by Peter Krass
After making its way through the Suez Canal, the ship anchored off the coast of Egypt. Carnegie and Vandy then took in the sights of Cairo, a picturesque city with a commanding citadel and hundreds of mosques with slender spirals poking at the sky. There was an opera house, a circus, cafés, and the renowned museum with its haunting mummies, sarcophagi, jewelry, coins, and statues. Next came the great pyramids at Giza, where three Arabs helped Carnegie climb Cheops, one on each side and the third behind, pulling and pushing. While the pyramids held a mystical power, it was the mysterious, sad Sphinx that captured his imagination, symbolizing everything, yet nothing, he said.
As the exotic odyssey reached its end, Carnegie boiled down his foremost negative opinions of life in the East: “Life there lacks two of its most important elements—the want of intelligent and refined women as the companion of man, and a Sunday. It has been a strange experience to me to be for several months without the society of some of this class of women—sometimes many weeks without even speaking to one, and often a whole week without even seeing the face of an educated woman. And, bachelor as I am, let me confess what a miserable, dark, dreary, and insipid life this would be without their constant companionship!”14 It was the second time he mentioned the lack of a female companion; the trip had exacerbated his emotional loneliness, his want of a woman.
On March 14, after two weeks in Egypt, they departed for Sicily, to be followed by Naples, Rome, Florence, Paris, and London. Four days later, Sicily rose from the Mediterranean. Once ashore, Carnegie inhaled the rich aromas of olive, oranges, and lemons wafting from the groves. Vandy and he ascended Mount Etna, an active volcano on the east coast, but the climb to the top was not as exhilarating to Carnegie as receiving a note from Shinn declaring E.T. had bested Cambria in steel rail production. “Pyramids & Mt Etna & Vesuvius have been our last climbs—Mt E of course we did only from the base,” he replied. “Tell Capt Jones there was a proud little stout man who gave a wild hurrah when he saw E T ahead.”15
In London, Carnegie’s mother joined them, and a month was passed in England and Scotland, visiting friends and family. On June 14, the group sailed for home on a Cunard steamer. They arrived in New York ten days later, exactly eight months after Carnegie and Vandy had departed San Francisco. Carnegie went straight to Cresson to rest from his extensive vacation.
The pastoral voyage through a slice of time had come to an end, but the grand panorama remained vivid in Carnegie’s mind and gave him a more expansive view of life. He was inspired to share his experience and to expose himself, or rather his thoughts and emotions during the journey that rekindled his old desire to become a writer in the vein of Horace Greeley and Bayard Taylor. Over the next several years, he organized his notes and reflections and penned a book, which he had privately printed for his family, friends, and colleagues. Although he experienced the thrill of holding the book in his hands, he was anxious over its reception: “The writer of a book designed for his friends has no reason to anticipate an unkind reception, but there is always some danger of its being damned with faint praise.”16 He was no Mark Twain or Herman Melville, but the work was regarded highly enough for Charles Scribner’s Sons to purchase the rights to publish it for general readership; it would appear in 1884 under the title Round the World.
Having witnessed diverse cultures, many stricken with conflict, Carnegie declared himself to be growing “tolerant and liberal” and he concluded the book with a call for “the Brotherhood of Man.”17 Such a liberal and embracing view did not supersede Carnegie’s combative religion of survival of the fittest. The odyssey had confirmed arguments set forth by Spencer and Darwin: “A new horizon was opened up to me by this voyage. It quite changed my intellectual outlook. Spencer and Darwin were then high in the zenith, and I had become deeply interested in their work. I began to view the various phases of human life from the standpoint of the evolutionist. . . . The result of my journey was to bring a certain mental peace. Where there had been chaos there was now order. My mind was at rest. I had a philosophy at last. . . . All our duties lie in this world and in the present, and trying impatiently to peer into that which lies beyond is as vain as fruitless.”18
More so than ever, Carnegie found justification for his relentless pursuit of material progress: “Not only had I got rid of theology and the supernatural, but I had found the truth of evolution. ‘All is well since all grows better’ became my motto, my true source of comfort.”19 If his business continued to grow, then all was well. It was a faultless argument, according to Carnegie, who devoutly believed the theories of Spencer and Darwin were fact. If his friends, subordinates, and competition suffered in this battle for survival, such was evolution. There was no room for sympathy; after all, Spencer concluded that when the struggle begins “all start with equal advantages,” and then those with natural ability excel. “One part of the community is industrious and prudent and accumulates property,” Spencer wrote, “the other idle and improvident or in some cases perhaps, unfortunate.”20 These ideas engulfed Carnegie and became weapons in the battle for domination over competitors, partners, and labor. He would also need these weapons to block any influences of his proletarian, radical heritage as he espoused material progress.
Bachelorhood had weighed heavily on Carnegie for some time, the weight only to increase when, in November 1879, he turned forty-four years of age. After his voyage around the world, his hair had thinned, his beard was thicker with gray, and his face more weathered, reflecting his angst. Once again fully immersed in the New York social scene, he couldn’t help but notice that the young ladies he had been riding with in Central Park were being married off, and those who were not failed to meet his high standards. With another New Year approaching, the feelings of loneliness, of wanting someone to share in his triumphs and battles, intensified. Carnegie needed an additional emotional pillar to complement his aging mother.
On New Year’s Day in 1880, Carnegie strode out of the luxurious Windsor Hotel, at Fifth Avenue between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth Streets, where Margaret and he had recently moved, to pay his respects to various friends, as was the custom. Dressed fashionably in a silk shirt, black waistcoat and straight trousers, patent leather button boots with suede uppers (and inserted lifts to add a good inch to his height), as well as a top hat, Carnegie cut a sharp figure. He was joined by Alexander King, a Scotsman who’d made his wealth in the thread business, and his wife Aggie. Just two blocks from the Windsor Hotel, they visited with the Kings’ longtime friends, the Whitfields, a family from good Yankee stock. John W. Whitfield, having prospered as a dealer of fine dress material, had died at age forty-six in 1878, and was survived by his wife and three children. This was Carnegie’s first visit since his death. Even though Carnegie, who had won the contract to supply the superstructure for the Brooklyn Bridge and was supplying beams for New York’s derided elevated railway—a noisy, smoky nuisance—was known for being brash and arrogant, the Whitfield family looked forward to his ebullient company, having been introduced to him by the Kings several years earlier. When he arrived, Carnegie noticed for the first time that Louise, the eldest child, was no longer a schoolgirl, but a self-possessed twenty-two-year-old woman. She had blue eyes, brown hair, and the strong, determined jaw of Carnegie’s mother. She was also a delicate woman, trained in the ways of high society, as were the many debutantes he encountered. Since her father’s death, Alexander King had been inviting Louise riding in Central Park, and when he suggested a ride sometime soon, Carnegie insisted he come along. He was most impressed the society girl was willing to ride in winter.
Decked out in a short frock coat, breeches of broad corduroy, top hat and spurs, and astride his fine horse, Carnegie appeared far larger than his five-foot-three frame. His aggressive and competent riding style immediately caught Louise’s eye as they toured Central Park with Alex King. Dressed in black riding habits, a tip-tilted top hat with a wisp of tulle, a snug-fitting, high-collared jacket with short tails, a long, smooth skirt, and f
ur-lined leather gloves, she, too, was most impressive on her beast. As they cantered through the park, their breath streams of mist in the cold winter air, Carnegie quickly recognized she was just as competent an equestrian as he, and he found himself aroused, later noting, “A woman looks her loveliest on horseback.”21 Not long after their first ride together, Carnegie asked permission to take Louise riding without King’s companionship, a request Louise’s mother granted.
At first it was intimidating for Louise to be out riding with a man-about-town, for he seemed to know everyone, including the other young ladies, but his worldly charm put her at ease. Her own friends immediately speculated as to Mr. Carnegie’s intentions: was this a wooing in the making? It appeared the steel master had indeed found a woman who was well educated and without the airs of a spoiled society girl—a probable match. Over the course of their spring rides, Carnegie learned that the Whitfield family had lived in Gramercy Park but moved uptown to escape the congestion, as had he. He learned that she had been schooled for twelve years, had excelled in her deportment and recitations, and was fluent in French, as was he. She had toured Europe in 1873, visiting Great Britain, France, Belgium, Switzerland, Germany, and Austria, where she had attended a Johann Strauss concert—the maestro both conducting and playing violin—and she was an avid theatergoer, having seen Pygmalion and Galatea, The Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, The Pirates of Penzance, and The Mikado, the latter two written by a pair of new stars, Gilbert and Sullivan. The Russian poet Pushkin, Wordsworth, and Emerson were her favorite authors. All these shards of her life were gathered by Carnegie as the horses idled between trotting and cantering and bursts into a rollicking gallop.
Carnegie was earnestly courting Miss Louise Whitfield in early 1881, but it wasn’t easy. Not only was his free time very limited, but Carnegie was naive as how to best use it in expressing interest in a woman beyond casual flirtations in a social setting. So their relationship continued to revolve around horseback riding in Central Park, a common ground he found comfortable. Thrilled by the steel master’s companionship, Louise wrote in her diary, “Went riding with Mr. Carnegie. Glorious time! . . . In afternoon Mr. Carnegie came and took me horseback riding. Splendid time!”22 On one occasion, in February 1881, Carnegie sent his mother to the Whitfields to take Mrs. Whitfield and Louise’s younger siblings for a carriage ride. A short time later the wily wooer followed, giving Louise and himself some time alone together before heading for the stables. Louise had a “splendid time!”23 Just three days later, Louise, Carnegie, and his mother attended a production of Macbeth, and again Louise enjoyed herself.24 Their relationship was just heating up when summer threatened to derail it.
Carnegie was planning a six-week coaching trip through Great Britain when he realized this meant leaving Louise for an extended period. After mulling over the situation, he decided to make a bold move: he would invite Louise to join him on the trip; after all, two other young, unattached ladies would be among the proposed eleven travelers, and the Kings, who could chaperon, were also planning to come. Louise was thoroughly enthralled with the idea and consulted her mother. “In afternoon went to ride,” she wrote in her diary on April 6. “Had a delightful time—afraid it is my last. He told me to speak to Mama about trip and she says I cannot possibly go. So unhappy.”
Apparently, Margaret Carnegie and Mrs. Whitfield had already spoken on the matter, with Margaret declaring it improper. It was a rather indiscriminate decision considering that there would be other young ladies on the trip; but then, like her son Andrew, Margaret stood for no rivals. Hopes dashed, Louise wrote, “I cannot become reconciled to my disappointment. Mr. C. has invited me to go on his drag trip but Mother says it’s not proper for me to go. . . . Mr. C. came in the morning and I told him I could not go on his trip to England. Am afraid that it is the last I shall see of him. He goes to Pittsburgh tomorrow. Stayed home all afternoon and evening and Mother and I so unhappy.”25 Carnegie did not give up so easily, however. Standing up to his mother, he insisted she go to the Whitfields and encourage Mrs. Whitfield to allow Louise to join them.
When the Whitfields received Mrs. Carnegie in the drawing room, the old matriarch, now seventy years of age, was cordial but did not argue on Louise and her son’s behalf. To the contrary, waiting until Louise was beyond earshot, the conniving Margaret told Mrs. Whitfield, “If she were a daughter of mine she wouldna go.”26 The next day Louise despaired, “I am so unhappy about the trip. I want to go so much and yet I see it is impossible.”27 It was for the best, reasoned Louise once the initial disappointment faded, as it seemed useless to pursue a courtship with such a busy older man. When he invited her to a concert on May 7, she declined. Two weeks later, Carnegie insisted Louise join him and his coaching party, who called themselves the Gay Charioteers, for a last dinner in New York. Not wanting to play the spoiled loser, Louise accepted with grace. “Was very sorry I went,” she noted in her diary, “but did not know how to get out of it. . . . I suppose the party all got off this morning. I must learn to be satisfied with what I have and not long for more.”28
The very day of this farewell dinner, the world bid good-bye to Carnegie’s mentor Tom Scott, who died after suffering a third stroke. Not so unexpectedly, Carnegie treated his fallen hero’s death with the same passing indifference as he did his own father’s death, merely noting in his autobiography that the financial disaster of 1873 and subsequent humiliation “cut him [Scott] to the quick.” Carnegie was far more saddened over Louise not joining the coaching party, but even here his buoyancy soon returned. Before leaving, he said to Captain Jones, “Oh Bill, when once I get on a steamer and feel myself rounding Sandy Hook, with this long vacation ahead, you don’t know what a relief it is to me!”
“And you, Andy, don’t know what a relief it is to all of us!”29 Jones replied with a sardonic chuckle.
These vacations, whether odysseys around the world or a tour of Europe— which would now become an annual affair—were essential to Carnegie’s personal evolution, to his contentment. If he did not delve into other cultures, did not explore other social and political landscapes, he would have completely failed the promises he made to himself in 1868. Although this junket was no ’round the world adventure, Carnegie was exceptionally thrilled to return to Britain for one reason: when the party reached Dunfermline he would participate in the groundbreaking ceremony for the construction of a public library, marking his very first donation for a public library building— to be named in his honor, of course. Giving away money for libraries, he had discovered, was not so easy. The prior year Carnegie had offered $25,000 for the building, on the condition Dunfermline invoke the Free Libraries Act, which gave it the power to levy a one-penny tax on the individual townspeople to fund operating expenses. Dickering over the costs of maintaining the library ensued, and the hometown hero’s offer was initially rejected because it would cost too much to support. Relatives still living there were outraged. “How about the library (?)” his cousin Thomas Morrison wrote. “I think we have a set of muddleheads managing our municipal affairs just now. There is scarcely a man of average ability amongst them. The lukewarm manner in which they received your generous offer was disgraceful & were it not that I am certain the public think as I do, I would say withdraw it.”30 To ingratiate himself, Carnegie invited a select group of Dunfermline councilmen, their wives, and several others for a tour of the United Sates at his expense. Over the course of the ongoing discussions, he explained that he wanted to plant the seed, as it were, with the building, but then it was up to the town to also make a commitment—a philosophy for giving from which he wouldn’t depart. Apparently his lobbying worked.31
But the furor didn’t end there. Back in Pittsburgh, critics argued that Carnegie’s generosity was misplaced when taking into account he had made his money from the sweat of the men in Pittsburgh area mills. Had he not already given Dunfermline $25,000 for baths? Was it not time to give back to the communities of Allegheny and Braddock, from which he
had taken? Unbeknownst to his detractors, Carnegie and Jones were already planning a library for Braddock; but as Carnegie learned, it wasn’t easy serving two distinct loyalties in two countries.
On June 1, the Gay Charioteers sailed for Liverpool, England, where they arrived ten days later. The American contingent included Margaret Carnegie, Jeannie Johns, Alice French, Carnegie’s old friend David McCargo and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. King, Benjamin Vandevort, Harry Phipps, Gardner McCandless, and the king himself—Carnegie. He brought along two penny passbooks for notetaking in case he decided to pen another travel book, which he did, publishing An American Four-in-Hand in Britain in 1883, and dedicating it to “My Favorite Heroine My Mother.” The New York Herald would receive it kindly: “Mr. Carnegie is a keen, interested, practical, and, on the whole, kindly observer; and he records his observations and experiences in quite a pleasing style.”32
From Liverpool, it was a coach ride to London, where Carnegie mingled with the city’s literati, including novelist William Black, whom he had happened to meet in Rome on his world tour and who nicknamed Carnegie the “Star-Spangled Scotchman.” Black then introduced him to the poet Edwin Arnold, among others. After a five-day stay in London, the Charioteers coached south to Brighton, a coastal resort town. There, the party made final preparations for a seven-week sightseeing tour that would average thirty-two miles a day and take them north through the royal home of Windsor, Shakespeare’s birthplace Stratford-upon-Avon, the industrialized Midlands, Edinburgh, Inverness on Loch Ness, and of course, Dunfermline.
