so confuses the masses is that a superior university is about education -- not transformation. The Ivy League does not remodel young people into gentlemen or debutantes. That is the role of fairy godmothers, not professors. There are no lessons on deportment, how to address a Viscount, or tips on bespoke clothing. The person who graduates as a senior is the same person who entered as a freshman. In Arcadia ergo sum.

      Neither does the Ivy League magically turn students into Masters of the Universe. Yes, some kids who went Ivy became President of the United States; but not everyone becomes President, or anything like it. Perusing the Class Notes of any Ivy alumni magazine reveals careers that are certainly respectable, but not stupendous. And unnoted are legions of graduates that are not up to much of anything. What the best schools offer is an excellent education, with wonderful instructors, in a first-rate atmosphere. Upon graduation, one gets a diploma, maybe some bragging rights, and that is all.

      That someone could be awed by charity events is amazing to anybody who has ever been to one. These gigs are deadly, attended only out of obligation and the call to keep up one's side. The author worked in New York as a foundation director and knows the charity circuit. One -- and maybe the only -- advantage of a bad economy is that many galas, balls, dinners, teas, tours and croquet matches are being cancelled or drastically scaled back.

      The homely truth behind all the couture and cummerbunds is that special events are pay-to-play rackets. Attendance requires a paid ticket, and after the expenses of food, flowers and falderal, the ticket sales net goes to some charity. Actually, it is harder to get hot movie tickets than seats at so-called exclusive galas; dozens of event tickets always go begging. A call to any organization, asking if tickets are still available, will almost always result in a positive reply. And if volunteering to pay for an entire table, usually ten seats, even Jack the Ripper would receive Patron status. As charities sell their mailing lists to each other, Jack could find himself invited out every night. Inclusion is determined by dollars, not doyennes.

      Dismaying as it may be, almost nobody at a charity gala feigns much interest in the organization it supports. But being on a philanthropy board is an Old Money requirement, and only a cynic would mention that board membership is bestowed for the biggest check, not the biggest heart. It is the obligation of everyone within a social circle to attend each other's events. This is the same in New York, Naples or Kalamazoo. The guests arrive with wooden smiles, make bland chit-chat, pick at so-so food and snooze through the presentations, always discreetly checking their watches. Some ladies still get a little kick from these gigs, but most men would rather be in hell hacking off their toes with a dull chisel. Still, one must keep up one's side.

      The Social Register is a perfect example of Old Money contradiction. This black and orange book is -- and then again is not -- an address book of America's blue bloods. Every upper class family is anxious to be included, except those who want nothing to do with it. Listing implies superior lineage, if one ignores all the politicians and CEO's whose lineage is, at best, undistinguished. It is certainly not just a phone book, though it is little else. The Social Register is obtainable only by those deemed worthy of inclusion, overlooking the fact that anybody can buy a copy. But one thing is certain: all the confusion surrounding The Social Register helps the upper crust maintain the illusion of special separateness.

      Burke's Peerage is often compared with The Social Register. They are not alike. Burke's lists all the titled persons of Great Britain and Ireland, from royalty to gentry, and names them whether they like it or not. Every title has genealogical facts included. And while the British publication covers over a million names, nobody in Burke's Peerage is beholden to buy a book, pay a fee, or reveal their telephone number. No one breaks into Burke's Peerage who is not raised to nobility by the sovereign.

      The Social Register only has families who choose to be listed, and has no right to enter any blue blood who opts out. No genealogy is included with entries, though phone numbers are. Every family recorded is beholden to buy two books for an annual cost of about one hundred dollars. Around thirty thousand families are involved. And with letters of recommendation, outsiders can break in.

      Despite all the wealth of the listed families, The Social Register itself is struggling for money. Long ago, there were many Registers, one for each of several cities. In the nineteen-seventies, costs pressured the publisher to compact all the individual references into one national book. For all the fury, it might have been the fall of civilization. Still, the Old Guard kept the black books by their phones. But it has faltered financially, and was taken over by a business publisher; this same publisher has bravely tried to keep American Heritage afloat. In the Age of Obama, the younger generation is not intrigued with The Social Register. And unfortunately, the directory is often used for mass mailings and sales calls. Many old families opt out for the same reasons that they want unlisted numbers.

      Again, in the spirit of disclosure, the author's family was listed in the first Social Register, published in New York in eighteen eighty-six. As far as the author is concerned, every family added since then can bugger off. No, the author himself is not listed. Anybody he wants to talk to already knows the number.

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CHAPTER SIX: A HOUSE TOUR

      As an appraiser, I must notice everything. That is my job. The particular position of the talon on a claw and ball table can indicate a Boston, Newport or Philadelphia origin. An experienced appraiser can tell sterling silver from silver plate just by smell. A shadow that fails to fall just right separates a master's painting from a copyist's. It is all a matter of nuance.

      Without entirely realizing it, I was always observing the nuances of my Old Money clients as I appraised their collections. They were masters of subtlety and misdirection. Their easy manners, blunt speech and plain clothing were natural and unaffected, yet at the same time set them apart. To be noticeably unnoticeable was the goal. In their houses, a single room could contain a dozen heart-stopping treasures, but the overall effect was of complete modesty.

      I will describe a household I inspected outside Philadelphia. To the uninitiated, it was a pretty stone farmhouse but nothing grand. There were no gates, no fountains, and no formal gardens. A gravel drive lead past lumpy, stinky bushes to a simple entrance. The front hall was dark and low. The kitchen was to the left, and a study to the right. Straight ahead was a sitting room with a dining room behind it. The only obvious luxury was a little greenhouse off the sitting room. Otherwise, the overall effect was pleasant, but hardly breath-taking to the untrained eye.

      The sitting room was not large but remarkably bright and spotless. It had yellow walls, white woodwork and pale rugs. A mantle centered on one wall, and French doors to the back yard on the other. The chairs, covered in white slipcovers, looked comfortable. Clusters of little things topped tables, and a big trophy was in one corner. Two horse paintings hung above the sofa. The dining room had traditional mahogany furniture. A portrait dominated the scene, and nobody could miss the big tea set underneath it. The kitchen was as plain as dry toast. It had white cupboards, linoleum counter tops and cork floors. The only small appliance in sight was a toaster. The study had a fireplace, twin leather chairs and old cherry tables. A couple landscapes gave it a clubby feeling. All in all, it was a handsome house, well set, but surprisingly small and rather ho-hum for the heiress to a huge fortune. At least, that is as it would seem to an outsider.

      Yet someone in the know would appreciate that the farmhouse was settled on many acres in a particularly desirable area of the Bucks County. The casually untended land was worth many millions would it be broken into house lots; absolute quiet and privacy have a price. Of course there were no gates or fountains; they would draw unwanted attention from the road. The lumpy bushes were English yews, almost two centuries old.

      Squinting in the dark front hall, a connoisseur would see a Chester Country tall clock that Wintherthur would do back flips to own. The sitting room with its simple white slipcovers was a wonder of understatement. The two horse paintings were by George Stubbs; each could buy a New York townhouse. Those pretty tables were stamped Martin Carlin, furniture maker to Marie Antoinette. Clutches of spinach jades and enamel boxes -- even the tiniest worth five figures -- covered the tables. Miniature Faberge items found places among little pictures of the children -- not the usual photos but watercolors by Madam Shoumatoff. That trophy in one corner was thirty inches high, solid gold, and presented to the owner's grandfather by King George V at Epsom. Yet somehow even this jaw-dropping cup was not imposing, but only hummed softly from its perch.

      The portrait in the dining room was of the client's great-uncle. Any art lover would instantly know it was a major Thomas Eakins. The Tiffany tea set, originally purchased at the 1889 Paris Exhibition, was so massively heavy that the houseman helped me haul it to the stable and weigh it on a horse scale. John Constable painted the landscapes in the study. The entire house was chock-a-block with one marvel after another. But every item revealed itself quietly, and nothing commanded attention so much as merely suggested that it might be worth looking upon.

      The owners were just as unassuming. She was a polite woman with short, dark hair. She wore a sweater set, tweed skirt and flat shoes. Her only jewelry was a square diamond engagement ring of no more than two or three carats. She was agreeable, but not chatty. Any any discussion with her as to the dollar value of her possessions would have been ill-mannered. It was her duty to telegraph that money meant nothing to her. One must keep up one's side, even to the appraiser.

      The husband was more talkative and gave me background information that was helpful for the appraisal. He had no bluff or bluster. Once, when I mentioned that some porcelain seemed mended, he divulged that his mother-in-law threw things. Tiny windows can reveal broad vistas.

      My relationships with clients rarely became social. It was in their houses on business; we did not stay in touch. I do know that these Old Guarders died in the late 'eighties. The fate of their property is unknown to me. I cannot say that all my inventories were so noteworthy. Certainly, I knew that I was in rarified air while I worked within that farmhouse. But I had other remarkable clients then, each with extraordinary houses. I fear that I took it all for granted. I assumed that there would always be quiet people with easy manners, living unpretentiously amid wonderful things.



      Oh, I was so wrong.

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