It was just days after Lent, in the afterglow of what had been the most spectacular party that New York had ever witnessed. The sights of that evening would not be forgotten soon, after all, how could they. Grand carriages had arrived carrying the wealthiest and well-to-do of the social elites of the city. Women, adorned in wraps and shawls that covered their elegant dresses, had walked the sidewalk and up the stairs into the most grand party in city history. Men, dressed in elegant suits and with ceremonial swords locked at their hips, had accompanied their ladies to this most elegant affair. The older among them had carried themselves with perhaps a touch more dignity, while those of lesser years arrived with a mixed appearance of feigned boredom and simultaneous anticipation.
They had all been accompanied by maids and valets, who had been asked to remain in their carriages. This was a slight faux pas, almost an insult to the sensibilities of these people that had become accustomed to their servants being on hand, ready at the beck and call of their employers. Still, for this one night, for this particular grand party, it was an acceptable compromise. This, after all, was the great party of the Vanderbilts, an extravagant affair unmatched by their peers. It was not untypical of people of their status, the wealthiest and most elite in a class of individuals that were all elites of some type, to spend extravagantly on luxuries, unneeded though they might be. The Vanderbilts, though, were not only mere elites. Their family's hands touched all elements of the shipping and railroad industries, establishing such unrivaled wealth that their patriarch, Cornelius Vanderbilt, was well reputed as the wealthiest man in the world.
With such credentials and with such extravagance lavished on this affair, there could be no taking offense. One simply did not, after all, turn down the invitation of the Vanderbilts. This would be the social event of the season and perhaps all seasons. So, with great excitement and enthusiasm the affair began, its many guests well clothed in the apparel of royalty. Dukes and princes, kings and queens made their way through the cavernous halls, admiring tapestries and paintings whose origins lay in centuries past. Oak paneling of the finest design mixed with stone carvings in a beautiful medley of architecture that mimicked the finest of European designs, while elegant bouquets of flowers sat in vases of such extraordinary price that only those in attendance could have contemplated purchasing them.
None were better dressed than the Vanderbilts, though, who appeared in the garb of Venetian royalty. Mrs. Vanderbilt's dress was white and yellow with light trim of flowers embroidered in gold, her cap embedded with dazzling jewels and with a deep blue sash that had been pinned at her waist. She had descended into the party with little difference noticed between herself and true royalty, would go on to earn her name in the New York press as an utter vision of beauty.
It was 1883, near the end of the Gilded Age, an era marked by unparalleled excess and wealth concentrated in the hands of the very few. It was a time of disparity that would go unmatched for over a century, and in the weeks that followed, Mrs. Bradley-Martin determined that she would throw a party that would put to shame anything the Vanderbilts had done that night. There was one place, in particular, she had in mind for this luxurious party: The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
It was a week after the Democratic National Convention, and Mitt Romney ruminated on what he'd seen, matching it against his own experience. Never known as a fantastic speaker, he'd watched as Barack Obama had been greeted by the enthusiastic shouts of thousands of supporters. It had been one more in a string of speaking engagements that had seen Romney forced to appeal to die hard supporters while, in reality, struggling to connect with anyone outside of the party elite. His talk had been met with lackluster response, most demonstrably shown in the post-convention polls. Romney's net popularity, if it were possible, had actually dipped in the afterglow of the Republican National Convention. Barack Obama's popularity, meanwhile, had swung up a notable seven points.
Perhaps the most embarrassing contrasts between the two events, though, had not been his own speech versus' President Obama's. Instead, it had been the contrast between Clint Eastwood's and that of former President Bill Clinton. Romney and his entourage had watched in mild horror as Eastwood had gone on, for several agonizing minutes, in an argument with an invisible Barack Obama, purportedly seated in the empty chair Eastwood had requested. Nobody in the campaign had thought, when Eastwood had requested it, that he'd also meant to hold a lengthy discussion with thin air. Given Eastwood's advanced age, they'd thought, at most, that he had planned to take a seat. The resulting calamity instead had been a national broadcast of an elderly man talking to an empty chair, rambling on in broken language, stuttering and struggling as he did so. Set against Bill Clinton, who had artfully and at length made an effective speech illustrating all of the reasons that Barack Obama had to be reelected, and Eastwood's speech looked even more impotent. While one man had argued with nobody, another had put forth a forceful reason behind voting for the Democratic Party.
Now, sitting in his home in Massachusetts in an effort to recoup from the intense last few weeks, he was forced to acknowledge yet another hit to his campaign. Despite all the trumpeting and boasting, he would soon be forced to acknowledge a dire truth concerning his finances. It had nothing to do with the release of his taxes, something he'd thought better to simply ignore, or his state of personal finances. He was a son of wealth, and the beneficiary of years as a member of Bain Capital, which had swollen his personal wealth immensely. Due to the nature of where his finances were coming from, Romney did not actually have the wealth to spend on his campaign that he'd previously boasted about. True, the Super PACs supporting him and other Republicans had raised more than Obama. At 165 million it was nothing to sneeze at but, unfortunately, it was also money he could not access.
Barely a third of that money was under his direct control due to campaign finance laws preventing him from coordinating with the Super PACs. The practical consequence was that he could not direct the money to supporting his campaign where he needed it and, as a result, he was being forced to raised money to keep up with Obama. The President, after all, had almost twice as much money under his direct control and supervision.
Still, sitting there, staring at an old photograph of his father from decades before, he realized there was one more chance at taking in the sort of money he'd need to race with Obama. He'd have a retreat, one in which the wealthiest were allowed to spend a weekend hobnobbing with himself and other elites. Already, in his mind, he had envisioned the perfect location: The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel.
*
The Waldorf-Astoria had been brand new when she had first thought about hosting a party there, but by 1897 it had evolved to a level of even greater decadence than in the year that it had been first established. It had been the first hotel of its type, transforming the landscape and culture of hotels and their nature. The first to establish room service, it had become a center of socialites and elites, a destination for the well off and for city visitors with money to spend. Women, particularly, had been taking advantage of it as a place to hold indulgent social gatherings, inviting the finest and wealthiest to their affairs. What Mrs. Bradley-Martin gazed upon the night of the party, though, was of a level of decadence unmatched in city history. Indeed, she had done it. She had beaten out the Vanderbilts, and everyone in attendance knew it.
Eight hundred socialites and elites had arrived, regaled in apparel matching European royalty, much like at the Vanderbilt affair. However, these guests had invested far more into their costumes for the evening than had been witnessed previously. The total costs for guests had come to nearly 400,000 dollars (nearly 20,000 per individual in modern money). The Bradley-Martins, meanwhile, had spent nearly nine million dollars to host the event. To put the scope of the party into understandable terms, the average yearly income for an American of that time was 400 dollars. In attendance at the party were a dozen individuals worth more than ten million dollars, and more than double that worth at least five million.
The interior of the Waldorf-Astoria had been made to imitate the grand French Palace of Versailles, complete with its ornate trimming on walls and ceilings and mirrored walls. The rarest and most ancient tapestries had been set upon the walls, while all the hallways shimmered in the glow of lights, the delicate scent of mammoth bouquets of flowers drifting through the air. Guests changed into their costumes on arrival, donning powdered wigs and applying makeup to their faces, while latching on ancient family jewelry and heirlooms. As they entered into the main ballroom, their names were announced, as well as the historical figures they purported to be. For almost ninety minutes the guests filtered inside, each announced, each honored. Then, finally, Mrs. Bradley-Martin herself had graced them, arriving as a vision of Mary Stuart. Her dress was laced with gold, pearls and jewels, a crown set upon her head.
It was a party for the richest and best of American elites. When asked how she could justify such extravagance, she'd simply laughed it off. The party was being held on short notice, and so those in attendance would be forced to buy their costumes quickly, which meant locally. These people were the job creators after all, and by spending so much on this event, they were actually contributing to the American economy. It didn't matter that, throughout the rest of the year and for the majority of the country, wage labor was victimizing those who were part of the job system. This night would give back, after all.
In her mind, it had been simply an intention, a notion, something not worth lingering on. This was the grand party that history would remember her by, that New York and all of its wealthy would be talking about for decades. Surely it would benefit those less fortunate by putting them to work, but in the end, it wasn't the true point of the affair. This was her legacy.
Which was why, in the following days, Mrs. Bradley-Martin was confused by the response to the elegant event. Pastors, uncomfortable with the sheer financial scope of the event, had publically condemned the level of indulgence that had been displayed. The press, meanwhile, had skewered her. Only days after publishing the list of guests and all the excitement that swirled around the party, the papers had now turned on her, demanding to know how so few could live in such wealth and so many others could live in such poverty. Even New York government officials, their feet to the fire as the public demanded accountability, were forced to act. With little way to placate the masses, they'd done the one thing that was so rarely done to the wealthy, and heavily increased the taxes on them. After all, a family that could afford to spend millions on this sort of party had to be financially capable of paying more taxes. In addition, the Bradley-Martins had earned the ire of all those in attendance, whose taxes had also been raised dramatically.
It was a public sham, a moment of outcry. Decades of victimization had taken their toll. The average city worker, living ten or twenty to a room, had become tired of being paid so little. It was an age of unions, who were demanding better payment from the likes of Vanderbilts, Rockefellers and Carnegies. It was an age of fairness, in which the American worker would be given a forty hour work week and eight hour days, allowing time for them to spend with their families. After all, what good were all the 'charitable' constructions like libraries worth if the workers never had the leisure time to visit them?
It was the end of the Gilded Age, and end to extravagant, selfish indulgence that stole from the poor to pay for the wealthy, and an end to such overt conspicuous consumption. It was an end to an era when people like the Bradley-Martins could flaunt their overwhelming wealth in the face of such abject poverty. Shamed and unable to even understand why they were being scorned for their event, the Bradley-Martins shortly returned to England, attempting to evade the taxes imposed on them and the public shame heaped upon them.
*
That was the legacy of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel's grand party, the Bradley-Martin Ball. Now, another millionaire sits there, dining among the wealthiest and most affluent. He regales them with his views, much like he recently did, in which he deemed 47% of the country a group of indulgent takers who contributed little. Those people, unworthy of his time, could not dream of affording a place at his retreat at the Waldorf-Astoria. They did not make the requisite money and, besides, were lazy at heart. They were looking for hand outs, not hand ups. He says this while publicly speaking of lowering taxes on the wealthiest, because they are the job creators, mimicking the statements of the wealthy elites that lived in centuries past.
He says this while planning cuts to Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security, the hard earnings of the 20th century that became an era for the average American worker to celebrate. He says this while planning to implement tax codes that would force the middle class to pay ever higher sums in taxes, while the wealthiest pay less, and no, $250,000 a year is not middle class. His time, right now, is with the elites that he seems so comfortable with. This is his Astorian moment, when he chooses to invest his time with the wealthiest few over the poorest majority. This is the time he chooses his company, his words and his actions. This is also the time when the public looks at him, one more member of American royalty. They may no longer wear the crowns, but they still hold the same principles. So it is now up to the American public to decide how they shall respond.
In one month, this country will go to decide just what his legacy will be. Will we mimic the past, when workers no longer tolerated their poverty being flaunted before them? Or will we choose to work ever harder for ever less? I can weave a tale of the past, but I'm no prognosticator of the future. Still, I believe this might be another Astorian Moment.