by Echo Heron
When he brought his eyes level with hers, she saw a great tiredness in him that no amount of sleep was ever going to fix. “No one can illustrate as well as you do, and few have your talent for interior decoration. For goodness sake, George, you’re decorating the Vanderbilt mansion!”
He sighed and attempted a smile. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Do you think I, or Mr. Booth, or even Alice could do that?”
He shook his head violently. “It makes me shudder just to think about it.” Idly, he popped a lemon candy into his mouth and stared off into the far distance. A second later, he bolted upright, visibly paled. “My God, can you imagine? You’d all be installing puce carpets and yellow drapes in no time.”
44 Irving Place
December 21, 1898
Mother and Kate, et al:
Clara is prostrate with a sick headache, so I’m commandeering the robin until she’s well. I arrived safely in NY, even though George stood in the wrong place and Clara was busy petting a cat at the baggage counter, so that I nearly missed them. Sister’s room is cozy, but she’s rarely home long enough to enjoy it.
Everyone here considers this Tiffany scheme a low trick by which the firm slides out of a lot of work and responsibility and duty to its employees by putting it off on Clara. Unlike my own fragile constitution, she is strong, and from the way she took to sliding downhill yesterday, standing up on the sled on one foot, I don’t think she’ll have nervous prostration right away. The only way she and Alice stand the strain of Tiffany’s is the good food served by Miss Owens. It’s hot and substantial and on time.
Here is Mr. McBride and Mr. Booth, come to hear me play the zither. I’ll continue at a more opportune time. E.W.
Christmas Eve, 1898
I went to Tiffany’s today. Clara’s daffodil shade is lovely. It’s as large around as our butter board and in beautiful green and yellow colors. I also saw some brass boxes covered with wavering lines, which she made with Favrile glass. I can’t bring myself to tell you the prices these things command, except to say we could live nicely for a year or longer on the sale of just one of sister’s lamps.
Emily Wolcott
Lenox Hill
December 31, 1898
Mitchell’s yearly tallies show that the sales on the lamps and deluxe individual pieces have brought us even with the expenditures. Father made it a point to remind me that the Tiffany Glass Company has never shown a profit, thus, he crows about how I have not lived up to the Tiffany imperative. I once again explained that, unlike him, I will always put quality above profit. He went so far as to say I ran my business in effect as a mission. To this I responded: “Yes, but a mission which teaches the gospel of good taste at cost.”
We are off to the Goelets’ for the New Year festivities and midnight dinner. I understand my lamps are so well liked, there is one in every room. As in past years, we were left off the list of those invited to the Astors’ New Year’s Ball. I’ve heard that when my name came up as a possible guest, Mrs. Astor made the comment: “Just because I purchase my lamps from the man doesn’t mean I have to invite him in to enjoy them.” It is well known she hates anyone in the trades. To the Devil with her! As long as she keeps spending money in my showroom, I don’t give a damn.
I’m increasing the number of pieces for the 1900 Paris Exposition. I sent photographs of the lamps to Maison de I’Art Nouveau in Paris, so that Siegfried Bing might see for himself how beautiful they are. He wrote back immediately, calling the lampshades “glowing fantasies" and agreed to be Tiffany’s exclusive European distributor.
Julia announced at the breakfast table that she wants to become a physician. A woman doctor! Louise immediately led May-May and Hilda in giving the child words of encouragement to pursue this absurd notion. I let them all know in no uncertain terms that I would never allow any of my children to enter such a degrading profession.
Louise and her cronies at Stuyvesant Square Infirmary have filled the children’s heads with this rubbish. This is the trouble with marrying an intellectual woman. Over Louise’s objections, I sent them all to their rooms. It’s quite enough for this family that my son will soon be graduated from Yale with honors. No daughters of mine will be traipsing off to college to fill their heads with ideas that will turn them strange.
We are again fodder for the gossips in the New York Times. One of the servants at the Irvington-on-Hudson house saw Burnie raise his fist against Father and found it too exciting a morsel to keep to herself.
Louise has descended the stairs in her newest gown and headdress; both worth a small fortune in material alone. L.C.T.
Clara rested her forehead against the ferry window as threads of rain slid across the glass. In the distance, the Manhattan shore slithered by like a long, spiny snake. She smoothed a piece of writing paper over the top of her sketchpad and began her New Year’s round robin.
December 31, 1898
Dearest family,
I’m on the return ferry from escorting Emily as far as the Jersey City station, and have just finished reading the last robin. It nearly made me weep to think of how nice my own family thinks I am. I only hope that when you are undeceived, you will love me just the same. I do not recognize myself at all in this person you praise as going on from strength to strength.
To myself, I seem an ineffective creature, who always falls short of doing what another in my place, with a little more gray matter and strength of will, would easily accomplish. I’m always having opportunities that I’m not quite agile enough to catch and take advantage of.
She absently tapped her pencil against the paper, debating whether or not to include the incident of a drunken Stanford White coming to Irving Place and forcing himself on her in full view of Emily. Her grandmother would enjoy her description of how Mr. Booth picked the miscreant off his feet and pitched him headlong down the steps. She decided against it since Emily would most assuredly describe the whole incident in lurid detail, complete with illustrations, the moment she arrived in Tallmadge.
She wet the tip of her pencil and resumed writing.
After this last barrage of work at Tiffany’s, I feel a great need to restore myself.
I must stop here. Chambers Street is the next stop, and with the New Year’s crush, I must be ready to disembark. I will then hurry home, where I shall take a hot bath and fall into a deep, Rip VanWinkleian sleep, from which I shall emerge sometime in 1899.
Love to all, Clara
P.S. My flock gave me a Tiffany vase made of Mr. Nash’s Favrile glass. I’m going to place it under Josie’s photograph and make sure it’s always filled with flowers.
~ 18 ~
January 3, 1899
CLARA READ OVER the list of Mr. Tiffany’s orders for a third time. Whether from disappointment or exhaustion, she didn’t feel tied to her body, but rather trapped inside a recurring nightmare.
“You want to increase production of the lamps,” she said flatly, “make more of the individual deluxe items, plus design two or three windows for the Paris Exposition, plus make fancy mantle clocks for our showroom and your father’s store, and design lamps for the London galleries exhibit this June? All this on top of our regular orders for windows and mosaics?”
Without bothering to reply, Louis continued writing in his notebook. She imagined he was busy planning how he was going to fill her life with unending work.
He snapped the notebook shut with a theatrical conclusion, and sat back in his chair. “That’s exactly what I want. The six clocks should be finished by the middle of March—three for me, three for my father’s studio. As far as the lamps go, I want at least six new designs. Don’t be afraid to abandon conventionality. People prefer the art nouveau style now. Expand on that. Invent an exotic and unique Tiffany style. At least three of the new lamps must leave for the London Grafton Galleries exhibit no later than May.”
He tapped his pen on the blotter. “The lamps and windows for the Paris Exposition will be your first priority. I’ve already
provided you with the Four Seasons design; I leave it to you to design a companion window, but it has to be submitted before the end of this month, let’s say no later than January twentieth. For every piece you design, you need to be thinking not only of the London exhibit and the Paris jury, but of the entire European market.”
Clara felt the walls close in around her like a prison. “You ask too much. We’ll never get all this finished in time.”
His eyes fixed on her with an easy, approving familiarity that, while meant to convey assurance, only added to her frustration. “No excuses. How many girls do you have at present?”
“Thirty-one. It’s not enough.”
“Nonsense. I would think that’s more than a sufficient number of workers, considering that you know how to rally them to the cause. You’ve done it before, and you will do it now.”
“But I have all the bookkeeping, all the designing, all the managerial duties, and …” She trailed off. “I must speak plainly. I’m tired, and my department is tired. We’ve run ourselves ragged over the last five months trying to meet your demands for the Christmas rush. I didn’t ask to meet with you this morning so that you could heap more work onto the department. I came here to tell you that I need time away. I need rest.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Louis chided in a tone one might use with a petulant child. “You’ve got more pluck than that. I have it on good authority that you work twice as efficiently and three times as fast as the men.”
“Which is precisely why I need time to rest. I’ve worked twelve hours a day for months. Getting ready for the season and having to do all the bookkeeping has brought me to the brink of physical prostration.”
He heaved a weary sigh. “Oh, very well. How much time do you require?”
“One week to visit my family in Tallmadge, plus two extra days for travel. My last visit to my mother was so long ago that I don’t even remember what she looks like.”
Louis shook his head. “Out of the question. You may have the next two Saturdays off. That’s all I can spare you. You have to get these things started. I can’t have you going off on vacation every time you feel a bit weary. Can you imagine the men taking time off whenever they felt like it? My business would fail inside a month.”
She regarded the man who sat in constant judgment of her—a man who more than likely had never known a hard day of work in his life—and wanted to scream out of sheer frustration and resentment. With his increasing edicts and demands, he was becoming more like a draconian workhouse overseer than a purveyor of fine art glass.
Anger boiled up inside her. His refusal to let her go felt as though he were locking a prison gate, closing out everything she found bright and joyful.
“No,” she said resolutely, “I can’t do it again, not without rest. Give the designs to Miss Northrop or Miss Griffin, if you’re so eager to enter into another anxiety-ridden rush. You can’t push my department and me again and expect us to produce anything of value. None of us can continue working at such a pace. It’s inhumane.”
Wearily, she got to her feet. “If this makes me somehow faulty in your estimate, then do as you wish. I’ll return on January twelfth. In the meantime, my girls have plenty to work on with finishing the deluxe orders and the last two primrose lamps. Mr. Bracey and Miss Northrop can give them guidance should they need it, though I doubt they’ll need much.
“Don’t bother calling Mr. Mitchell. I’ll tell him of my plans on my way downstairs.” She hesitated, “Unless, of course, you wish to have me dismissed. To be perfectly honest, I’m so tired of this constant work, that at this point I don’t much care if you do.”
Halfway down the hall, she remembered her last order of business and hurried back to his office, where Tiffany was already attempting to raise someone by telephone.
“While you’re alerting Mr. Mitchell of my arrival,” she said, “please inform him that I won’t return to work until I’m assured in writing that my salary has been raised to twenty-five dollars a week starting immediately. Seeing how the men’s managers received year-end bonuses and I did not, I’m sure you’ll agree this is a fair request.
“And stop looking so glum, Mr. Tiffany. Try to concentrate on all the glory and fortune you’ll have in return for a little patience.”
Noon at Tiffany’s
March 14, 1899
Dear Ones,
Received the robin this morning and savored each sentence as one does the first juicy peach of July. What tries me now is the no-let-upness of Tiffany’s. If it were not for Mr. Booth’s help with the bookkeeping and finished contracts, I would surely lose my mind.
Last night Mr. Booth took Alice and me to the corner of Broadway and 27th Street to see the Holland Brother’s kinetiscope parlor. While I found the concept of moving pictures exciting, I can’t say that watching dogs and monkeys doing tricks and people flapping their arms about like asylum escapees was particularly stimulating. Here in New York, all I have to do is look out the window, and I can see the same thing in color, and with sound, any time day or night, for free.
We have added another worthy soul to our Irving Place family: Mr. Thomas Yorke, who works at the same firm as Mr. Booth and is quite knowledgeable about a great many subjects. Even you might find him agreeable, Emily. Mr. Yorke and Mr. Bainbridge have adapted Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland into a play for the other boarders. We’re having auditions this week.
The work at Hyde Park agrees with George. His salary has increased to $12 a week, so at last he feels he is worthy.
I visited Alice at the Corona factory yesterday. The furnaces felt especially comfortable, coming in out of the damp wintry weather. They’re in an immense, scalding hot brick room, with great shafts of golden light pouring from the open doors. Dark and evil-looking men wearing few clothes were rushing around with long red-hot pokers. I do enjoy going over there.
My new assistant, Mr. Joseph Briggs, is a nice Englishman with a great deal of good sense, since he seems to favor everything that I do—a good start to an effective working relationship. Of course, he’s a full six inches shorter and a good twenty pounds lighter than I, which makes it even more likely that he would agree with me.
He’s a little mysterious about himself, but he did tell me that when he first came to America, he worked in the Wild West shows, holding out playing cards for the sharp shooters to shoot out of his hand! Lucky for us nobody missed the target, for he has a keen sense of beauty and is a master mosaicist, which eases our workload considerably.
I must return to work. Today I’m designing a set of glass water lily screens for Mrs. Astor’s shower room.
Love always, Clara
P.S. Purchased my first store-made shirtwaist at Wanamaker’s for $1.95. It’s pink with white stripes. Imagine—it was ready to take off the shelf and wear. Clever!
Mr. Bainbridge clapped his hands. “Miss Owens has graciously allowed us to use the dinning room for a limited time, so we must make this dress rehearsal count. I don’t need to remind you there are only two weeks left to opening night. As I call first scene characters, please line up stage left. Alice of Wonderland?”
Amid cheers and whistles, Clara stepped forth, wearing a pinafore, white stockings and black slippers.
“Mad Hatter!’
Laughter broke out as George swept off his top hat and made a flourishing bow with all the exuberance of the Mad Hatter.
From the back of the room, Emily Wolcott spoke up in a voice that demanded attention. “Since I’m a frequent visitor here, I have pledged my assistance in the direction and critique of this play. Thus said, I strongly recommend that we wait a few moments until the men return from Dudley’s studio with the backdrops. As I’m sure Mr. Bainbridge will agree, thespians do much better when the scene is set properly.”
“I agree,” George said. “Let’s have a round of refreshments while we’re waiting,”
Emily glowered at his straining waistcoat. “Control yourself, Mr. Waldo. We took tea no more than twent
y minutes ago. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d sent away for one of those disgusting weight loss tapeworms Sears and Roebuck advertises in their catalogs.”
The doorbell rang twice and then again.
“That will be the backdrops now,” Clara said, heading for the foyer. “Come on, Alice, they’re going to need help carrying them.” She swung open the door and went still at the sight of Louis Tiffany, hat and cane in hand.
Louis nodded. “Miss Gouvy. Mrs. Driscoll. I see that I’ve interrupted something … a masquerade ball, perhaps?”
“We’re rehearsing a play,” Alice said, quickly pulling off her Cheshire Cat ears. “We were expecting the men with the backdrops.”
“Alice in Wonderland,” Clara added for want of something better to say. Remembering her manners, she opened the door wide. “Please, won’t you come in?”
Tiffany stepped into the hall and presented her with a leather portfolio case. “I’m sorry to just drop by like this, especially on a Sunday, but I’ve suddenly been called away, and I didn’t want you to wait until I returned to begin work on the River of Life window. I’ve noted my changes on the sketches and thought I’d deliver them on my way out.”
She was barely listening, her mind momentarily occupied by a mortifying awareness of her humble accommodations. The clean and cozy home, of which she’d always been proud, now seemed no more than a hovel made up of cracked plaster, worn carpets, and offensive cooking smells.
“Since you’re here, Mr. Tiffany, you should have Clara show you her new lamp ideas.” Alice touched her arm. “We insist, don’t we, Clara?”
Clara gave Alice a look that, if looks alone had power to harm, would have dealt her best friend a heavy blow indeed. “I’m sure Mr. Tiffany has better things to do than to waste his time with preliminary sketches.”
