the life of mrs. andrew carnegie

324 Pages·2011·21.76 MB·English

THE LIFE OF MRS. ANDREW CARNEGIE
By
BURTON J. HENDRICK
and
DANIEL HENDERSON
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"Or walk with king's'-'-1wr lose (lie common touch . . ."
-Rudyard K:l'ling
HASTINGS HOUSE
Publishers New York 22

COPYRIGHT, 1950, BY HASTINGS HOUSE, PUBUSHERS, INC.
All rights reserved. No part of this
work may be reproduced without the
written permission of the publisher.
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CONTENTS
Page
ix
FOREWORD
I. A CHILD OF OLD CHELSEA I
2. GIRLHOOD IN THE SEVENTIES 19
3· A TROUBLED CoURTSHIP 47
4· CRISIS 71
5· WEDDING TRIP ABROAD: BONCHURCH AND KILGRASTON 85
6. SUMMERS AT CLUNY CASTLE 109
7· MOTHERHOOD 135
8. THE LADY OF SKIBO 151
9· No.2 EAST NINETY-FIRST STREET 185
10. SHADOWBROOK, 1919 207
II. THE COURAGE TO Go ON 219
12. THE PLEASANTNESS OF SEVENTY 237
13· CARNEGIE CENTENARy-ITS LIVING SYMBOL 259
14· THE OTHER ROOM 279
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ILLUSTRATIONS
Louise Whitfield Carnegie Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
Louise Whitfield at the age of six 34
Fifth Avenue, looking south from 47th Street with the Windsor
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Louise Whitfield just before her marriage 50
The Carnegies on their honeymoon, Isle of Wight, 1887 51
Mr. and Mrs. King and the Carnegies at Cluny about 1889 130
A coaching party at Cluny 131
Skibo Castle, 1901, showing the new wing built by the Carnegies 146
Mrs. Carnegie with her daughter Margaret, 1904 147
On the terrace at Skibo about 1910 178
No.2 East Ninety-first Street 179
Mrs. Carnegie's sitting-room 194
Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie in New York about 1909 195
Louise Whitfield Carnegie and her four grandchildren, 1932 242
Skibo in June 243
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This story of Louise Whitfield Carnegie and the times in
which she lived began in her sitting room at No.2 East Ninety.
first Street, New York, on a sunny winter morning in 1943.
Mother was kept from her usual busy morning routine by a
slight cold, but was well on the way to recovery. Sitting before
the fire dressed in her lavender wool frock, she was happily
crocheting a blanket for her newest great-grandchild. "I am hav·
ing a holiday this morning," she said.
In this mood she enjoyed talking about her early days as a
girl in New York and, when it was suggested, readily agreed that
these recollections should be jotted down. "Tales of a Grand-
mother," she laughingly called them. Several pleasant mornings
were spent in this way. Then her cold disappeared and she was
again in the full swing of her active life.
Her own reminiscences were never resumed. But so many
diaries and letters were found among her papers that the advice
of Burton J. Hendrick, who knew her well and had written the
biography of her husband, Andrew Carnegie, was sought. Im-
pressed with Mrs. Carnegie's individuality and many-sidedness,
and with her background on two related continents, he was
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FOREWORD
glad to continue her life story. He was in mid-passage with the
work when his death occurred in March, 1949.
He spared himself in no way in the preparation of this story
of my mother, and I am grateful to him for his patient research
and for the skill he dedicated to writing these informal memoirs.
Not long before he died he told me that when the book was
finished it would be like parting with an old friend.
Fortunately there was available to carryon the biography-
with the same understanding spirit-Daniel Henderson, well
known for his work as a poet, and for informal biographies of
persons who in their times had made some impress on life. As
long-time Secretary of the Authors Club of New York, Mr.
Henderson knew Mr. Hendrick; they had much in common,
including a deep interest in the Carnegie family.
In taking up the work, Mr. Henderson was especially guided
by a remark made by a woman friend about my mother after
her marriage:
" ... To be the wife of a man who is not only rich in this
world's goods, but whom God endowed with a powerful brain,
a restless and untiring energy, and a sympathetic heart-why,
that is a sphere of life wherein most would fail." His search led
him to agree with Mr. Hendrick's conclusion, that Louise
Whitfield Carnegie did not fail; simply, graciously, high-
mindedly-her work controlled by fine executive ability-she
succeeded.
It is an intimate story you will read in the following pages,
because any true picture of my mother, Louise Whitfield Car-
negie, must show her as the center of her family. In both the
land of her birth and during her summers in Scotland she was
the true homemaker, and her human relationships-whether as
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FOREWORD
daughter, wife, mother, grandmother, or friend-came first
with her always.
The book has been written for her grandchildren and great-
grandchildren, for her large circle of friends and, of course, for
any reader wishing to know what it meant to be the wife of
Andrew Carnegie. She shared to the utmost his ideals and pur-
poses, yet lived a life of individuality and independence, and
never ceased to make their home a place of warmth and kind-
ness where spiritual rather than material values were put first.
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Louise Whitfield Carnegie was born three days after James
Buchanan became President of the United States; her life from
March 7,1857, to June 24,1946, covered a span of almost ninety
years. It was a time of progressive movements and expanding
horizons, and in her quiet, womanly way she had a part in
them.
She saw the beginning and the triumph of the crusade to
give women the vote and grant them freedom to engage in
almost every class of endeavor.
Her growing interest in world affairs coincided with advance
in travel and communications. Concerned with human welfare
and international relations, as her life drew to a close she (cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)
pated with joy the meeting of the fifty nations at San Francisco
to form the charter for the United Nations Conference. This
convention and its prospects seemed to her to seal the ideal of
her husband for a harmonious union of all nations.
But now for the child that was mother to the woman:
It seems fitting that Louise Whitfield, one of whose (cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)(cid:0)
nant traits was a love of children, should have been born in
New York City's Chelsea, within a few hundred feet of the
spot where Clement Moore wrote his merry little poem:
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring-not even a mouse; ...
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