to know, “What do you suppose he was doing at Hicks’?”
“Maybe he works there on weekends,’’ I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn’t get away with it a second time.
Martin’s wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife.
Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, “Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional.’’ This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it’s worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think
any
apology is required.
Lester waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?”
This is the Wasp equivalent of “I fully accept your halfhearted apology.’’ I replied to Lester, “Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven’t seen it in years, and it’s quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape.”
We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbors. But, as I said, they’ve discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable.
Lester proclaimed, “I don’t want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard.”
That’s what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.
He asked, “Can’t we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?”
“Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement.”
“All right. We’ll keep an eye on that. What’s the story with your place?”
Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, “There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I’ve advertised it both ways.”
Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone’s dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today’s crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that’s as big as a medium-size hotel.
Lester said, “It’s such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn’t it?”
“Several.
Town & Country
noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change.’’ The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan’s, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope’s will.
Lester said, “What sort of people seem interested in the house?”
“The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house.’’ That’s what I’m trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That’s about twenty-five million of today’s dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here
“Maybe he works there on weekends,’’ I suggested. This got a little chuckle out of everyone, and we ordered another round. I wanted desperately to turn my head toward Beryl Carlisle again, but I knew I couldn’t get away with it a second time.
Martin’s wife, Pauline, showed up and stood at the door near the bar, trying to get his attention by flapping her arms like a windmill. Martin finally noticed and lifted his great roast beef of a body, then ambled over to his wife.
Randall then excused himself to talk to his son-in-law. Lester Remsen and I sat in silence a moment, then I said, “Susan tells me I made an unfortunate remark last Sunday, and if I did, I want you to know it was unintentional.’’ This is the Wasp equivalent of an apology. If it’s worded just right, it leaves some doubt that you think
any
apology is required.
Lester waved his hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. Did you get a chance to look at Meudon?”
This is the Wasp equivalent of “I fully accept your halfhearted apology.’’ I replied to Lester, “Yes, I took the Bronco over the acreage just this morning. I haven’t seen it in years, and it’s quite overgrown, but the specimen trees are in remarkably good shape.”
We spoke about Meudon for a while. Lester, you should understand, is no nature nut in the true sense, and neither are most of his friends and my neighbors. But, as I said, they’ve discovered that nature nuts can be useful to achieve their own ends, which is to preserve their lifestyle. This has resulted in an odd coalition of gentry and students, rich estate owners, and middle-class people. I am both gentry and nature nut and am therefore invaluable.
Lester proclaimed, “I don’t want fifty two-million-dollar tractor sheds in my backyard.”
That’s what Lester calls contemporary homes: tractor sheds. I nodded in sympathy.
He asked, “Can’t we get Meudon rezoned for twenty-acre plots?”
“Maybe. We have to wait until the developer files his environmental impact statement.”
“All right. We’ll keep an eye on that. What’s the story with your place?”
Stanhope Hall, as you know, is not my place, but Lester was being both polite and nosey. I replied, “There are no takers for the whole two hundred acres with the house as a single estate, and no takers for the house with ten surrounding acres. I’ve advertised it both ways.”
Lester nodded in understanding. The future of Stanhope Hall, the main house, is uncertain. A house that size, you understand, may be someone’s dream palace, but even an Arab sheik at today’s crude oil prices would have a hard time maintaining and staffing a place that’s as big as a medium-size hotel.
Lester said, “It’s such a beautiful house. Got an award, didn’t it?”
“Several.
Town & Country
noted it best American house of the year when it was built in 1906. But times change.’’ The other option was to tear the place down, as Meudon Palace had been torn down. This would force the tax authorities to reassess the property as undeveloped land. The guesthouse is Susan’s, and we pay separate tax rates on that, and the gatehouse where the Allards live is theoretically protected by Grandfather Stanhope’s will.
Lester said, “What sort of people seem interested in the house?”
“The sort who think five hundred thousand sounds good for a fifty-room house.’’ That’s what I’m trying to get for it with ten acres attached. The irony is that it cost five million dollars in 1906 to construct. That’s about twenty-five million of today’s dollars. Aside from any aesthetic considerations about tearing down Stanhope Hall, my frugal father-in-law, William Stanhope, would have to consider the cost of knocking down a granite structure built to last a millennium and then trucking the debris someplace as per the new environmental laws. The granite and marble used to build Stanhope Hall came here
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