Linda Fairstein - Lethal Legacy

“Is there an actual Hunt collection at the library?” I asked. “I heard Mike say it had something to do with that.”

Jill Gibson pulled her chair up to the table. “Their family helped establish the library, Alex, more than a century ago. The collection they’ve amassed is enormously valuable. We make it a practice not to do anything to disturb the Hunts,” she said, making her point to Battaglia.

“Well, I’m certainly going to have to meet with each of them,” I said.

“We’ll talk about that after Jill leaves, Alex. She and I have had a couple of meetings in the last two weeks about some problems they’ve been experiencing at the library. It may be that this case isn’t an isolated event.”

Now Battaglia had my complete attention. “What kind of problems?”

“Do you know the library?” Jill asked.

“I think it’s the most magnificent building in New York City,” I said, refilling our mugs. The Carrère and Hastings Beaux Art masterpiece, with its massive triple-arched portico, dominated Fifth Avenue at the corner of Forty-second Street.

“You’ve spent time there?”

“I majored in English literature when I was at college. I was fortunate enough to be admitted for a month between semesters to do research for my senior thesis.”

“You might want to know why the Hunts are so important to us, Alex. Why we try to tiptoe around them, keep them out of the headlines,” Jill Gibson said. “I’d also be happy to give you private access to their collection. It’s got some extraordinary pieces.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“ New York City came late to the idea of establishing a great library,” Jill said. “The French had the Bibliothèque nationale and in London the fabulous domed Reading Room was built at the British Museum.

“These institutions were symbols of civilized societies and cultures, founded in ancient seats of national government, with documents and books descended from kings and noblemen over the centuries. Americans, on the other hand, were struggling to emerge from the shadows of colonialism, with no comparable government funding for these purposes. By the 1890s, our domestic rivals for intellectual prestige- Boston and Chicago -had already built central libraries, and in Washington, the Library of Congress moved out of its home in the Capitol to the first of its own buildings.”

“We had no libraries here before that time?” Battaglia asked.

“There are two very different kinds of facilities, Paul. One is what’s called a circulating system.”

“Elevate the masses by giving the people books,” I said, recalling my nineteenth-century history. “Advancement through self-improvement. Weren’t they usually the work of well-to-do ladies in their communities, making sure that poor little girls had wholesome stories to read?”

“Exactly. They’re what led to the branch libraries, here and all over the country. The other type is the well-endowed reference library. That’s how the NYPL developed-as a research facility, in which the books are never allowed to leave the building. We were a gift to the city from some of the richest men in America.”

“Who founded it?” I asked.

“It began with private collections. The largest was put together by the first American millionaire, John Jacob Astor,” Jill said.

“Jasper Hunt’s business partner.”

“In some ventures, Alex, that’s correct. Astor loved literature and had many literary friends. In fact, Washington Irving was the first president of the Astor Library. By the 1890s, the collection John Jacob had bequeathed to his younger son, William Black-house Astor, had more than a quarter of a million books.”

“Where could they possibly have been housed?” Battaglia asked.

“ Lafayette Street, Paul. That wonderful redbrick brownstone where the Public Theater is today. That was the Astor Library,” Jill said. “And the city’s other devoted bibliophile was James Lenox, who was also a real estate mogul and a merchant. He built himself a palatial marble library on the Upper East Side -today it’s the Frick. From Lenox we got the first Gutenberg Bible brought to America, the original autographed manuscript of George Washington’s Farewell Address, and the most complete first editions of Bunyan and Milton.”

Jill Gibson was animated now, her eyes sparkling as she expressed her obvious joy for these treasures.

“What brought the Astors and Lenoxes together?” I asked.

“Samuel Tilden, actually, at the end of his life. A bachelor with an immense fortune that he wanted to leave for the public good.”

“Nothing like a politician,” Battaglia said. “Tilden lost the presidential election to Rutherford Hayes, but he was one of the finest governors of this state.”

“Tilden was also a leader of the civic movement bemoaning New York ’s lack of a great free public library and reading room. He formed a trust to establish one as his legacy to the city, consolidating the unique private collections already in existence and infusing them with fresh funding. The Tilden Trust and Astor and Lenox libraries joined in 1895 to form this new cultural entity-the New York Public Library.”

“Public?” Battaglia asked.

Jill Gibson smiled. “Open to the public, but a private, nonprofit corporation governed by a self-perpetuating board of trustees.”

“Tight-lipped and tough-minded, that group is.”

“Exactly, Paul. The power rests entirely in that board, to this day.”

“And the building itself?” I asked.

“The board asked the city to supply a site and maintain the building and grounds-the beginning of this public-private partnership. The city chose Reservoir Square -the huge, gloomy, and obsolete home of the Croton Reservoir, a central crossroads of Manhattan at the time, between Fifth Avenue and Bryant Park.”

“Of course. The reservoir was demolished in order to create the library,” I said, remembering the process that led to the construction of the vast underground system of tunnels to bring water to the city so long ago.

“You can still see the foundation of the reservoir in our basement,” Gibson said. “Sixteen years after the trust was set up-in 1911-at the cost of nine million dollars, close to two hundred million in today’s terms, the building was hailed as the greatest modern temple of education.”

“What about the Hunts?” I asked. “Was their collection part of the original gift?”

“Jasper Hunt the Second wasn’t so quick to get on board. He was skeptical about relinquishing his father’s precious books-and those he’d continued to acquire. That reluctance kept the original trustees from inviting him to join the board.”

“Who were they?” Battaglia asked.

“Best described, Paul, as twenty-one rich white men past their prime. Social status, gender, and economic standing were intentionally homogeneous, to encourage a harmony of action and purpose,” Gibson said. “Schuylers and Cadwaladers, Bigelows and Butlers. Jasper Hunt had the money, but not the class.”

“Was it his eccentricity?” I asked.

Jill Gibson laughed. “The library papers suggest that eccentricity was part of his charm. To this group of trustees the Hunts were practically outlaws.”

“Even with the Astor business connection?”

“Jasper Hunt the First started life shoeing horses for John Jacob Astor. You know the Astor quote about real estate?”

“No, I don’t.”

“‘If I could live all over again, I would buy every square inch of Manhattan,’” Jill said. “And Astor came pretty close to doing just that. He took a liking to young Hunt. Brought him into the real estate company before Hunt was twenty years old, funded his first acquisitions, and introduced him to extravagances like the rare books that gave Astor such pleasure. Hunt was smart enough to follow in his master’s footsteps.”