Stanford White’s death was no more remarkable than the strange life he led. Few expressed surprise that the end came as it did. On the other hand, those who knew him best asserted they would have experienced a sensation little short of amazement had White departed this life as most men, surrounded by members of his family and enjoying the ministrations of physician, nurse and spiritual advisor.
Some saw in the pyrotechnic, picturesque, sensational climax of his existence, the fulfillment of a prophesy oft reiterated by his closest acquaintances.
The unusual, the unexpected ruled the existence of this man of wonderful brain and creative genius. A giant in mental force and power, he could turn lightly from some vast enterprise to a revel passing all belief, having as its only purpose the snaring of some young girl—as Evelyn Nesbit was enmeshed. And he could turn quite as lightly from the anguished cry of his victim and forget her in the multiplicity of details surrounding his huge undertakings.
What a mind was this—at once an engine of creation and destruction, accepting the consequences in each instance as a matter of course. In view of the peculiarities of the man, it cannot be counted strange that he fell before the hand of the avenger in the temple he had builded to mirth, for the famed Madison Square Garden was a creation of his mind.
In the tower he had raised above it, overlooking the great Metropolis with all its joys, sorrows, struggles, its mighty forces that work for good and its uncounted army battling for sin, Stanford White had fitted out a den of Oriental magnificence wherein he could accomplish his purposes, far removed from the world at large.
It was here his wildest orgies were held. It was from the tower-chamber his young victims went forth to lives of bitterness and shame, and within the shadow of that tower White was whirled to eternity without a moment’s respite to atone for his sins or prepare for an accounting before the final tribunal where truth and not pretense avails. Whatever his offenses, his punishment was heavy, indeed.
Great as an architect, a lover of beauty in his work and in his play, a charming companion, a man of kindliness, possessed of many talents, a lover of all the pleasant things of life, but not bound by scruples or the dictates of morality—such was White. Within two days after his death, New York rang with stories of strange debauches in which White had played the part of host or one of the hosts. Anthony Comstock declared that he had tried to obtain evidence which would suffice to bring action against White for various alleged excesses. When White fell to the floor of Madison Square Roof Garden, in short, his personal reputation fell with him.
As an architect, he was admittedly a genius, and he left an impress upon the architecture of this country which will remain. He transformed the old, unsightly Harlem Railroad freight station into Madison Square Garden—one of the most beautiful edifices in New York. He aided in the designing of Trinity Church in Boston.
Among his famous works in New York were the Hall of Fame at New York University, the Washington arch, the Century, University and Metropolitan clubs, the William C. Whitney residence and the pedestal of the Farragut monument in Madison Square.
He was the son of Richard Grant White, the novelist and journalist, and was born in 1853. After being graduated from New York University he went to Europe to study architecture. He returned in 1881 and entered into partnership with Charles F. McKim and William R. Meade. The firm of McKim, Meade & White, largely through the genius of White, became one of the most prominent in the profession.