Tuxedo Park

by Jennet Conant

  The covies of quail found in 1936 were 293—about 1,000 quail are killed during a season, the limit per gun a day being 10. The duck shooting is extraordinarily fine, and no less than 19 varieties have been seen on the Island, ie:

  Mallard

  Black Duck

  Pintail

  Widgeon

  Gadwall

  Blue Wing Teal

  Green Wing Teal

  Wood Duck

  Shoveller

  Canvasback

  Redhead

  Greater Scaup

  Lesser Scaup

  Ring Neck

  Ruddy Duck

  Bufflehead

  Whistler

  Hooded Werganser

  Red-Breasted Werganser

  Canada Goose

  Much as he enjoyed Honey Horn, Loomis was probably happiest at Tower House, tinkering with the latest invention in his laboratory, listening to updates of the various experiments under way, and exchanging news and ideas with other scientists. But over the next few years, the island provided a welcome respite from his increasingly strained home life in Tuxedo. While they were the last family in the world to discuss such matters openly, it had become painfully obvious that Loomis regarded his wife with something more akin to forbearance than affection. “She was a very dependent person, on her parents, on Alfred, and on all the help,” said Paulie Loomis. “She used to have people waiting on her hand and foot, which Alfred just hated. He used to complain that he couldn’t walk into a room without bumping into one of her ‘Irish biddies.’ The fact is, I don’t think they ever really got along.”

  Ed Thorne was not surprised that they drifted apart. “She was a lovely, sweet person, but very, very Boston. She was not a gregarious person at all, and sort of buried herself in her books and nineteenth-century novels. It almost seemed as if she were kind of out of this world.” Over the next few years, Ellen, who was always becomingly “delicate” in the Victorian sense, would suffer from recurring attacks of migraine headaches and mysterious ailments and took to her bed for weeks at a time. Loomis, following a practice that was then common to the point of being fashionable in the upper and middle classes, packed her off to various hospices and clinics for extended stays to be treated for nervous exhaustion. In February 1932, during one of these confinements, Stimson wrote to Ellen in the hospital, and in typical WASP fashion advised her to keep a stiff upper lip until she could regain her strength:

  My dear little Ellen,

  When I remember how faithfully you used to write letters to me in periods of stress and trouble, it makes me feel remorseful that I have not written to you before. I did not like to write a dictated letter, but I have been unable to get the time to do anything else. So finally I have curbed my pride, and I am sending you this note of affectionate encouragement.

  I am dreadfully sorry that you are having such a long tie-up, but I am very glad that they are at least making you rest and avoid a little of the terrific strain you have been under. I know how your heart must be torn at being shut up and away from Dedham [her parents’ home in Massachusetts, where she often stayed when “undone” by life and illness], but I also know that you will reconcile yourself courageously to this as the best way to solve the problem and get fit again. Your life is so invaluable to so many people that you must take every step possible to save your health. If you can, send me a message through Alfred sometime just to let me know how you are feeling and getting on.

  The exact nature of Ellen’s complaints, and whether or not many of her symptoms might fall under the heading of “neurasthenia”—the term then given to problems that occupied the gray area between medical and mental illness—remains a matter of some debate within the family. “Oh, she was a terrible hypochondriac,” said Evans. “The doctors prescribed all kinds of things, and she’d take some draft of medicine and go to bed for the day. If you went in to see her in the afternoons, she was always lying on the chaise in her room with the lights dimmed, the folds of her fancy lace gown perfectly arranged all around her.”

  But to many in the family, Ellen’s illness seemed to serve as a convenient excuse for Loomis to pack her off, leaving him free to pursue his interests without distraction. “He kept trying to get rid of her,” said Paulie Loomis. “She wasn’t sickly, she was sick. But he wasn’t very sympathetic. Alfred wasn’t the kind of person who tried to understand people. He pushed a lot on her. And he changed. I think he changed into who he wanted to be and didn’t have a lot of time for her anymore.”

  Loomis was not any easier a father than he was a husband. He set the bar very high when it came to his three sons. After he cashed out of Bonbright, he awarded each of the three boys a substantial share of their inheritance—roughly $1 million—on the theory that it was never too early to begin charting one’s own course. The youngest, Henry, was only fourteen when he was given complete financial independence. “Father decided to divide the estate because he didn’t want his money to become a tool of discipline with us boys,” he once recalled. “I remember that his cronies were aghast when he gave us the money and warned that we would make all kinds of mistakes with it. Father said we would make mistakes inevitably, but he’d rather have us make mistakes with the sums we’d be playing around with as boys than the ones we might make if we had to wait until his death to get the money, when we were thirty or forty years old.”

  While Loomis routinely drafted his sons as “guinea pigs” in his research, he remained, for the most part, a distant and detached figure. They loved working with him in his laboratory and were fascinated by his projects and famous guests, but there was never any question that he was far more interested and engaged in his world than in theirs. As one of the many small rebellions that teenagers specialize in, Loomis’ sons regularly played a rather hazardous game of chicken on the railroad tracks that ran through Tuxedo, competing to see which of them dared stand the longest in the path of the approaching express trains. Not even this deadly sport succeeded in attracting his attention, and according to Henry, Loomis never bothered to reprimand them: “We were never consciously influenced by Father in anything—about getting cars, going out with girls, traveling or staying home, where to go to college, or anything else.”

  Loomis was nothing if not difficult to impress, and his sons devoted much of their lives to trying to win his approval. They were fiercely competitive and went to great lengths to exceed their father’s expectations—engaging in daredevil sports, immediately volunteering for duty in World War II, and later endeavoring to achieve a measure of his success in either science, business, or politics. They would spend months mastering complicated chess strategies at boarding school, only to come home to be cut down by Loomis in a swift series of moves. There was a merciless quality to his reason that always seemed to defeat them. Henry never forgot a remark his father made over Christmas in 1935, when he and his two older brothers were making plans for their summer vacation. “Lee and I were talking about crossing the Atlantic in a thirty-five-foot boat, and Farney was planning to climb mountains in India,” he recalled. “Mother asked Father: ‘Will you still believe in your theories about children if all three of them get killed this summer?’ Father replied: ‘Three is not a sufficient number to prove any scientific theory.’ ”

  “Alfred was a wonderful man in his own way, but he wasn’t really very much of a human being,” observed Paulie, who felt her former husband, Henry, and his brothers had been treated to a “funny, hard sort of childhood. . . . Alfred was selfish to the point where he never really gave very much unless he enjoyed what he was doing. Everything was always calculated—what could be gained, what could be lost. As long as he was happy, that was all that mattered.”

  LOOMIS used his new freedom and financial resources to extend his largesse beyond his own laboratory to a great variety of philanthropic endeavors. Since the turn of the century, Andrew Carnegie had made funding schools, laboratories, and other institutions for the advancement of knowledge almost an obligation for newly
rich American tycoons, particularly for those eager to put to rest any lingering doubts about how their money was made. As the billionaire who spent a lifetime building a steel empire had once stipulated, “Amassing of wealth is one of the worst species of idolatry.” It was a Gilded Age sense of social responsibility Loomis’ own grandfather had deeply felt, and he had dedicated his latter years to building tuberculosis sanitariums and medical schools. Now, at this low ebb in the country’s fortunes, having accumulated an embarrassment of riches, Loomis found new purpose in giving away his money. He would use his wealth to encourage scientific investigation and provide opportunities for excellent men, while indulging in his favorite hobby at the same time.

  He gave money to any project—no matter how large or small or whimsical—that appealed to his Baconian belief that scientific discovery could be claimed by anyone “keeping the eye steadily fixed upon the facts of nature.” He himself was living proof of this principal, as he regularly became expert in a new field in only a few months, each time making important observations in the frontiers of astronomy, biology, and chemistry before moving on to the next of nature’s challenges. Loomis possessed a fundamental American bias in favor of experimental rather than theoretical science, which was repeatedly rewarded by the pioneering research carried out by the succession of brilliant young researchers he attracted to Tower House. His modus operandi was simple: he furnished the men and the money necessary to attack a problem, and once they had made a contribution, he let the momentum carry the others forward while he hunted for new, more fertile fields of inquiry. As his son Henry once observed, “As soon as he starts working on the next decimal place in the final answer, he shoves off.”

  As a consequence of his insatiable curiosity, and impatience to make his reputation as quickly as possible, Loomis pursued a peculiarly eclectic strategy, attempting to advance and promote research in a wide range of disciplines, both through his own efforts and by funding the work of others. A great believer in self-education, Loomis, with Thorne’s help, established a foundation to foster America’s budding engineers, offering stipends so students could go on six-week tours of the leading industrial plants of the East and Middle West. He wanted to give young men who had not had his advantages of higher education an opportunity to travel and to see firsthand what was happening in modern manufacturing enterprises. The all-expense-paid camping trips sent ten boys at a time across the country in special Loomis-designed, gadget-laden Ford motor trucks that transformed into large tents, complete with sleeping quarters, kitchen, and “parlor.”

  The only requirement was that participants had enough money to pay for their own boots—a paper package containing a khaki uniform was provided free of charge—and agreed to keep a diary of everything they did and saw during their travels. Loomis contacted Compton at MIT, who agreed that it seemed “an interesting venture” and promised to send over enough “technology men” to fill one of the trucks. In all, two thousand young “industrialists” made the trip from Tuxedo to Kansas and back, and Loomis paid to have selections from their diaries printed privately in booklet form.

  “It was a very extravagant trip,” remembered John Modder, who like many local boys at the time considered signing up. “The average worker was making about a dollar a day, maybe a dollar and a half. Loomis was giving people sixty dollars to go on the trip, which would be like a thousand now. It was mostly college students, but anybody could go, and quite a few from Tuxedo did. And if you had some sort of idea you wanted to work on, you could go up there and tell Mr. Loomis, and he’d feed you and house you and everything else while you were working.”

  One newspaper columnist, noting Loomis’ propensity to underwrite all manner of projects, predicted that if he kept up this hobby, his name would soon be “not so well known in Wall Street as he is in the field of science”:

  It is in the field of physics that this studious financier has his primary interest. In Tuxedo Park, his home, he has built the Loomis Laboratories and any scientist who wishes to devote a week to a year of study to pure science (commercialism is as far from the minds of the true scientist as it is from the heart of a Rembrandt) is welcome to remain there as Mr. Loomis’ guest. Mr. Loomis likewise is conducting his own studies, and he has surrounded himself with interesting scientific students, largely drawn from the faculties of leading American universities. He would rather sit in on an argument over the Einstein theory than tune in on an Aldrich versus Eccles debate [Mariner Eccles, head of the Federal Reserve Board] on excess reserves. . . .

  Loomis was not interested in public acclaim so much as a certain kind of respectability, and many of his large charitable donations and anonymous gifts were clearly designed to court favor with the scientific establishment, which might otherwise have been inclined to dismiss him as a dilettante. There had long been a prejudice against “amateurs” in American science—the scores of laymen, collectors, and quacks who supported the many popular journals and publications but otherwise gave the profession a bad name. As far back as the 1840s, the physicist Joseph Henry had complained, “Every man who can . . . exhibit a few experiments to a class of young ladies is called a scientist.” Since that time, Henry and his allies at Harvard and other institutions of higher learning had organized and closed rank to keep amateurs from playing a prominent role in research, and to that end, they created a national professional organization, the American Association for the Advancement of Science, a fraternity over whose membership they could guarantee control. Even more exclusive was the National Academy of Sciences, a private organization created during the Civil War to provide advice to the government and one that Loomis longed to join.

  Aware of their deep-seated prejudice against “gentleman scientists,” Loomis launched a calculated campaign to win over influential members of the profession. He was willing to pay his dues and to earn membership in their club. His famous laboratory gave him a strategic advantage, and he sponsored dozens of scientific conferences, meetings, lectures, and dinners, increasingly ingratiating himself with cash-poor universities and scientific agencies. Loomis, along with Wood, sat on the planning committee to select science exhibits for the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair, and several of the meetings were held at Tuxedo Park. The fair’s triumphant theme that year was “the Century of Progress,” highlighting the benefits of science and technology. Unfortunately, it was the midst of the Depression, a time when many politicians and leading public figures were questioning what the industrial advances had wrought on society, so Loomis reached into his own deep pockets to fund many of the large-scale exhibits—doing pro bono public relations work for his chosen field.

  With his dedication to pure research, willingness to play favorites, and unlimited funds, Loomis turned himself into a powerful behind-the-scenes force. Along the way, he made some important friends, chief among them the popular Compton. The two men were a natural fit: Compton with his genial manner and political skill, Loomis with his wide-ranging intellectual curiosity and talent for fostering other scientists’ work. Thanks in part to Loomis’ maneuvering, Compton was offered the job as MIT’s new president in 1933. As a testimony to his loyalty, Compton in turn stated as one of his conditions to taking the job that his influential patron be named a trustee. According to Loomis, it was not an empty bluff: “As a new president, he wanted to know if he asked for things, he could get them. He probably used this as a test to see how serious they were,” he said, adding, “They wanted young blood. He was young and I was young.” He would go on to help establish MIT’s graduate school, providing substantial financial aid and raising funds from other business leaders.

  As adept as he was at playing politics, Loomis never underwrote any project that did not appeal to his own specific studies and interests. During the height of the Depression, when most academic journals teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, he offered to foot the bill for the fees assessed by the Physical Review, so that new and interesting work could be published without regard to cost. For years afterward
, anyone who submitted an article received a bill along with a form letter from the Physical Review that stated: “In the event that the author or the institution is unable to pay the page charges, these will be paid by an anonymous friend. . . .” While his identity as the Review’s “angel” was not made public until after his death, it was common knowledge among the presidents of leading institutions, who in turn began appointing Loomis to their prestigious boards and committees.

  By June 1933, when Yale University conferred the honorary degree of master of science on its alumnus, Loomis was lauded as a man who defied traditional categories and whose experimental approach made him a bold example for the times. The citation listed his several identities—“lawyer, businessman, physicist, inventor, philanthropist”—and compared him to the prototypical American physicist: “In his varied interests, his powers of invention, and his services to his fellow-man, Mr. Loomis is the twentieth century Benjamin Franklin.”

  All his efforts made certain that while he had retired to Tuxedo Park, it would not be for long. He was only forty-five years old, and his finest work was still ahead of him. His reputation—carefully crafted by himself and the wily Robert Wood—had spread to Europe, and Tower House had gained international fame as one of the best-equipped and most interesting private American laboratories. Whereas today physicists look forward to spending August studying at a school on Lake Como, in the 1930s the lucky few received an invitation to spend the summer at Tuxedo Park, working with the famous scientists who gathered there, including Fermi, Bohr, Heisenberg, and Einstein.

  Alvarez, who was working in the Berkeley Physics Department, first heard of the legendary Alfred Loomis from a Berkeley colleague named Francis Jenkins, who had spent a summer at Tower House as Loomis’ guest. “He had told me in wide-eyed amazement about the fantastic laboratory in Tuxedo Park, and about the mysterious millionaire physicist who owned it,” recalled Alvarez. Jenkins told him in confidence that he was sure Loomis was the Physical Review’s anonymous benefactor. He thought Loomis a “wonderful person” but made it clear he did not care for the other residents of the park. “He thought they were too ‘snooty,’ and looked down on the scientists as barbarians who ‘didn’t even dress for dinner.’ ”