The Andrew McNally house interior isn't just a collection of old rooms. It was a statement. When you think of the Gilded Age, you probably picture the massive marble "cottages" of Newport or the stiff, velvet-choked parlors of New York. But McNally—the man who basically mapped the American West with his business partner William Rand—wanted something different for his winter retreat in Altadena.
Honestly, it's heartbreaking to even talk about this in the present tense. On January 8, 2025, the Eaton Fire tore through the San Gabriel foothills and swallowed the estate. It's gone. What remains are the records, the floor plans, and the vivid memories of a home that defied almost every Victorian stereotype.
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The Turkish Room: A 19th-Century "Vibe"
If there is one thing people always get wrong about the Andrew McNally house interior, it's the assumption that it was all stiff laces and tea sets.
It wasn't.
The crown jewel was the Turkish Room. Most people think it was part of the original 1887 design by Frederick Roehrig. It wasn't. McNally actually went to the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago and saw a "Turkish" exhibit that he absolutely had to have. He bought the entire thing—fabrics, wood, soul, and all—and shipped it back to California.
Roehrig then had to figure out how to graft an octagonal smoking room onto a Queen Anne Victorian. He nailed it.
The interior of this room was wild. We’re talking:
- Persimmon-colored silks draped across the ceiling.
- Arabic phrases stenciled directly onto the walls (some of which were likely gibberish or decorative, but they looked the part).
- Deep, low-slung sofas that encouraged the kind of lounging Victorian society usually frowned upon.
- Intricate wood fluting and geometric carvings that made the space feel like a tent in the desert rather than a house in the suburbs.
Why the Layout Felt Backwards
You’ve probably noticed that most grand houses face the street. They want to show off. Not the McNally house.
The primary facade and the grand entrance actually faced south, away from Mariposa Street. Why? Because the view was the point. In the 1890s, the "interior" experience began before you even touched the door handle. From the expansive front porch, you could see the entire Los Angeles Basin, and on a clear day, Santa Catalina Island.
The house was basically a 7,000-square-foot telescope.
Inside, the home featured 22 rooms (though later listings bumped that count to 25 depending on how you counted the nooks). The main floor was dominated by Douglas fir paneling that had a warmth you just don't see in modern "faux-wood" builds. It felt solid. Heavy.
The Master Architect’s Touch
Frederick Roehrig wasn't just some guy McNally hired; he was the "Millionaire’s Architect." He knew that people like McNally, who spent their lives looking at maps and grids, needed a house that felt organic.
That’s why the three-story rotunda was so clever. It didn't just add curb appeal. It served as a vertical light well. It pulled your eyes upward toward the San Gabriel Mountains.
The Real Details (No Fakes)
Let's talk about the stuff you'd actually touch if you walked through the house in 2024.
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The heating wasn't hidden. It was celebrated. The house used ornate bronze steam radiators that looked more like sculpture than plumbing. There were 24 gas lamps throughout the property, many of which had been converted to electricity but retained their original brass fixtures and jeweled glass shades.
You’ve got seven fireplaces. Seven.
Each one had a different personality. One in the parlor featured restored leather upholstery on the surrounding seats—essentially a built-in "inglenook" where you could toast your toes after a "chilly" 60-degree California evening.
Then there was the kitchen.
While the rest of the house was a time capsule, the kitchen had been modernized. It was the one area where the Victorian aesthetic took a backseat to high-end appliances. The bathrooms were a similar story. Remember, in 1888, "indoor plumbing" was a luxury, not a standard. Over the years, the original washbasins were swapped for marble and modern fixtures, though the owners—the Dupuy family, who held the house for over 65 years—were meticulous about keeping the "vibe" right.
The Secretive History
For nearly a century, the public never saw the Andrew McNally house interior. It was a private fortress.
The Dupuy family saved it from developers in 1955. At that time, people wanted to tear down Victorians to build tract housing. Can you imagine? Tearing down a Roehrig masterpiece for a stucco box?
It only recently became "famous" again because of Hollywood. If the interior looked familiar to you before the fire, you might be a fan of the show Entourage or the HBO pirate comedy Our Flag Means Death. The Turkish Room was a favorite for location scouts because you literally couldn't replicate that kind of authentic 1890s Orientalism on a soundstage.
Actionable Insights for History Lovers
Since we can no longer visit the McNally Estate in person, how do you preserve or study this kind of history?
- Digital Archives: The Altadena Historical Society and the Pasadena Museum of History hold the most accurate interior photographs and floor plans. If you are researching the architecture of Frederick Roehrig, start there.
- Support Local Preservation: The loss of the McNally house is a reminder that historic designations (it was on the National Register of Historic Places) don't protect against natural disasters. Supporting local "fire-wise" landscaping for historic districts is the only way to save the remaining "Millionaire’s Row" homes.
- Study the Shingle Style: If you're an interior designer, look at how Roehrig mixed Eastlake influences with Queen Anne. It’s the "simplified" version of Victorianism that paved the way for the American Craftsman movement.
The Andrew McNally house interior was a bridge between the cluttered past and the open-air future of California living. While the physical structure is gone, the design philosophy—the idea that a home should be a collection of its owner's world travels—lives on.