Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge and the Art of Saying No

This guest post is contributed by Amy Poe, an archives technician in the Music Division. For this topic, she selects examples from the correspondence in the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Foundation Papers that she organized last year.

Sitting down and putting pen to paper may be a bygone pastime, but the challenge of responding to unsolicited inquiries remains much the same as it did for Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge—benefactor of the Library’s Coolidge Auditorium, and the first significant donor to the Music Division. Her reputation for generosity in furthering chamber music composition and performance prompted hand- and typewritten letters from across the globe, seeking the favor of her beneficence. Mrs. Coolidge’s letters of reply to these inquiries illustrate her remarkable mastery of the art of saying no, with techniques as relevant and effective now, as they were then.

Just as replying to texts, email, and other digital media consumes a chunk of a 21st-century day (often a larger chunk than we’d like), time for correspondence figured similarly in the daily schedule of early 20th-century philanthropists such as Mrs. Coolidge. Countering conventional stereotypes of the era that women needed a man’s guiding hand, Mrs. Coolidge was self-assured in her replies to solicitations as she unequivocally articulated the limits of her personal boundaries. Her letters show that she was intentional with her commitments and ever mindful of the scope of her personal and financial capacity, expanding her sphere of influence on her own terms.

An examination of the correspondence in the Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge Foundation Collection reveals the sheer volume and frequency of letters soliciting her favor. She received requests for assistance in financing commissions, performances, and the professional development of composers and performers, and was approached even with desperate petitions for subsistence.

The collection contains remarkable examples of Mrs. Coolidge’s thoughtfully nuanced approach to politely declining requests for demands on her time and resources. These artful missives offer both a framework and inspiration for anyone struggling for the right words to say no.

Among Mrs. Coolidge’s techniques was preparing the reader for a negative response. In this reply to Lawrence Wathen, she carefully pairs well-chosen expressions of empathy for the letter writer, “as sincerely as I am interested in your project for Texas and, also, as heartily as I sympathize with the idea,” while straightforwardly communicating her own circumstances. By appealing to the reader’s own sensibilities—she uses expressions that suggest a spirit of solidarity, and intimacy, which many sought from her—her strikingly felicitous words prepare the recipient for a disappointment against which they can hardly protest. In the final letter to Wathen, her concluding sentence verges on the poetic. She writes, “I must confess to you, however, that as opportunities increase, possibilities grow fewer, and I am obliged to say ‘no’ to many things which otherwise it would give me great pleasure to accept.” Her skill in the gentle letdown was almost certainly a hallmark of someone of her social standing in the early 20th-century—because good manners demanded it. However, it appears evident that her writing is also a reflection of her character.

Mrs. Coolidge was also very effective in heading off follow-up entreaties. She appears to anticipate how the reader may envision revisiting a request under different circumstances, or in a scenario where they could secure a future audience with her. As illustrated in this next letter, there is no unkind reply, yet no indication that she will revisit the request either. Without pretense, through a straightforward explanation of “I must ask you to turn elsewhere,” Mrs. Coolidge emphasizes that other commitments preclude her from extending her energies and resources. What might be received as rejection or cause the recipient to take offense is smoothed over by a referral to another potential supporter.

This next example shows just how adept Mrs. Coolidge was in conveying not limits per se, but in defining her commitments. Absent a digression into a more detailed chronicling of her obligations, Mrs. Coolidge guides the reader to confront and accept the disconnect between her priorities and the request. Without stating it outright, Mrs. Coolidge’s reply subtly communicates that she owes no further explanation. Leaving no door open for a renewed petition of her interest and support, she denies his request without being demeaning. One assumes, Mr. Weiss must conclude that there is no clear path forward for a successful request. Yet a cordial signature ends the exchange with an expression of goodwill.

Moreover, even for possibilities within her means, Mrs. Coolidge is unapologetic in asserting her personal preferences once she has committed to a decision.

Mrs. Coolidge’s correspondence shows that she apparently understood her power to direct the trajectory of a music endeavor or career. The letters also document the admiration of those in the early 20th-century’s most prominent music circles, and those aspiring to them. Where flattery may have influenced less discriminating letter recipients, Mrs. Coolidge comes across unswayed by appeals outside the parameters of her priorities. The collection correspondence provides ample evidence that while the relationships within Mrs. Coolidge’s wide sphere of influence were tantamount, friendships did not guarantee her unlimited endorsement.

The extent to which Mrs. Coolidge was skilled in prioritizing her personal interests and needs in the face of expectations, even from members of her closest circle, is revealed in this correspondence with then-Music Division Chief Harold Spivacke.

Responding to his earlier letter, Mrs. Coolidge expresses dismay that she elicited Dr. Spivacke’s distress by opting not to attend the Library’s annual Founder’s Day Concert, which would mark her 88th birthday. She writes, “I am saddened and shocked by the thought that I have hurt you through my last letter.” The friendship and mutual respect between Mrs. Coolidge and Dr. Spivacke are evident, and while sympathetic to Spivacke’s disappointment, still she stands firm in her decision. Exhibiting both pragmatism and grace, Mrs. Coolidge has the courage to articulate the hard reality that her participation could not continue in perpetuity. Although Spivacke’s expectations are grounded in an established history of Mrs. Coolidge attending the Library’s Founder’s Day concerts, she prioritizes her health over precedent.

Without expressing it directly, Mrs. Coolidge further conveys a recognition of her own mortality. Remarkably, she becomes a consoler to Spivacke, although she is the one confronting the approach of her final days. Mrs. Coolidge died on November 4, 1953, five days after her 89th birthday, but thanks to her gift, her legacy lives on and is celebrated with each annual Library of Congress Founder’s Day concert.

Despite changes in values and cultural norms over the past century, the challenge of finding the right words for hard answers—whether to fend off demands on time and resources or decline an unwelcome invitation—remains unchanged. The letters of Mrs. Coolidge offer numerous examples of effective writing, and they impart her wisdom in knowing how to best respond to a constant stream of requests. The contemporary writer can look to the approaches successfully employed by Mrs. Coolidge and adapt them, not only to writing but to other forms of communication. Technique aside, Mrs. Coolidge’s letters are unified by a core belief that shines through and elevates her craft—respect for others and for herself. Mrs. Coolidge’s use of the written word to artfully convey one of the shortest yet most difficult-to-say words, “no,” can inspire reflection, conviction, and care in choosing words to articulate our own needs and priorities.