Carnegie

by Peter Krass

  I had opportunity yesterday morning of consulting at Hamilton College your friend and admirer, Charlemagne Tower, who introduced Mrs. Carnegie and myself to your Majesty at Kiel, and found him enthusiastic upon the proposed treaty of giving statesmen a year to cool, which would generally ensure peace upon some terms. . . .

  Meanwhile I find accord among statesmen of both parties here. All support our President in maintaining strict neutrality between the two unfortunate warring nations. Silence for the present; but also I find remarkable unanimity in the belief that this unparalleled war is at last to result in a stern resolve among the best of the nations that men shall no longer be permitted to slay each other, as they are now doing. War must be abolished by a union of the civilized nations, possessing the will and power to maintain peace.11

  The temperamental kaiser did not dismiss the overture out of hand. He had no quarrel with the United States, after all, and keeping the industrial power neutral was to his advantage, so he signed a conciliation treaty with the United States. Now the Senate had to ratify it, not an easy nor a necessarily desirable task, especially with Rough Rider Teddy Roosevelt clamoring for war and flogging President Wilson for not condemning Germany’s invasion of Belgium. The general sentiment of the public disagreed with Roosevelt, however; the majority supported neutrality and read about the war with detached interest, not jingoistic outrage.

  Such disinterest was obviously not the case in Britain, where war engulfed the people. Morley kept his old friend advised: “The war fever is raging here in heavy strength. It is not yet realised that we at any rate might well have kept out of it; that its results can bring us no solid gain; and that the cost in carnage, waste, and demoralization of the public mind, will be mon-strous.”12 Carnegie replied that it was useless to consider what might have been and instead to change what will be. He for one was still willing to “try his hand” for the cause of peace.

  “You say you are ‘trying your hand’ at a presentation of the case for abolishing war,” Morley, in a dark, but pragmatic mood, replied. “I fear the time has not yet come. People will not listen.” He then chided Carnegie, who had admitted he was severely depressed. “It cuts me to the heart that you of all men—the bravest and most confident of men—should write that ‘happiness is all over for the nonce.’ Today is black—yes, black at best. But you have a right—and a duty—to find several hours of happiness per diem in thinking that you have fought your best and hardest for your fellow creatures.”13 The mask had fallen from Carnegie. Behind his optimism that the kaiser could be influenced was the face of despair, belonging to a man who could not muster a flicker of joy in any aspect of his daily life. His protracted peace mission had been burned to ashes, his other missions no longer needed him, and now, left with just himself, just his mind and body to give his character substance, he found nothing to like.

  Over the holidays, John Ross offered subdued greetings and expressed hope that the Carnegie family was planning to return to Skibo in the spring. Hopelessly downtrodden, Carnegie replied that they would not, explaining that his own depressed presence would serve only to further sadden the tenants, who had enough burdens. “On the contrary,” Ross wrote, in a spirited attempt to enliven the old laird. “I feel sure that the very fact that you abstain from coming here will increase the sadness. . . . Your presence will tend to encourage and comfort them [the tenants] far more than any letters you could write. . . . You are so much committed to the ‘Peace Crusade,’ and you have been so often the exponent of the belief that amidst all the contradictions in this world, the world grows better, that if you now make a public announcement that your sadness has altered your life, it would be accepted as a confession that your faith has been shattered. This will never do.” Ross, Morley, and all of Carnegie’s friends needed him to “remain the same happy, optimistic person as ever you were.”14 For Carnegie to lose his eternal optimism was for life itself to end.

  But the idea of crossing the Atlantic, with German U-boats disrupting the shipping lanes, was not particularly attractive. “Consider what it means to go upon a small steamer across the Atlantic,” Carnegie described to Ross, “lites all out, shut in every evening—all dark until the sun rises—crawling along on the look-out for bergs—such our experience home.” He also believed he had “a part to play” in the United States, where he was “in constant touch with our President and Secretary of State,” advising them on the British position.15

  The next month, February, Germany announced that the waters around the British Isles were a war zone and that unrestricted submarine warfare would terrorize every ship approaching Britain, regardless of purpose.

  The month Germany initiated a blockade of the British Isles, Carnegie was forced to testify before another U.S.-government grade-A commission—only it had nothing to do with war. President Wilson had created the United States Commission on Industrial Relations, chaired by Frank P. Walsh and charged with studying the relationships between capital and labor, the conditions of the working class, and related topics, which gave it wide discretion in its investigation. Carnegie was summoned to testify because the commission had elected to explore whether philanthropic foundations were a menace to individual rights, democracy, and the American way of life. There was a fear of large sums of money being concentrated in the hands of a few trustees who may or may not act responsibly, and of the impact if the directorates of these trusts were interlocked. These concerns mirrored those addressed by the 1912 Pujo hearings, a congressional witch-hunt led by Arsène Pujo, a representative from Louisiana.

  In 1912, there had been a belief among congressmen, as well as the American public, that a handful of men, using interlocked directorates that spanned American industry and commerce, controlled the movement of money, the markets, and the entire economy. At the center of the conspiracy was Pierpont Morgan, age seventy-five, who testified before the committee on December 18 and 19. Morgan’s evident sincerity and frankness in testifying, according to the New York Times, created a favorable impression, and the hearings never did uncover a sinister conspiracy—it was indeed a witch-hunt.16 However, the harsh allegations weighed heavily on Morgan, and his health began to fail. Two weeks later, he, his daughter, Louisa, and several friends departed for Egypt. While touring the Nile, he fell ill and the party hastily retreated to Rome. Morgan died there on March 31, mercifully in his sleep.

  Now, with Carnegie’s health fragile, if he were to undergo a similar grilling, his life could be put in jeopardy. Meanwhile, the beleaguered titan, protecting the American way, had just protested to President Wilson a bill passed by Congress that would require literacy tests for immigrants. It would be unfair to those who “have no opportunity for education in their native land,” he argued. “I would not exclude illiterates. The parents may not become intensely literary Americans, but the children will. They cannot help it; such is the Republican atmosphere.”17 Carnegie may have had his quirks, but in 1915 he was hardly the most imminent threat to the American way of life, and it was difficult not to sympathize with him as he prepared to take the stand.

  On February 5, he appeared in the meeting hall of the Metropolitan Life Building in New York, where Walsh was conducting the hearings. He was greeted by hoots and hollers from a mostly hostile crowd, including a contingent of vocal IWW union members. The seventy-nine-year-old Carnegie, dressed in black frock coat, black bow tie, and white stiff-bosomed dress shirt, refused to be ruffled; after climbing up on the dais, he bowed to the commission and gave everyone a winning smile. As he had with the Stanley Commission, he addressed his answers to the audience and played to them. Now came the inquisition on philanthropy and the creating of foundations and trusts.

  “Do you not believe, Mr. Carnegie . . .”

  “Now, Mr. Chairman,” he interrupted. “You say, ‘do you not believe?’ That implies that you believe and you want me to agree. I don’t like that. Please be kind enough to say ‘do you believe?’”

  Laughter rolled through the audience, a
nd once the noise settled, a somewhat perturbed Walsh said, “We had no trouble in keeping order until you came, Mr. Carnegie.”

  “I’m glad of that.” And extending his arms toward the crowd, he added, “What an audience! See how many ladies there are here! That’s one of the greatest triumphs of my life.” Laughter and applause erupted, and the socialists were charmed.18 Ultimately, there was little information gained by the commission, but the strain of this last public appearance did affect Carnegie as feared.

  He suffered a severe attack of grippe in late February and was confined to bed for two weeks. His mental outlook and physical health weren’t helped when the newspaper headlines shrieked of a poison gas attack at the French village of Langemarck. On the morning of April 22, following a German mortar barrage, two greenish yellow clouds appeared over the French lines, merged, and then, like a low fog, swept over five miles of the front. It was like mist over meadows on a frosty night, said one transfixed observer; except that more than fifteen thousand men suffered a painful death or invalidism, choking, falling to the ground, and writhing in pain. The lucky ones urinated on handkerchiefs or shirts and wrapped them around their faces and then ran. Hideous, ignoble gas warfare was now an integral part of battle.19

  Another blow to Carnegie came on May 7, when a German submarine torpedoed the Lusitania, a Cunard luxury liner. It sank in twenty minutes, taking with her 1,198 lives, 128 of them American; most of the victims were women and children. Any chance of the Senate ratifying a treaty with Germany sank, too. The public was now incensed. Wilson fired off a series of protests, demanding an indemnity for the loss of American life and demanding the end of unrestricted submarine warfare.

  Even though it was detrimental to his health, every day Carnegie pored over the newspapers and journals, reading the fiery rhetoric and the gory descriptions. The horror of war continued to grind him down, and influenza set in. His longtime doctor, Jasper Garmany, advised a trip to Bar Harbor, Maine. Carnegie heeded his advice and spent the summer of 1915 fishing, yachting, and golfing. He regained his physical strength, but not his vitality. The clarity of his piercing blue eyes had yellowed. He relinquished all duties at the Carnegie Corporation and suspended writing letters to Morley, a Sunday tradition that was now given to Louise. For companionship, he bought a collie and named it Laddie, just like his favorite dog at Skibo. When the dog died suddenly, Louise immediately arranged to have the true Laddie at Skibo shipped to Bar Harbor.

  Friends feared for his health. In mid-May, Morley wrote Louise:

  I had heard one day last week that something was amiss with him, and have been wondering how I should approach you. Nothing has caught my eye about it in our newspapers.

  It is indeed distressing. I cannot bear to think of that pulse of such extraordinary vitality and force going down by a single beat. You are evidently doing all that tenderness and good sense could lead you to. That I know full well, you may be very sure.

  It is no surprise to me that the strain of the war should be counted among the causes of his illness. I don’t believe there is a man in America, or here, to whom this black cloud of misery and horror that has swept over mankind could bring more mortification of heart and soul than to him. . . . 20

  Morley would continue to scan the papers for news of his old friend, but Carnegie’s name was rapidly fading from the public eye.

  Toward the end of July, the household mood at Bar Harbor brightened. “I am delighted to tell you that Mr. Carnegie is very much stronger and spends most of his time on the yacht, the strong sea air proving the very elixir of life for him,” Louise wrote a family friend, and in mid-August she reported to Robert Franks: “I have still further good news of Mr. Carnegie. He wrote Lord Morley a most delightful letter last week which we were able to send!!”21 In September, she heard from Charlie Schwab, whose feelings for Carnegie remained strong despite past differences: “Every thought of yourself and Mr. Carnegie is always one of deepest affection. What a man and what a friend he has always been!! A father indeed!”22 He offered to help them in any way, no matter how trivial.

  Once the Maine coastal weather cooled, the family returned to the Highlands at Ninety-first Street, where they enjoyed the early autumn glory of the gardens for the first time.

  “This morning I had a waking dream—that I was at Skibo and should once more find myself, on going downstairs, at that joyful and hospitable breakfast table, with the cordial cheerful talk all around, followed by the feeding of the dog, the bustle of the cars, the walks in the glorious garden, the day on the yacht, the kind return home in the late afternoon, the brisk discussions over letter and newspapers. Then how painful to awake to the realities—the cheerless skies, the trees stripped of leaves, the black pall of war outspread, poor Skibo deserted, and you two, battling with home anxieties across the Atlantic out of sight and reach.” These were the words of Morley in a letter to Louise, dated October 31, but they very well could have been Carnegie’s. “Peace does not seem very near,” Morley added. “If it were not unmanly, I could wish that I had slipped off my mortal coil, before these myriad horrors had come upon the earth. There can be no compensation.”23 Always skeptical and pessimistic, Morley now preferred his own death over witnessing the destruction of life, a reaction to the latest war development. The prior month, the French had attempted to break the German army in the Champagne. Over a 15-mile front, they concentrated 35 divisions, about 500,000 men, and 900 heavy artillery guns and 1,600 light. After a furious 3-day bombardment that carved out interlocked craters, the ground assault was launched. It cost the French 145,000 men and no strategic advantage was won. As for the Britain, by the end of the year, she would witness 400,000 of her soldiers cut down.24

  Although significantly stronger in November, Carnegie did not submit to the annual birthday interview with reporters, a ritual for years. Instead, on his eightieth birthday he asked Louise to issue a statement:

  Say to the reporters who usually call on my birthday that all goes well with me. Dr. Garmany marvels at the splendid return to health which a summer on the Maine coast has wrought.

  The world grows better and we are soon to see blessed peace restored and a world court established when, in the words of Burns:

  “Man to man the world o’er

  Shall brothers be for a’ that.”25

  There was a birthday dinner that night, his close friends and colleagues invited. It was subdued; Carnegie was too weak to come downstairs until the last dinner course was served, and then he was propped up in his chair with pillows. Rather than engaging in lively conversation, he contented himself with listening to the Hampton Negro Quartet, hired for the evening to sing plantation melodies.

  The winter of 1915–1916 was spent on a houseboat, the Everglades, in Miami, Florida. “We now begin to feel more at home and I can truly say I like it,” Louise wrote Margaret, who was now a senior at an all-girls private school, where she was separated from her father by distance and ideas. Disillusioned by the war, Margaret recognized little purpose to her father’s philanthropy and had little tolerance for his idealistic proclamations on peace. The Florida life her mother described was equally hollow. “While we were at breakfast this morning the Everglades moved near the shore and anchored off the Club House,” Louise continued her letter. “This meant that we could go ashore easily, without a long launch trip—so after Daddy had his nap, he was willing to take an excursion! I let everybody go ashore and see the town and the Captain took just Daddy and me in the launch up the Miami river. . . . We went up the river under several bridges to a fruit farm where they are experimenting on new kinds of fruit. The Captain went ashore and brought us out a delicious kind of drink made from the juices of grapefruit, oranges, pineapples, lemons, and kumquats—it was very delicious and I let Daddy have a little which pleased him greatly.”26

  Louise’s mollycoddling of her husband could not shield him from the barbaric war. Morley wouldn’t allow it. Bogged down in reflective melancholy, Morley wrote the Carnegies
a morbid New Year’s Eve greeting that reached them on the houseboat. “My best of friends. Here’s the last day of the year—the worst of years! . . . The carnage is hideous. . . . The Britain that you and I have known all these long years is pretty rapidly disappearing. Well, we must face our fates as we best can. . . . I often think of that parting night in the Liverpool hotel.”27 Nor could Louise shield her husband from the January 1916 death of Lucy Coleman Carnegie, the monarch of Dungeness. “The whole family revolved around her,” Louise wrote Robert Franks, “and life can never be quite the same to any of us. Mr. Carnegie bore the news better than I expected. I tried to break it very gently, and his quiet acceptance of it was very pathetic. He does not say much, but he is not brooding over it.” It was indeed a pathetic sight, the steel tycoon slumped in a lounge chair, every need catered to, babied by his wife, he silent and marking time, waiting for his turn.

  The tone of tributes from friends suggested he was already dead, as was the case when Earl Grey wrote a mutual friend, Oscar Strauss, who then forwarded the letter to Louise, hoping it might cheer up her husband. “I hear from Doctor Ross,” Grey wrote, “the head of the Carnegie Trust at Dunfermline, that this war has broke our friend Carnegie’s health and his heart; and you tell me that the effort he made in giving testimony before the Federal Commission broke him down. When you see him tell him that many of us look to him as the great pioneer who has blazed the way to future peace because if his policy of collective responsibility on the part of signatory nations to the Hague convention had been adopted, the United States would have been obliged to come into this war at the very beginning and the knowledge that she would come in would have kept Germany quiet.”28 Grey might very well have been reading a statement at Carnegie’s memorial service.