by Peter Krass
As Carnegie contemplated the cable that offered an exorcism, redemption, and emancipation from the past, on April 15, the invincible luxury passenger ship Titanic sank. Many notable American and British passengers were among the 1,513 who drowned out of the 2,224 on board. Four days later he cabled Dod, “Glad you are home again—take it easy. Cant get the Titanic out of mind.”7 The O’Donnell cable, incidentally, never surfaced—because it didn’t exist.
At the family’s isolated Highland retreat in the rugged countryside that summer of 1912, Carnegie ruminated over the trials of the past as he worked on his autobiography. While contemplating death and all too cognizant that his own years were numbered, he thought of Louise, of living without her if she were to die:
I cannot imagine myself going through these twenty years without her. Nor can I endure the thought of living after her. In the course of nature I have not that to meet; but then the thought of what will be cast upon her, a woman left alone with so much requiring attention and needing a man to decide, gives me intense pain and I sometimes wish I had this to endure for her. But then she will have our blessed daughter in her life and perhaps that will keep her patient. Besides, Margaret needs her more than she does her father.
Why, oh why, are we compelled to leave the heaven we have found on earth and go we know not where!8
Facing death without a god was a frightening specter for Carnegie, but to fully shoulder the responsibilities of life on earth without a god as crutch was noble.
Carnegie’s mood darkened further when it became clear there was an irreparable breach between Roosevelt and Taft that would not be resolved in time for the Republican National Convention. If Taft was not nominated and then elected, all the treaty work would be for naught. With Roosevelt calling Taft a “fathead” with “brains less than a guinea pig” and Taft calling him “a demagogue” and “a man who can’t tell the truth,” the Republican Party did indeed rupture into two factions. Come November, Democrat Woodrow Wilson won the election. “The election has not surprised many—Roosevelt’s power for mischief is unlimited,” Carnegie wrote Morley. He then added with his eternal optimism, “Have written Wilson, of course, a nice letter. You knew he is on the board University Professor’s Trust, & has been at Skibo with his wife. He is for Peace & will I think manage better than Taft who really failed in Treaty thru poor management.”9
It was now time for Carnegie the political chameleon to charm Wilson, a process that was initiated with a not so subtle mix of congratulations and personal agenda pushing: “Having done my best to elect President Taft to the second term I now find myself impelled to congratulate you upon your election to the heist office upon the earth—the elected ruler of the majority of the English speaking race. My second choice. . . . What the fates have in store for you is unknown. Perhaps you are destined to succeed in banishing war between the most enlitened nations where President Taft failed. . . . I am sincerely your admirer and cannot help it.”10
Wilson’s answer was cautious but gave Carnegie hope: “I note with the greatest interest what you say about the effort to get a definite foundation of treaty of the international peace for which we are all striving, and I need not tell you again what my own sympathies and feelings are in the matter. I shall always be on that side.”11
To acknowledge Carnegie’s generous financial support during the campaign, Taft invited him to the White House for dinner on December 12. He accepted, but in the weeks between the invitation and the dinner, Carnegie’s disenchantment with Taft over the failed arbitration treaty with Britain became highly bitter, and he vented his frustration on Bryce, who resigned as British ambassador a week after the election: “I hoped your crowning glory was to be The Treaty, which was lost by poor management, nothing else. It will come some day.”12
“As you say,” Bryce replied, “the Treaty was lost for want of promptitude & management. But we mustn’t say that except to each other. It grieved me surely as it grieved you. How often do great enterprises fail for the want of a little tact or a little energy at the right moment.”13
Further put out when William Barnes, chairman of the Republican State Committee, requested $10,000 to help pay debts incurred during the election, Carnegie dictated a curt response to his personal secretary, Poynton, “Mr. Carnegie . . . asks me to say that he has not recovered from the effects of the campaign and must have a rest for a time before considering anything of the nature you suggest.”14 Then came the December 12 dinner, during which conversation was strained. There was nothing Taft could salvage from his presidency, and the blustering president, questioning what he could have done differently, spent the evening lamenting the failed ratification of the treaty. As Carnegie studied the obese man, the more incensed he became with his, as well as Knox’s, inept statesmanship. It had been physically and figuratively heavy-handed.
Three days later, Carnegie could no longer contain his emotions, and he exploded at Taft: “Why did you fail? The answer given by Republicans and Democrats alike was you failed to remember that the Constitution gives the Senate the right not only to consider and approve or reject, but also to advise. . . . When I learnt in Scotland the treaty had been sent to the Senate duly signed I concluded you had submitted it to the Senate Committee and cabled you my joy. I lived for days in a happier world. . . . Believe me, failure to consult the Senate Committee was the fatal mistake; keeping leading Senators ignorant of your presuming to make a treaty which they read for the first time to their surprise in the morning papers.” The perfectly gratuitous retrospection was salt to the wounds and, across the top of the letter an offended Taft carved the letters, “Refer to Sec. Knox. Isn’t it pleasant to be told how it could have been done. WHT.”
After Knox read the letter, in a response to Taft the fuming secretary of state unleashed an irate tirade that been pent up over the years:
As an exhibition of ignorance, mendacity and impudence, this communication of Mr. Carnegie’s is quite up to his well known and well deserved international reputation for these mental and moral failings. It should be appropriately tagged and filed and given no further attention. His statement that we did not consult leading Senators about the peace treaties is untrue. . . . His characterization of your making a treaty without consulting the Senators as presumption upon your part is an exhibition of pitiable ignorance and a piece of colossal impudence. . . .
When Carnegie’s epitaph is honestly written, its author may well use the monkish rhyme:
“Mel in ore, verba lactis Fel in corde, fraus in factis.”15
Carnegie’s relationships with Taft and Knox were discarded in the trash, just like those with Harrison and Bryan. They no longer served a function.
Carnegie would quickly discover where Wilson stood on arbitration and peace as the first year of his administration witnessed violence on several continents: bloodshed engulfed Mexico as revolution swept the country; Turkey was warring with Italy over Libya; the Balkan countries battled the Ottoman Empire, which occupied Macedonia and had been encouraged to expand into the region by the kaiser; and Bulgaria would attack its former Balkan allies in June 1913, the month Carnegie would be in Berlin to honor the German emperor’s peaceful reign and just two months before Carnegie was to finally attend the dedication of the Palace of Peace, as it was now called, in The Hague.
Endowment for International Peace trustee Nicholas Murray Butler, hoping to promote future peace, had proposed the kaiser be awarded a memorial signed by top officials of leading American societies and corporations to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the kaiser’s reign, a reign without the blot of war—this despite the kaiser’s ongoing massive military build-up. Carnegie, still foolishly dreaming the kaiser would prove the champion of peace, heartily endorsed the project and left New York in May with eager anticipation. First on the itinerary was Berlin, followed by Paris, and then to Skibo, before going to The Hague.
Carnegie arrived in Berlin on June 13 to convey felicitations to the kaiser. At the palace, he deli
vered the address of congratulations to the “Imperial Majesty as the foremost apostle of peace in our time,” and then he approached with an ornate casket containing the memorial address. As he did, the emperor, with outstretched arms, said emphatically, “Remember, Carnegie! Twenty-five years of peace! If I am Emperor for another twenty-five years not a shot will be fired in Europe!” But the soothing promise belied the belligerent talk of a European war.
Perhaps a sign from the goddess of fortune, the Balkan Wars ended with the August 10 signing of the Treaty of Bucharest. The sunshine was glorious on August 28, when notables from around the world gathered in The Hague for the Palace of Peace dedication. It was “certainly unlike anything else in the world,” wrote a journalist attending the opening ceremonies. In a show of unity, countries from around the world contributed gifts to furnish the palace’s interior: a Gobelin tapestry from France, gates and railings from Germany, marble from Italy, a candelabra and vases from Austria-Hungary, and silk cartoons from Japan, among so many others. The director of the palace, Jonkheer Van Karnebeek, and the Dutch minister of foreign affairs made the keynote speeches before the queen of the Netherlands and the four hundred others in attendance, while Carnegie kept a low profile.
The next day, at the unveiling of a bust of King Edward VII and Sir William Randall Cremer in the Great Court, Carnegie delivered his address promoting peace among the Teutonic nations—Britain, Germany, and the United States—and repeating the call for a League of Peace.16 After the emotionally exhausting day, Louise wrote in her diary, “Thus the great day has passed, perhaps the greatest in Andrew’s life, when he has been permitted to see inaugurated the permanent building which he has given wherein the great ideal for peace may be wrought—until Peace and good will may be realized upon the earth.”17 Coincidentally and not so ironically, after the peace ceremonies the Carnegies traveled to Brussels, Belgium, a neutral country soon to be ravaged by war.
While Carnegie was in Europe, Wilson, who cut a far more impressive figure than Taft, quickly established his presidency, prompting Carnegie to characterize him as bold and earnest to Morley. “Naturally I think it’s the Scotch in him, the do or die.”18 The honeymoon didn’t last long, however; none ever did with Carnegie. When a revolutionary bloodbath swept through Mexico, the president was no longer spared from Carnegie’s advice. In a military coup, General Victoriano Huerta had overthrown the country’s president, Francisco Madero, who had angered the peasants for not fulfilling promised reforms and angered the landowners for promising anything. Wilson, refusing to recognize Huerta, attempted to force the dictator to hold free elections. On November 3, Carnegie jumped into the fray with his trademark “if I were you.” “If I were you I’d let Mexico manage her own destiny,” he advised Wilson, “limiting my charge to taking care of our citizens here.”19 When Wilson’s rhetoric became more belligerent toward Huerta, two weeks later, Carnegie cabled, “Beware! Beware Invasion.”20 Like many before him, Wilson must have paused to contemplate the maze of contradiction threaded through Carnegie’s personality. On the one hand, the philanthropist was an avid preacher of “triumphant democracy,” but when it came to aiding the Mexican people’s fight for the right to vote he jumped off the pedestal. Perhaps he feared the resurgence of imperialistic designs.
The jingoists did indeed come forth when, in April 1914, a crew of American sailors in Tampico, Mexico, were arrested by Mexican soldiers. Although they were held only briefly and the government issued an apology, the U.S. commanding admiral in the Caribbean fleet demanded the Mexican navy honor the American flag with a twenty-one-gun salute. The Mexicans refused, insisting the Americans honor the Mexican flag first. Then came news that German merchants were to land with a cargo of weapons at the port of Vera Cruz. The newspapers clamored for war just as they had in 1898, and, patience tested, Wilson ordered the American fleet to capture and hold the city. Exasperated by the turn of events, Carnegie chided the president as though he were a schoolboy, using one of his favorite lines, “What fools these mortals be,” that illustrated his general contempt for the human race: “Such a war as seems pending will in after years be held akin to the fabled war of the two kings to decide which end of the egg should first be broken. ‘How or when should the salute be fired’ is a trifle unworthy of consideration. ‘What fools these mortals be.’ I am very sorry for you. Just on the eve of your unequaled triumph, the gods threaten you with defeat; but I still hope for a miraculous triumph. War is defeat, no true victory is possible here.”21 He was relieved when Argentina, Brazil, and Chile offered to mediate and Wilson accepted. “If mediation fails,” Carnegie reminded the president, “you can still blot out the past by prompt withdrawal, and inform your countrymen that your desire to save poor Mexico . . . from a reign of misrule had been found wholly impracticable.”22
By midsummer, the fickle Carnegie was extolling Wilson’s virtues to Morley: “Rejoicing this morning that our noble President is likely to escape from his Mexican blunder.”23 Mexican leader Huerta did resign, but Pancho Villa would lead a revolt against the next regime. Carnegie also rejoiced when it became clear that Wilson and Bryan were intent on pursuing the treaties Taft and Knox had laid the groundwork for. Bryan spearheaded the negotiations, but in his zealousness to win “conciliation treaties” with any nation of marginal import that would be acceptable to the Senate, the terms of the treaties lacked real substance, not unlike the empty shells Roosevelt refused to sign a decade earlier. Real détente with Britain, France, and Germany remained elusive as Bryan signed pacts with lesser nations. “Secretary Bryan’s completed arbitration treaties with Switzerland, Denmark, and Uruguay take a great load off our minds,” wrote a columnist for the Memphis Commercial-Appeal sarcastically. “The thought of war with them was terrible.”24 Any progress in the direction toward peace, however useless, was acceptable to Carnegie, and after Bryan concluded negotiations with Denmark, he congratulated the secretary of state: “I wish you speedy success, and more treaties of the same character.”25
Communication between Carnegie and the Wilson administration was relatively minimal when compared to Carnegie’s exhortations and protestations during the Roosevelt and Taft years. It was as though the great titan of industry and philanthropy had finally purged himself: the bulk of his surplus wealth now rested with the trustees of the Carnegie Corporation and the Palace of Peace had opened. Yet violence around the world continued unabated. What more could be done? He had attacked cancerous war on a number of fronts: through education; through monuments to peace; through his hero funds; through diplomacy; through playing to egos, fears, and moral conscience. Other than war itself, there was one avenue to peace left unexplored: through the church.
In 1914, Carnegie engineered one last major endowment when he convinced the Carnegie Corporation trustees to give $2 million to create the Church Peace Union, an organization comprised of members of various religious bodies. Although millions had died in sundry holy wars, he prayed that in this age of enlightenment religious men would respond strongly to an appeal for peace. The stated mission: “To promote peace, through the rallying of men of all religions to supplant war by justice and international brotherhood.” The goals and means were very similar to those of the Endowment for International Peace, the mission to be achieved through diplomacy, improving communication between nations and peoples, and educating the masses. Carnegie proudly trumpeted his latest effort to Morley: “Would you believe that I have the cordial, delighted acceptance of Cardinal Gibbons of Washington (R.C. of course) Bishop Greer, Episcopal Head, and two dozen heads of various sects, not one refused. I am so pleased at union of the separate Sects, Jews included, two Rabbies, Universalists, Baptists, etc. etc., esteeming that in itself a step forward toward the coming brotherhood of man. Have called all to meet here 5th February to organize—Episcopalians here not being unfairly pampered by the nation, cooperate freely with other sects.”26
For the agnostic Carnegie to appeal to religious men to join his fight for peace demo
nstrated just how desperate he was. At the urging of Carnegie, the trustees of the Church Peace Union organized a conference of the churches of Europe and Asia and scheduled it for the first three days in August 1914 in Constance, Germany. They would be caught in the maelstrom.
As he had for the last thirty years, Carnegie made plans for his Scotland sojourn. “Due Plymouth 31st—Coburg Hotel for four days,” he informed Morley the first week of May, “then Freedoms of Coventry & Lincoln enroute to Skibo, join Madam & c on northward at York for Skibo. Return London for Liberal Club address 16th & Burt banquet—& Aberdeen University Society these two following 17 & 18th, then am free.”27 Morley was scheduled to visit the Highlands in August, as was Lucy and her son Andrew and his wife. It was shaping up to be a typical summer on June 6, 1914, when the Carnegie family arrived at Skibo. Carnegie was seventy-eight years of age, Louise was fifty-seven, and Margaret was now a young lady of seventeen. Her parents had been married for twenty-seven years and were still very much in love. The same could be said for Archduke Francis Ferdinand, heir apparent to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and his wife, Sophie.
Celebrating fourteen years of marriage on June 28, the royal couple was to spend the day touring Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia, and hobnobbing with the city’s dignitaries. As their open motorcar, in a procession of four, passed through unguarded streets, seven nationalist Serbs belonging to a terrorist group called the Black Hand, and filled with murderous intent, spread out to strategic points and waited for their quarry. The motorcade passed the first conspirators at the Cumuria Bridge, where, without warning, a homemade bomb was flung through the air. Seeing the motion, the archduke lifted his arm and deflected the bomb, which, on hitting the street, exploded. The cars now sped through the streets, but then the archduke’s driver made a wrong turn and screeched to a halt to reverse course. Before he could accelerate, from just five feet away, another assassin stepped forward and fired two bullets from his pistol. One hit Ferdinand in the neck, the other Sophie in the abdomen. Both were fatally wounded. “Es ist nichts. Es ist nichts,” the archduke responded, when asked if he was suffering.28 His last words—“It is nothing”—couldn’t have been more wrong.