Edgewater

Edgewater was fabulous.

Pretty much exactly the way I imagined it, too, though I thought the stucco would be white.

(If you’re thinking stucco is an odd building choice in a northeastern climate, you’d be correct: The stucco overlays brick.)

The grounds are magnificent:



Inside the front door, you see this (to me) rather wonky-looking staircase. (I’m in ❤️LUV❤️ with that floor.)



To the right is the morning room. (Yes, the color is correct to the period, circa 1850 or so.)



Here is the drawing room:



The chairs are all Duncan Phyfes. Edgewater has one of the largest collections of Duncan Phyfe furniture in the world; the last kazillionaire to own Edgewater evidently went on a scavenger hunt through every Sotheby’s catalog and upscale antique store in New England to furnish the place.

You can generally identify Duncan Phyfes from their distinctive leaf carvings:



But Edgewater has a few rare pieces—provenance authenticated—sans leaf carvings:



The dining room! Never Enuff Duncan Phyfe! The Metropolitan Museum of Art is always begging to borrow Edgewater’s furnishings for its various fine arts exhibitions.


(Click to enlarge)

But the gem of the house is the octagonal library:

Watch on YouTube

Cornelius Vanderbilt controlled the railroads in the first half of the 19th century. When he got the opportunity to build a railroad from New York City to Albany, he routed it as close as possible to the grand old Livingston mansions along the Hudson’s east banks. Cornelius Vanderbilt hated the Livingstons: The Livingstons were old money; the Vanderbilts new money.

Here’s the Barrytown railroad station, operational until the early 1960s. A mere 60 feet from the mansion:



The building of the railroad so infuriated Edgewater’s original Livingston heiress that she decamped to Europe, vowing never to return. And she never did:



Though trains don’t stop at the Barrytown station anymore, they rattle past Edgewater with some frequency. Gore Vidal, who owned Edgewater between 1950 and 1964, used to build railroad timetables into his entertaining. “But enough about me,” he’d say to some well-meaning bore with a glance at his watch. “Tell me about you—”

And then the 4:07 to Poughkeepsie would roar by. The train would whistle; the sideboards would shake; the speaker’s voice would be drowned out.

Having fulfilled his hostly duties, Gore Vidal would then blink genially and turn to a more interesting guest.

Here’s Gore Vidal in the dining room:



Gore Vidal was the reason I wanted to see Edgewater. One scene in my story took place there—and as it turns out, I imagined the place very well. But I couldn’t have written the story at all if he hadn’t lived there since the story cycle’s central conceit is Spooky Stuff That Happens to People Who Live In Old Livingston Mansions.

In time, I think Gore Vidal came to regret selling Edgewater. Certainly, several of his best friends regretted it on his behalf.

I think Edgewater was the place where he was happiest.



(And I do not know what is up with that weird dog statue except that there are like four them on the grounds.)