the violinist Yehudi Menuhin when he came to stay for the weekend. Th en it was on to Buck’s fizzes in the great hall and a tour of the house, admiring the Adam fireplaces as we went. John, while not my Prince Charming, was indeed charming, and with his high brow and wispy blond beard, he reminded me of a prince—Prince Myshkin in Dostoyevky’s novel. After our tour of the premises, we paid a brief visit to the nightclub, where John held me in a rather dance-like position as I took a few twirls under the neon lighting specially installed for the occasion. At around 1:00 a.m. all the guests were invited to the gallery—a sort of indoor terrace with white furniture and, yes, potted palms—for a champagne supper of caviar and cucumber sandwiches. By two thirty we joined the last of the string of cars drawn up to the porte cochere and rolled down a graveled drive to wend our way back to London on the county roads of Sussex. Muriel said that by all indications and as county balls went, I’d had a good one.
While a far cry from an English county ball, I was able to return the invitation to the dance the following year. My coconspirator in the matter was Andrena (Andy) Bear, a leggy, sensational-looking blond who worked as the editor’s secretary in the Talk of the Town department, whose offices, like those of On and Off the Avenue, the fashion department, were located on the eighteenth floor. Andy was a great favorite of Charles Addams and Peter De Vries and a number of the forty or so other men whose offices were on that floor. ( Th ere were half a dozen women—besides Muriel—sprinkled around, too.) Th ese men had a good eye for beauty, and they eyed Andy with evident pleasure. On good days and in the right light I had my admirers also, and we used to kid that, had we chosen to do so, we could have created quite a scandal.
A couple of things prompted our joining forces in the creation of a summer dance. First was the impromptu New Yorker jazz band I had helped bring about. All I’d had to do was put the right parties together. Two cartoonists, Lee Lorenz and Warren Miller, played trumpet and cornet (and Warren occasionally sang a vocal or two in tribute to his idol Fats Waller); Paul Brodeur played clarinet; Whitney Balliett, the magazine’s jazz critic, played drums; when she hosted the jam session in the solarium of her East Side town house, Daphne Hellman played the harp; and the Talk reporter Wally White sat in on piano, occasionally spelled by a New York Times reporter named Phil Benjamin. We always hoped Th e New Yorker ’s editor in chief, William Shawn, an excellent piano player himself, would come, but he never did.
So we had the band; all we needed now was the hall. As if on cue, one of the band members, Lee Lorenz, received notice that he’d soon have to vacate his loft on Spring Street. Th e perfect time to hold a party there, we all agreed. Andy and I were to be the hostesses, and we had great fun with the planning. We decided to invite everyone we knew at the magazine to our “bash.” Of necessity (our budgets not stretching to more elaborate arrangements), we conceived it as a strictly blue-collar affair at which we would serve hot dogs, pretzels, and mustard, with a keg and setups for the BYOB crowd. It was fixed for a summer night in June 1967, and the stage was set for a first-class Greenwich Village “scene” involving high and low alike. Sort of like the annual anniversary dance at the St. Regis, but without the business department.
Most of the editorial department and many of the cartoonists were in attendance, and the odd matchups that resulted were a source of awe and sometimes wonder. Charles Addams, whose dinner companions ran to the likes of Joan Fontaine, Drue Heinz, and Jacqueline Kennedy, turned up in a black tie and, perhaps in homage to Andy, alone. Muriel arrived with a very young and handsome blond—a gent from her agent’s office, I was given to understand. She looked
While a far cry from an English county ball, I was able to return the invitation to the dance the following year. My coconspirator in the matter was Andrena (Andy) Bear, a leggy, sensational-looking blond who worked as the editor’s secretary in the Talk of the Town department, whose offices, like those of On and Off the Avenue, the fashion department, were located on the eighteenth floor. Andy was a great favorite of Charles Addams and Peter De Vries and a number of the forty or so other men whose offices were on that floor. ( Th ere were half a dozen women—besides Muriel—sprinkled around, too.) Th ese men had a good eye for beauty, and they eyed Andy with evident pleasure. On good days and in the right light I had my admirers also, and we used to kid that, had we chosen to do so, we could have created quite a scandal.
A couple of things prompted our joining forces in the creation of a summer dance. First was the impromptu New Yorker jazz band I had helped bring about. All I’d had to do was put the right parties together. Two cartoonists, Lee Lorenz and Warren Miller, played trumpet and cornet (and Warren occasionally sang a vocal or two in tribute to his idol Fats Waller); Paul Brodeur played clarinet; Whitney Balliett, the magazine’s jazz critic, played drums; when she hosted the jam session in the solarium of her East Side town house, Daphne Hellman played the harp; and the Talk reporter Wally White sat in on piano, occasionally spelled by a New York Times reporter named Phil Benjamin. We always hoped Th e New Yorker ’s editor in chief, William Shawn, an excellent piano player himself, would come, but he never did.
So we had the band; all we needed now was the hall. As if on cue, one of the band members, Lee Lorenz, received notice that he’d soon have to vacate his loft on Spring Street. Th e perfect time to hold a party there, we all agreed. Andy and I were to be the hostesses, and we had great fun with the planning. We decided to invite everyone we knew at the magazine to our “bash.” Of necessity (our budgets not stretching to more elaborate arrangements), we conceived it as a strictly blue-collar affair at which we would serve hot dogs, pretzels, and mustard, with a keg and setups for the BYOB crowd. It was fixed for a summer night in June 1967, and the stage was set for a first-class Greenwich Village “scene” involving high and low alike. Sort of like the annual anniversary dance at the St. Regis, but without the business department.
Most of the editorial department and many of the cartoonists were in attendance, and the odd matchups that resulted were a source of awe and sometimes wonder. Charles Addams, whose dinner companions ran to the likes of Joan Fontaine, Drue Heinz, and Jacqueline Kennedy, turned up in a black tie and, perhaps in homage to Andy, alone. Muriel arrived with a very young and handsome blond—a gent from her agent’s office, I was given to understand. She looked
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