by Echo Heron
A sharp, stabbing pain above her left eye caused her to jump back from the destruction. Unbidden, an image of a guillotine blade flashed through her mind and then vanished. She waited until she was sure the demolition was over before unshielding her eyes. Tiffany stood before her gaping at the destroyed window, as if he couldn’t fathom who had done such a thing. Behind her, she heard Miss Barnes, the youngest and most sensitive of her flock, run sobbing from the room.
“About the rocks,” Clara began, careful to keep her voice neutral, “Mr. Mitchell refused to purchase the gray glass I originally ordered, because it was too expensive. He assured me you wanted brown rocks instead. I argued against it, but he wouldn’t budge. He said—”
“I don’t give a damn what Mitchell told you,” Tiffany shouted, as he made for the door, glass crunching under his shoes. “Remake the window eight feet by five. Change the figures to fit the new scale and make the rocks three shades of gray. While you’re about it, make the sky a lighter blue, but not too light, and add another mourner—a woman—to the right of the frame. I want her in ochre robes. No halo.”
At the door he shouted into the otherwise silent room. “Have all four windows complete and ready for my criticism and shipment by next Wednesday morning.”
She ran after him. “But Mr. Tiffany, you can’t expect us to—”
“I not only expect it of you,” he barked, “I demand it. If you and the other girls hope to keep your positions here, you’ll do as I say.” He disappeared into the hall, his booming voice echoing behind him. “Wednesday morning. First thing!”
The instant his voice died away, they began picking up the larger pieces of glass, while Mr. Bracey swept up the rest. “’Tis a shameful waste of good glass,” he muttered. “Half a fortune in glass right here on the floor.”
“I’d like to tell that Mr. Mitchell a thing or two,” Miss Hodgins added, picking slivers of blue glass out of her shawl. “It was plain spite, him giving us the wrong measures. His Majesty ain’t much better, either. He ought to be locked away—he’s like a crazy man.”
Clara looked at the shattered window. The waste in time and labor galled her.
Miss Ring took a step toward her. “Miss Wolcott, you’ve been cut.”
When she touched the stinging place on her forehead, her fingers came away slick with blood. She pressed her handkerchief against the wound. “It’s only a scratch. Nothing to be concerned about. However, if I do bleed to death before the day is out, please notify Mr. Tiffany that I won’t be in tomorrow.”
A few girls giggled, though most remained grim.
Miss Griffin voiced what was on all their minds. “How are we going to get an entire new window done by Wednesday? The selection alone is going to take that long. Cutting all those pieces for the soldiers’ tunics and Mary’s robes in four days, plus the other repairs? It’s an impossible task to put on us, and none of us can afford to be let go.”
She looked into their solemn faces and forced down her own frustration. “First, we should congratulate ourselves that of the four windows, two and most of a third were well received. I’m immensely proud of you and your fine efforts. If we’re all willing to work extra, I know we can remake this window and finish the others by Wednesday. I must ask that you all commit to working two or more extra hours each day, including Saturday.”
At the smattering of protests, Clara held up a hand. “Finishing the window in four days will keep our positions safe, and at the same time prove to Mr. Tiffany that we’re made of sturdy stuff. We need to show Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Tiffany that we can handle anything they throw at us.”
One by one the women nodded their consent, and with that, the mood in the room was changed. The infusion of energy bound them together as co-conspirators. Clara squared her shoulders. “All right then, ladies, onward into the Coliseum and let’s see what we can do with those lions.”
Tiffany’s
March 12, 1889
Dearest Ones,
We’ve just now accomplished the impossible and resurrected the Crucifixion window, which fell mortally wounded under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. As it turns out, Mr. Tiffany’s judgment was correct—the window was made better with his suggestions. A rare mixture of businessman and artist, he seems to have escaped that terrible disorder that routinely afflicts the wealthy class—extremely bad taste in art.
After dinner I’m going to Dudley’s apartment for a rehearsal of Mr. McBride’s medieval play. I play the King’s wicked cousin, who plots against the life of the beautiful princess—to be played by our lovely Alice. If wickedness is the only quality necessary, I feel sure of my success in my part. George is quite pleased with his role as the torturer and does not share my anxiety over acting roles. When told he’d have to gouge out the princess’s eyes, he positively beamed.
Love, Clara
P.S. It’s hard to believe the Great Blizzard was just one year ago. To honor those who perished, I recited Tennyson’s poems on death while we worked.
~ 3 ~
Noon at Tiffany’s
June 5, 1889
Dearest Ones,
I have time for only a short note and a buttered roll. Once I dig myself out from under Tiffany’s latest avalanche of work, I’ll respond to all the robins I’ve let fly by with nary a peep.
Mama, why all this fretting about Reverend Cutler? Of course I approve of his desire to court you—he’s a fine man. If his company makes you happy and gives you solace, then please accept him at once without concern for us. We know better than anyone what a beautiful and extraordinary woman you are. I’m overjoyed at the prospect of a romance for you. You have been a widow for far too long.
It’s astonishing how much one can care for cats. Ida B. Smith, the little beast, has steadily advanced into my affections. Miss Todd, however, does not share those same sentiments. At the sound of the dinner bell last night, we entered the dining room only to find the chicken platter empty and the cat, visibly swelled, fast asleep on the napkins. We contemplated the scene with some dismay, until Josie said quite earnestly, “Do you think she’ll die?” This amused us all, except Miss Todd.
I am turning into a regular bon vivant. Friday night, George, Dudley, Alice and I are to attend New York City’s Annual Artists’ Soiree at the plush Dakota Hotel. It is said that the drawing rooms are forty-nine feet long, the ceilings, eighteen feet high, and the mahogany floors are inlaid with silver!
I can hardly wait to attend. It is the event of the year, and I hope to make myself better known to my peers. I will give you a full account in the next robin.
Love, Clara
June 7, 1889
The Dakota Hotel
CLARA LEANED AGAINST Alice, drinking in the splendor of the Dakota Hotel ballroom. Swirls of pastel gowns, accented by the men’s black-and-white evening dress, lent an air of regality to the festivities going on around them. “I’ll wager there’s more artistic talent in this room than in the entire Metropolitan Museum.”
Alice looked over her fan. “And I would bet there will soon be a plethora of paintings entitled ‘The Soiree’ flooding every gallery in New York.”
George appeared, towing Dudley Carpenter by the sleeve. Without any attempt at subtlety, Dudley commandeered the chair closest to Alice. His infatuation with her was no secret, considering that she was the subject of most of his paintings. Unfazed by his adoration, Alice treated him in the same manner she would a tiresome younger brother.
“We have a rather lively group attending this evening,” George said. “Although we did have to endure several rounds of boring exchanges of opinion.”
“Personally,” Dudley drawled in his Tennessee accent, “I enjoy listening to people discuss the purpose of art.”
“It was a lot of hot air from a bunch of overweening nitwits,” George growled.
“As usual, Mr. Waldo and I disagree,” Dudley said, brushing invisible lint off his lapel with fingers faintly stained by oil paint. “I found the discussions, revivifying, especially fo
r those of us who feel that art puts people in awe of human capability and leaves them inspired.”
“Revivifying?” George frowned. “My dear boy, the only revivifying going on in any of that twaddle was Mr. McBride’s discourse on the origin of artistic talent.”
“Artistic talent is a question that’s been debated since humans began scratching pictures on cave walls,” Alice broke in. “Is it God-given, passed down through the blood, or obtained through study?”
“As an art instructor,” George began, “I can tell you unequivocally that it’s acquired through rigorous training.”
“What’s your verdict, Miss Wolcott?” Henry Belknap approached with a bored-looking Louis Tiffany trailing behind.
Clara tensed, at once aware of her décolletage. The gown of deep lavender silk was one of Alice’s castoffs that Josie had made over by ripping out the high collar and sewing in a low neck with a frill of lace. She couldn’t imagine what her sister had been thinking, cutting away so much fabric. She leaned close to Alice. “Give me your fan.”
The desperation in her voice caused Alice to turn in alarm. “Are you feeling faint, dearest? You look flushed. Are you ill? Shall I send George for a glass of water?”
Giving Alice a look, she yanked the fan from her hand, flipped it open and held it against her exposed flesh. Tiffany came up behind her, placing his hand on the back of her chair. She could feel his breath flowing over her neck like warm waves. Uncomfortably aware of his hand so near her bare shoulder, she shifted, pressing the fan closer.
“So, Miss Wolcott,” Henry resumed, “is the artist born or made?”
“Artists are born. To believe anything else is folly.” She gave her answer with such equanimity it seemed to end the debate, until George shook his head.
“That’s absurd. All you have to do to dispel that theory is to attend one of my illustration classes. At the beginning of the term, the new students are undisciplined scribblers; by the end, many of them are quite acceptable artists.”
“You’re speaking of technique,” Dudley said. “There’s no comparison to be made between the true artist and simply a talented amateur who learns the correct way to wield a pen and brush. Anyone, even a chimpanzee, can learn art technique.”
“I believe Miss Wolcott is referring to something more transcendental,” Alice said.
All eyes went to Clara. “The true artist’s drive to create resides in his soul,” she said quietly. “When I work, I’m driven by a passion that comes through my soul, and into these hands. I know every one of you has felt that same intensity—I’ve seen it in your faces.”
“What you are referring to, Mr. Waldo,” Tiffany said, “is the physical training and technical refinement of a person who believes himself to have talent because he has some glorified and romantic notion of an artist’s life. Those poor souls find out soon enough that their brush is never quite equal to their imaginations. The artist’s gift can’t be learned—or taught.”
George opened his mouth to protest, but Louis held up a finger. “That isn’t to say the true artist doesn’t need your services in refining his technique, but don’t mistake that for instilling talent. That gift belongs to the true artist from his first breath to his last.”
Dudley sighed impatiently. “Be reasonable, George. Non-artists don’t view the world in the same way an artist does. Place an artist and a common man in a jail cell, the artist will perceive how the light cuts through the bars and makes shadows and glare; he’ll see texture and design in the concrete walls. The ordinary man will see only the ugliness of his prison.”
George crossed his arms over his chest. “I would wager that if those same men were in that cell together for a year, and the artist carefully instructed the other man in the way he saw things, the ordinary man would soon begin to see things in the same way.”
“You would lose,” Alice said matter-of-factly. “You might teach an ordinary man how to paint a flower, but there would be no part of his soul in the finished product.”
Henry Belknap broke the awkward silence that followed. “Although I practice my art through the lens of a camera, I know what it is to feel such lofty passions. I also know the suffering an artist feels when the critics criticize and destroy his work.”
“Artists and critics go hand in glove,” Clara said. “For myself, I welcome critics—they’re a propelling force behind the quality of the artist’s work.”
“Speaking of suffering,” Tiffany said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make my way home. The new baby is afflicted with colic, and Mrs. Tiffany prefers not to suffer alone.” He looked to Henry. “Mr. Belknap, shall we share a cab?”
“I think I’ll stay awhile. I want to bask in the abundance of natural talent that presently surrounds me.”
“The man is a pompous ass,” George growled the moment Tiffany was out of earshot. “He preaches to us? A man who rides on the backs of other artists’ work?”
Clara touched his hand. “He meant nothing against you personally.”
“How can you, of all people, defend him?”
“Whether or not you agree with how he conducts himself, George, it’s beneath you to make such disparaging remarks about another artist.”
No one said anything more until Henry struck up a conversation about the opulence of the flocked wallpaper, speculating as to whether the flock tufts were shedding poisonous dust into the air. An incurable hypochondriac, George covered his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, refusing to remove it despite Dudley’s teasing.
“Although we’re spellbound by all this talk of wallpaper,” Clara said, rising from her chair, “I think Miss Gouvy and I will join Miss Griffin and mingle among the throngs. I want to learn more about the women who are fed up with being barred from participation in national artists’ societies and have formed The Women’s Art Club. I hear they’re signing their work using initials or a special mark, so as not to give away their gender, and having great success as a result.”
As they proceeded into the room, Mr. Belknap excused himself from the men and fell in behind her and Alice. “I was wondering if I might join you two ladies?”
Clara hesitated, and then nodded. She’d hoped to speak to the other women without the constraint a gentleman’s presence would place on their conversations.
“I enjoyed your views on the passion of true artists, Miss Wolcott,” Henry began. “I’m convinced you’re a sentimentalist.”
“You are sadly mistaken on that account,” she said drily.
Henry smiled. “Unless my memory fails me, I do believe that was you sitting next to me at La Traviata, sobbing into your hanky.”
“That isn’t fair, Mr. Belknap. Every person in the audience was in tears. If I remember correctly, you were soaking your own handkerchief long before I even unfolded mine.”
“I take exception to that assumption,” Henry said. “Something was in my eye.”
“Something from the flocked wallpaper no doubt. No, I’m definitely not one who wallows in sentimentality.”
Alice made a face. “Excuse me, but aren’t you the person who begged Miss Todd to let you take in that fleabag of a stray cat now known as Ida B. Smith? A reasonable person would have left the pitiful thing on the doorstep, or deposited it on someone else’s stoop.”
They came to the circle of women where Miss Griffin was waxing euphoric about the use of the new Kodak camera in art. “Oh, all right.” Clara sighed, “I admit to being a bit of a sentimental fool from time to time, but I do try not to let it interfere with my life.”
With her words left hanging in the air, they looked at one another and broke into laughter.
Lenox Hill
June 7, 1889
Louise talks of having yet another child, but I am reluctant. Six seems enough for any family, although I do long for another son, which would please Father as well.
Miss Wolcott attended the Dakota soiree. There is something about her that draws me, though were I called on to explain, I could no
t.
I am clearing the land for the construction of a simple summer home in Laurel Hollow, overlooking Cold Spring Harbor in Long Island. It is only an hour and ten minutes from Manhattan by train and trotter. I plan on having a magnificent garden, a clock tower, and a fountain pool for lilies and bog plants. I have dubbed the place, ‘The Briars,’ as the land is covered with them.
I have not touched brush to canvas for far too long. I am too weighted down with all the cares of business and home. I fear the muse has deserted me.
Dear God how I long for a life where I might touch fire! L.C.T.
~ 4 ~
Noon at Tiffany’s
September 3, 1889
Dear Mama, et al,
It has been a week of health mishaps here at Tiffany’s and elsewhere. Three of my girls and Frank (my deaf errand boy) are down with the grippe, so it falls upon me to take up the slack.
Josie had a fainting spell on Monday last. Mr. Tiffany insisted on calling in a doctor (at his expense, thank God, as we’d exceeded the weekly budget), who informed us she is anemic and will need to rest for a month on a diet of rare beef, green vegetables, fruit and honey.
The following day, Miss Ring received a serious cut to two of her “best” fingers. Despite the deluge of blood, I managed to get her to the hospital for mending without fainting myself. I took her home on the streetcar and made sure she was supplied with enough food and tea to last a few days. The poor girl was so weak I dared not leave her alone until her mother could come from New Jersey.
On Thursday, George had a fit of sorts, while we were at Henry Belknap’s new apartment on Union Square rehearsing for another of Mr. McBride’s plays. He didn’t come around for five minutes, by which time we were frightened out of our wits. When he revived, he was confused, like someone with brain fever. Mr. Belknap insisted George stay on with him, which is a good thing since he is a far better nurse than any of us.
Not to be outdone, Ida B. Smith escaped up the chimney and didn’t return until the following day, with half an ear missing and covered with bites.
