Saving an Old Merchant’s House
by Mary L. Knapp
This sequel to An Old Merchant’s House takes up the story of a family home built in 1832 after the last family member died in 1933, almost a hundred years later. It tells how the house became a museum and recounts the extraordinary efforts expended over the years to preserve it for posterity.
Purchase Miracle on Fourth Street
And that was the problem. It had been over five years since Chapman had been able to negotiate the stairs at the museum, and even when he could, he had paid little attention to maintenance. When circumstances demanded, he hired a contractor to make repairs, but he did not direct Harry Lonnberg to spend money on the kind of preventive maintenance an old building requires. He may not even have been aware of what that kind of maintenance entailed. The Lonnbergs had not revealed the need for repairs to Chapman because they feared, as Ellen Lonnberg confessed to Shelly, they would be accused of “letting things go,” which they certainly had.
On March 12, 1954, just two months after the Foxes moved in, Florence Helm died suddenly, after being diagnosed with a case of light jaundice only ten days earlier. After her death, Chapman lost no time in hiring part-time clerical help to work on the endowment appeal and in renting her third-floor bedroom to David Swit, a young man who worked for the Associated Press, and his wife. A baby was born to the couple in December, and for the first time in over 100 years, an infant resided at 29 East Fourth Street.
Over the next year, the Foxes spent $1,100 of their own money in making repairs to their quarters. When Shelly submitted a bill for $39 for supplies he had purchased for repairs to the rest of the house, he proudly noted that if they had had to hire a plumber, welder, electrician, and mason to do what he had done, the total cost would have been over $300. Chapman’s response was not encouraging. On March 27, 1954, he wrote:
I am sure the things you are doing will put the house in better shape and make up for past neglect; however we must keep within our budget and try to get along without any expense except what is absolutely necessary. The alternative I am afraid is that we will have to give up the project entirely.
In September of the Foxes’ first year on the job, however, he had no choice but to pay attention. Hurricane Edna slammed into the east coast, and the storm that hit the city shattered windowpanes in the parlor and ripped metal flashing and slate tiles from the long-neglected roof, causing water to pour through the ceiling into the Swits’ room at 3 a.m. Shelly was able to replace the windowpanes, but the roof was another matter, requiring the services of a roofing contractor and a rigger. To pay the bill of $700, Chapman found it necessary to dip into the endowment fund, selling ten shares of Standard Oil stock.
Shelly and Phyllis canceled a planned vacation to be on hand for the roofing repairs. And if that wasn’t enough, shortly after the storm, the premises were invaded by a species of post beetle that stripped all vegetation within sight before spinning a web that blanketed the exterior walls, Shelly confessed to Chapman that he and Phyllis experienced a “near psychological reverse” when the beetles started coming into the kitchen.
But a new boiler was out of the question. Since the beginning, the museum had been a constant drain on Chapman’s personal resources. By the fall of 1954, he had made over $50,000 of contributions and advances. The endowment fund, which he had hoped would sustain the Museum after his death, had reached only $27,000. It is hardly any wonder he was loath to spend yet more on the house.
Finally, on October 16, 1954, Shelly, exasperated, went on the record, warning Chapman that the house was approaching a dangerous state of safety.
The buses rumbling by, the jolting of the trucks in the garages on either side, as well as the hammering from the heavy 50-ton power presses on this highly industrialized block combined with an era of basic neglect, have subjected the entire structure to strains and vibrations that the architects could not have foreseen....What should have been constant vigilance on a minor scale was willfully overlooked, with the property value steadily declining and official condemnation looming closer.…I will not be responsible for the potential consequences, nor could I logically be held to account for conditions which were allowed to fester these many years ... provided they are allowed to continue unattended.
In 1957, two years after the installation of the boiler, a visitor, noting the decrepit appearance of the house, offered to donate interior painting. Shelly passed on the offer to Chapman but advised him to turn it down. As he pointed out, before any painting could be done, expensive repairs to the peeling plaster in the kitchen would have to be made; doors would have to be re-planed and rehung; and areas around the radiator that had rotted would need to be repaired. “New paint,” Shelly wrote, “is the last mile on the long road to restoration.” Other more pressing needs, he pointed out, included storm windows for the north side of the house and electrical repairs to augment the inadequate lighting. Chapman declined the painting offer, but Shelly never did convince him to have storm windows installed nor to update the lighting.
Writing to a contributor in 1957, Chapman looked back on over two decades of effort. “We have not done so badly in the 20 years since we took over the Tredwell house,” he began. Considering he had done it all practically single-handed, he was entitled to feel a sense of accomplishment. He had rescued a nineteenth-century house that, except for his efforts, would certainly have been destroyed and, through constant infusions of his own money, had kept it going as a museum for over 20 years.
Yet things had not turned out exactly as he had hoped. Early on he had given up the idea of acquiring other properties and being the New York equivalent of SPNEA. He had fallen far short of establishing the $100,000 endowment fund he had envisioned. He had really never attempted to marshal a large enough cadre of reliable supporters who could be depended on to support the museum financially after his death, and his repeated efforts to interest another institution in taking over the museum had failed. And though he still did not completely accept Shelly Fox’s judgment, he had to admit the house was in a serious state of deterioration. As Chapman felt his own life drawing to a close, he could not see how the museum could keep going without his financial support. In addition to $37,500 that he had contributed to the society from 1935 to 1956, Chapman had made advances of $14,650 over the same period.
It has been rumored for many years that Chapman’s second wife, Frances, as Chapman’s heir, somehow managed to force the Historic Landmark Society to pay her $75,000 for the furniture, which belonged to Chapman, thus exhausting the endowment fund. The origin of the rumor is unknown, but its persistence illustrates how tenacious inaccurate information can be, for the story has been around for at least 50 years even though it is false in every particular. The furniture did not belong to Chapman at his death; the endowment fund never came near to totaling $75,000, and the legal agreement Chapman reached with the Historic Landmark Society with respect to the outstanding advances would prevent any claims against his estate on that account. He made no bequest to the museum in his will. Perhaps he felt he had done quite enough already.
In May 1958, his health failing, Chapman finally relinquished direction of the Historic Landmark Society, and Clarence Michalis was elected president of the board. In December, the American Scenic and Historic Preservation Society honored Chapman with this citation for achievement in historic preservation:
George Chapman, For your unpretentious and sincere advancement of New York’s antiquarian culture by rescuing from commercial encroachment and preserving intact the Seabury Tredwell house, generally known as “The Old Merchants House” and for making available to the public this record of a gracious fashion of living now long forgotten save for projects like yours, the American Scenic and Historic Preservation Society takes pleasure in awarding to you this citation for honorable antiquarian achievement.
George Chapman died at “Airlie” on October 23, 1959. He was 89 years old. Someone less stubborn, less driven, some would say less naïve and arrogant, would probably have given up on the Old Merchants House years earlier. In 1959, it certainly would have seemed to any objective observer that George Chapman’s dream of preserving the home of an early New York City merchant was destined to die with him.
But you just never know.