by Echo Heron
I remain enthralled with this shining Mecca of New York, which provides limitless opportunities to the enterprising artists who flock here in great number. The thought that there’s an abundance of collectors who pay handsomely for what these same artists produce leaves me wild with impatience to get my work into the public eye.
On Sunday, I walked by the Tiffany mansion on Lenox Hill at the head of Madison Avenue. You should see it, Mama—the structure is a magpie’s nest of bizarre Moroccan design elements that somehow make the place rhythmic. The New York Times reported that it’s viewed by many to be the most brilliant architectural feat in all of New York. I’d give my eyeteeth to explore the innards of that beast.
Mr. Belknap has invited Josie and me to a lecture at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. My opinion of him rises a little each day, and I’ve almost forgotten that when standing next to him, I look like a clumsy, ill-groomed giantess. We share a good many opinions of people, art, and politics. At 28, he is but a year older than I, and yet he’s one of the worldliest men I’ve ever known.
Mr. Tiffany is a dichotomy. On one hand he’s a boorish, avaricious man and on the other, a sensitive artist. Yes, he is handsome, but not to my taste, for I have the disadvantage of seeing the ugly side of him much too often.
Please assure Grandmother that electric lights aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. They have none of the warmth of gas lamps, though one does see much better.
Josie is well, all ailments at bay. More importantly, she is happy.
Love, Clara
P.S. The boarders have taken in a stray kitten we’ve named Ida B. Smith. She’s the sorriest thing you ever saw. Miss Todd said that cats always begin washing themselves as soon as they feel loved. Evidently, Ida has never felt quite loved enough, so I’ve decided to give her a bath. I thought I’d—
“Excuse me, Miss?”
Her mouth full of bread and a slice of yesterday’s roast beef, Clara broke off writing.
“I dunno what ya must be thinkin’ on that Saint Anne window.” Daniel Bracey took off his cap and slapped it against his leather apron.
It had taken time, but she’d managed to coax him from the pit of disapproval up the steep hill of acceptance. However, while she may have gained his respect, his devotion belonged entirely to Josie.
“How do ya expect the men to came them wee bits an’ pieces in her hands?”
“Well, Mr. Bracey,” Clara smiled, “I expect the men to do them very carefully. Please, won’t you sit down and share this apple with me?”
“I’m not wantin’ no apples, Miss. I come to find out how the men is ’sposed to use cames fer pieces of glass no bigger than a splinter.”
She nodded in understanding of his dilemma. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pocket knife, would you?”
Mr. Bracey produced a jackknife from his pocket and handed it over.
She commenced slicing the apple into sections. “Saint Anne was the mother of the Virgin Mary, was she not?”
“Aye, but I dunno what that’s got to do with the—”
“What I mean to say is that Saint Anne is a special saint. She’s the grandmother of Jesus Christ Himself, after all.”
At the mention of Jesus, Mr. Bracey bowed his head. “True enough, Miss. In Ireland she’s the patron saint of the childless.”
Clara bit into a slice of apple and held one out to him. He hesitated, and then took it. Diplomacy was, she thought, rather like fishing: you had to offer the bait at the right moment.
“Did you know, Mr. Bracey, that this window is going all the way to Saint Augustine, Florida, to be used in the main church there?”
“Ah, no. Where the windows go ’taint none of me business.”
“It’s going into an alcove devoted specifically to Saint Anne. Think of all the poor childless couples who will come from miles around to kneel before this very window and pray to Saint Anne for the blessing of children. Later, when they’ve been blessed, they’ll bring their wee ones to see this magnificent window of Saint Anne, perfect in her likeness.”
She pressed another apple section on him. “We owe those people the most realistic and beautiful window we can possibly produce.” She paused. “More than that, we owe Saint Anne a lovely set of hands with which to receive and bless those poor people.”
He chewed thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose.”
She handed him the remaining apple slice. “Only the other day, Josie told Mr. Tiffany that your workmanship is perfection itself and that she’s honored to have you as her tutor.”
A faint smile broke at the corners of his mouth. “A fine gal, that one.”
“Yes, and you’re a clever artisan, so I have no doubt you’ll find a way to lead the details in Saint. Anne’s hands. I and the other girls have faith in your talents and trust your work completely.” Slowly, but surely, she was reeling in the line.
He finished the last section of apple, all trace of irritation gone. “All right then, I might undo the cames an’ use a wee strip of lead instead of the full width.” Warming to the idea, he smiled at his own inventiveness.
“Or, you might use thin copper strips; it would look more delicate.”
Mr. Bracey smiled. “A grand idea. I could make the cames thin as wire.”
On his way out, he collided with Josie. The two blushed, smiled and bowed with the deepest respect, as if they were meeting for the first time and didn’t, in fact, work together nine hours a day.
Josie set her sketchbook on the worktable. “I thought you might give me your opinion on these.”
Clara wiped her hands on her apron before examining the twenty or so detailed drawings of elegant dresses. “These are the best designs you’ve done so far,” she said when she finished. “You could easily design for Godey’s or Harper’s Bazaar.”
Josie searched her face. “Do you mean that, or are you simply being kind because I’m your sister?”
“You know very well I don’t give false flattery. You need to show these to George. He must know someone at one of the fashion magazines.”
Josie ceased smiling and removed the book from Clara’s hands. “They aren’t ready to be viewed by anyone except you. I don’t even want Alice to see them.”
“They are ready. Don’t hold yourself back, Jo; believe in your talent. You were designing dresses for dolls before you were five. Mama is convinced you’re going to end up in Paris designing for Charles Worth.
“Talk to George tonight. If you sold even a few of your designs it would bring in extra money, and Lord knows we need it.”
Clara was using the maulstick to draw the finishing touches at the top of a landscape cartoon, when someone with a heavy step entered the workroom.
“Miss Wolcott! I demand an explanation for every one of these charges.”
Lowering the stick, she took the time to lean it against the wall before turning to confront W. Pringle Mitchell, Louis Tiffany’s vice president and manager. As usual, he was bristling with indignation, exactly as he had been when he’d knocked into her on the day of her interview. Since that moment, he’d continued to plague her, second-guessing her every decision and niggling over every expenditure, right down to the number of pencils she used.
He stood before her glowering, his side whiskers precisely barbered and his clothes faultlessly pressed from the cuffs of his pants to his stiff, white collar.
“What have I done now, Mr. Mitchell?” she asked wearily. “Have you discovered the three cents I embezzled from the company?”
“I’m glad you find this a joking matter, Miss Wolcott,” he said, shaking an order sheet in her face “Though I assure you, I’m not amused. Who authorized you to order this absurd amount of glass?” He took a pencil from behind his ear and began slapping it against the paper as a sort of punctuation.
“Look at this here.” (Snap!) “This is the most expensive glass we have.” (Snap!) “You go too far. At this rate, you’ll run Tiffany’s into the ground. You must stop this constant flow of expense
.” (Snap! Snap!) “Explain yourself!”
Clara pulled the order sheet from Mr. Mitchell’s grip and went down the list an item at a time. “This order for the patterned dark green glass was for the lilies on the Saint Anne window. Now, I suppose I could have made do with the lighter, cheaper color, but then there would have been no contrast with the other leaves—it would have looked out of place, and we know what Mr. Tiffany would have done about that, now, don’t we?” She made a sound like breaking glass.
Stifled laughter came from the women who were pretending not to listen as they bent to their task of cutting glass. Mr. Mitchell started to protest, but she cut him off. “Then there’s this order for the cobalt glass. Terribly expensive, I know, but that was to replace a section of the Jesus at Galilee window that went under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. Since he specifically asked for the cobalt, you might take the issue up with him.
“This order here for the number five pink glass? That was for the flowers in the Saint Joseph and Virgin Mary window. Mr. Tiffany wanted deep pink, but since I’m endeavoring to keep my charges down, I went with the number five instead of the number six, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed and thus end up under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. So, you might say I actually saved the company money with that order.”
Except for the barely audible grinding of his teeth, Mr. Mitchell remained silent.
She went to the next item. “Then, of course, there’s this gold glass for Jesus’ halo in the crucifixion window. Again, frightfully expensive, but it is for Jesus’ halo. I think the Son of God deserves a gold halo, don’t you, Mr. Mitchell?”
“You’re an insolent woman!” Mitchell ripped the paper from her hands. “I don’t know what Mr. Tiffany was thinking when he hired you. We simply cannot have this kind of spending!” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t until you got here that we’ve had to put out so much for glass.”
She took off her spectacles, her patience spent. “Which is exactly why the quality of the windows has soared. Don’t think for one moment people haven’t noticed. Orders have doubled in the last three months. Mr. Tiffany is pleased with this higher quality work, and I have serious doubts he’ll ever be satisfied with mediocre products again.”
“To the devil with higher quality! You’re going to bankrupt us!”
“I’m doing no such thing! I’ll even go so far as to say that once you cease your insufferable interfering with my department, the company will become even more productive.”
Opening and closing his mouth like a beached fish, Mr. Mitchell stalked out, slamming the door behind him with a cry of outrage.
She sat down and rubbed her eyes, as the women converged on her.
“What’s he got against you, Miss Wolcott?” asked Miss Hodgins, a pretty woman with hair the color of burning embers. “He’s always harping at you about one thing or another. Honestly, if I didn’t know to the contrary, I’d say you was married to the disagreeable lout on account of the way you two bicker so professional-like.”
Too worn out to laugh, Clara smiled. “I believe Mr. Mitchell belongs to that breed of men who don’t approve of self-governing women.”
Miss Ring, the department’s best glasscutter, made a face. “We heard he’s a relation of Mr. Tiffany, and that’s the only reason Mr. Tiffany keeps him around.”
Clara lifted the maulstick to its original position. “Mr. Tiffany’s sister is married to Mr. Mitchell’s uncle.” She hesitated. “Which, I suppose, is where the expression ‘a monkey’s uncle’ originated.”
When the laughter died away, she resumed work on the cartoon until her eyes gave out. She was in the ladies’ convenience splashing her face with water, when Josie appeared in a state of agitation. “You’ve got to come quickly. Mr. Tiffany is here for the Cane Criticism. He says he has to do it now, because his father has made other plans for him tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Bracey was waiting for her in the hall. He ran alongside her as she made her way to her office. “Should I undrape all them windows fer His Majesty or no?”
“Uncover the four finished ones,” she directed, searching frantically for her writing pad while smoothing down her hair. “Josie, have all the girls gather to one side of Mr. Tiffany the way he likes, and tell them this time there shall be no giggling, sobbing or fainting.”
She removed her apron, glad she’d worn the less threadbare of her two white lawn waists. Pinching color into her otherwise pale cheeks, she hurried into the main workroom where Louis Tiffany was already perched on a tall stool. Head tilted and both hands clasped around one knee, he squinted at Saint Anne with great intensity.
Off to the side, her girls stood at attention like soldiers in formation. Though it would not have been evident to the casual observer, she could see they were flustered by the unscheduled visit, each one nervously holding her breath, awaiting his approval. Daniel Bracey and Josie stood behind them, waiting for the drama to unfold.
Clara hurried to his side. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tiffany. I wasn’t aware you were coming for the criticism today.”
He gave her a withering glance. “I specifically told Mr. Mitchell to inform you of the schedule change. It must have slipped your mind.”
“Mr. Mitchell never gave me your message,” she said without a trace of the irritation she felt.
“No matter.” He pointed his cane at Saint. Anne. “This is quite good. You’ve selected exactly the right color for her face. The lilies are perfect.”
Tiffany slipped off the stool and stepped closer to the window, a furrow beginning between his brows. He began pacing, which she knew from experience was not a good sign.
“What about the hands?” He looked at her in disbelief. “Why aren’t they finished?”
“Mr. Bracey and I were discussing that earlier. He’s come up with the brilliant idea of using copper for caming the finely detailed portions, like Saint Anne’s hands. He’s ordered the copper and should have it by tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the result.”
Tiffany nodded to Mr. Bracey. “Very good, Daniel. I look forward to seeing it completed.”
Clara winked at the women—one window approved with no broken glass was cause for celebration.
He shifted his attention to Jesus at Galilee, staring at the window for a long while before breaking into a wide smile. “You’ve outdone yourself on this one, Miss Wolcott. It is superb.”
“Thank you,” she said, her spirits lifting. “It was your choice of cobalt blue for the water that balanced it perfectly, although I’m not so sure Mr. Mitchell approved of the cost.”
“Mr. Mitchell be hanged,” Tiffany said offhandedly, already inspecting the next window, with its depiction of Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary in a garden of flowers. He cocked his head. “The richness of your color selection is exceptional, but I don’t think the Virgin’s crown is quite the right color.” He raised his cane and let the tip rest against the glass.
A tremendous impulse to wrest the cane out of his hand and throw it across the room caused her to take an involuntary step toward him. The window had been particularly difficult; she’d spent hours of her own free time, coming in early and leaving after closing in order to bring it to perfection.
Before she could check herself, she let out a little cry, as Tiffany jabbed his cane into each of the crown’s sections. One by one the pieces fell to the floor and shattered.
“Perhaps it might do better to change these sections to a deep gold. You agree, don’t you, Miss Wolcott?”
No matter what she said, she couldn’t win. If she agreed with him, she would betray her own sense that the gold would ruin the restful quality of the window. If she disagreed, he would accuse her of impertinence and perhaps destroy the entire window.
“But, Mr. Tiffany, might not the gold …” her voice slid to a whisper, “… defeat the tranquility of the window’s other muted colors?”
His cane swung up. Flinching, she quickly covered her face. When she opened her eyes, Louis was still looking at the window, the c
ane resting on his shoulder. “To my eye, the right color is as essential to these windows as notes are to the composer. Since I’m the colorist here, I want to see gold glass in the Lady’s crown, and so you shall place gold glass in the Lady’s crown.” He turned to her. “You will do that, won’t you?”
The headache that had been threatening to blind her crouched behind her eyes like a panther waiting to strike. That he found it necessary to browbeat her was insulting; that he did it in front of the rest of the department was deplorable.
Tiffany frowned at the Crucifixion at Golgotha window, his fingers drumming on the head of his cane.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Tiffany?” She fought to keep the apprehension out of her voice. It was best to remain calm.
Taking a piece of paper from his breast pocket, he looked from it to the window, his mouth set in a hard line.
She stepped back, discreetly motioning to the four women closest to him to do the same.
“This is wrong.” He checked the paper again and turned his icy gaze on her. “What are the dimensions of this window?”
A bolt of panic twisted her stomach into a knot. “Six feet by four. Mr. Mitchell said you wanted the size changed. He said—”
He moved closer to the window, using his pince-nez to examine the lower panel. “And what in the blazes are those brown things at the base of the cross?”
She forced herself to look where he was pointing. “Those are the rocks you requested.”
His eyes fixed on hers, hard and accusing. “I asked for gray rockth!” he shouted, “Not lumpth of something that resembles what you’d find on the floor of a livery.”
She checked her notes. “But Mr. Mitchell said you wanted brown rocks because the gray was too expen—”
The cane came down against the lower half of the window, shattering the figures of the Virgin and two Roman soldiers. Multicolored shards of glass flew in every direction. She shielded her eyes, hoping the women remembered to turn their heads and cover their faces with both hands as she’d instructed.
“Do not dare contradict me!” he screamed. “I would never have asked for brown rockth!” He struck the window again, sending Mary Magdalene’s head spinning in Clara’s direction.
