by Echo Heron
“I’m glad the lamps please you, Madam. Nevertheless, a terrible mistake has been made.” He dabbed at his forehead. “You see, Madam, the lamp you have just purchased is not for sale.”
The woman broke into girlish laughter. “Of course, it isn’t for sale, you silly man. It’s mine—I just purchased it.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he said gravely, reaching for the box. “I must take the lamp back. However, I shall personally see to it that you receive another lamp that is as beautiful. If you tell the clerk what color scheme you wish to have, I’ll make sure—”
The dowager’s hands landed on the box at the same time as his. Wrenching it out of her chauffer’s grasp, she pulled the parcel against her ample bosom and wrapped her arms proprietarily around it. “You can’t have it.” Her voice rose. “It’s mine! My money is as good as anyone’s.”
“Yes, of course it is.” He bowed again. “But this lamp is …” Louis paused to consider. The old cow had high connections. He would have to proceed with extreme care. He knew well the power society women’s talk had in building or destroying the reputation of men far greater than he.
“This lamp is a second-rate version of the dragonfly lamp, meant for sale to our less—how shall I say it?—our less discerning customers. When my assistant told me that you were a lady of obvious high standards, I hastened downstairs to save you from making a terrible blunder. As I am sure you are aware, Tiffany’s is dedicated to preserving the sterling reputations of its customers.”
A smidgen of doubt crept into the woman’s defiance. Scowling, she glanced at the box, and then at him. “But I want one of the dragonfly lamps, and I must have this one.”
“And you shall have a dragonfly lamp,” Louis smiled. “Except you will have one that will make this lamp seem drab by comparison. I give you my word; I’ll personally see to it that you receive a lamp of the highest quality, an absolute diamond among lamps.” He tried again to remove the box from her grip and was aggrieved to find a last vestige of resistance.
He steered her away from the chauffer, employing an air of conspiracy. “Be assured the lamp you receive in exchange is worth five times what you paid for this one. Consider it my personal gift, my way of showing my gratitude for your patience and gracious understanding in this unfortunate matter.”
He tried again to pull the box away and found her grasp significantly loosened. “I must insist, however, that you do not disclose to anyone how cleverly you managed to come away from Tiffany’s with such a bargain. If word ever got out, I would be besieged. I wholeheartedly ascribe to the old adage that the best way to keep a secret is without help.”
Affronted, the dowager took one hand off the box to pinch at the copious amount of flesh that cushioned her neck. “I beg your pardon, but I am not the sort of woman who prattles gossip and tells secrets!”
“Excellent practice, Madam.” Louis tightened his grip. “You’re a shining example of womanhood.”
Blushing, she giggled like a schoolgirl. “Well, I suppose it might be all right, especially if I have your personal guarantee, Mr. Tiffany.”
Seeing his chance, Louis tugged at the box, and the lamp was his.
Lenox Hill
February 12, 1900
The exposition pieces are on their way to Paris. Father and I are to have our exhibits adjacent to each other in the American Industrial Arts building—his leather, stationery, damasking, gems and metals against my blown glass, enamels, lamps, mosaics and windows. Now we shall see.
Once again I’ve had to speak to Louise about a wife’s duty. Her reluctance to share my bed is in blatant violation of the marriage contract. We are healthy, and while another confinement is out of the question, it seems perverse to deprive me of my conjugal rights. I’ve insisted she seek the counsel of Pastor Osgood. I’ll speak with him privately first thing tomorrow to make sure he and I are of the same mind on this issue.
The land adjacent to The Briars has drawn my interest as the ideal site for building my masterpiece. The main parcel overlooks a natural cove in Cold Spring Harbor, but is presently occupied by the Laurelton Hall Hotel and the public picnic grounds. The owner has informed my agent that he will never sell to me specifically and will go to great lengths to prohibit me from ever obtaining the parcel. He should spare himself the trouble, for I mean to have his land and all the land around it. L.C.T.
April 25, 1900
My darling Clara,
It is three years to the day since we brought Josephine’s body home. The night is as it was then—soft and warm, doors open, and frogs singing. I have been looking over the box with her picture and the lock of her beautiful hair. There are no apple and cherry blossoms now, but when there are, we will cover her grave again.
Take what is yours, Clara. When summer comes you must accept the Palmié twins’ invitation to their house by the seashore. Do not let your (and I dare say, Mr. Tiffany’s!) desire for money and fame rob you of your life.
Stay well, my darling girl.
Love, Mama
A June rainstorm was brewing, and more than anything, Clara longed to be out in it and away from the crowd gathered in her room. The endless games of Whist were beginning to wear on her nerves.
She slipped into Alice’s room to change, and then made her way to her bicycle. Riding off in no one’s direction but her own, she removed her hat and let the wind tear at her hair. Drunk on freedom and daring, she was euphoric as streetcars and horseless carriages zigzagged around her like evil spirits. At Church Street, where the roads turned to cobblestone, her lantern sputtered and went out.
The moment she turned onto West Broadway, the rains came, soaking through her clothes to her skin. She ducked into a side street and then another, until she came to an enclave of narrow lanes and alleys that were protected from the storm. Illuminated by the flaring torches and red lanterns, groups of sweating men and scantily clad woman emerged from the shadows. They passed her with curious looks that made her feel as if she’d dropped out of the world as she knew it, and onto some other planet.
A fleshy woman wearing no more than a gauze shift grabbed at her bicycle skirt, holding it out. “Ooo, lookie here,” she jeered, “it’s her Lady La-di-dah come callin’ on us wicked, shameless folk.”
The man on whose lap she’d been sitting, stopped swigging from a bottle and gave her a lecherous look. “Or maybe she’s come lookin’ for a job. Come over here lady, I’ll give ya a job.”
A chorus of laughter came from a dozen dark corners.
Clara kept her pace, looking straight ahead, though she would have liked nothing better than to talk to them to get a sense of how they lived day to day. She wondered if they ever felt the hopelessness of their lives, or if they were content with their lot.
By the time the rain stopped, she was pedaling down Spring Street, and then Prince. She changed direction again, and raced down unfamiliar alleyways and through parks. The church bells ringing ten startled her, and suddenly Washington Square lay before her. Somehow, without trying, she’d found her way back to her own country.
As she passed through Union Square Park, she thought she heard her name. Through the fog she could just make out three men on wheels. Dudley’s gangling legs, Edward Booth’s tall frame and Mr. Yorke’s distinct Boston accent couldn’t be mistaken.
Her initial resentment at being searched out like a child collided with her pleasure over their concern. After a moment of watching their misty silhouettes weave among the trees, she gave in and let herself be captured.
July 2, 1900
Louis entered her workroom without knocking, but instead of giving her a list of new things to be done, he stood perfectly still, gazing about him like a man lost. “I’m leaving for the Paris Exposition on Friday and taking Mr. Belknap with me.”
“Mr. Belknap?” she looked up in surprise. “But I thought Mr. Mitchell was going with you.”
He dropped into the chair beside her desk. “Mr. Mitchell isn’t going to Pari
s or anywhere. My sister sent word that he died this morning from typhoid.” Louis tapped his chest. “Something went wrong with his heart.”
The news took her breath away. The man had been a thorn in her side, but the memory of him telling her that bright autumn leaves made him happy brought with it a deep sadness that she could not explain.
“He was only forty-one, Clara, a young man. I don’t understand. It was so fast.” He looked to her, his eyes pleading for some explanation.
The thought crossed her mind that the strain of working under the direction of Louis Tiffany might have contributed to whatever killed Mr. Mitchell, but she immediately abandoned the notion as too cruel. “I don’t think there’s any rhyme or reason when it comes to death’s choices,” she said glumly. “As for those of us left standing, it’s all a matter of luck.”
Paris, France
Louis strode across the parquet floor to where the two American judges on the Jury of Awards sat waiting behind an elaborate desk.
Judge Riordan looked up. “Mr. Louis Tiffany?”
Louis bowed with the military precision he’d perfected during his years at Eagleswood Academy. Only the continuous rubbing together of the forefinger and thumb of his right hand gave away the true state of his nerves.
Riordan shifted his attention to Henry and motioned him forward. I take it you are Mr. Belknap, the art director at Tiffany Glass and Decorating?
“Yes, sir,” Henry replied, taking his place alongside Louis.
Judge Getz cleared his throat. “Mr. Tiffany, we are not here to question the quality of the fine works of art that you’ve presented to the exposition—that much is evident in light of your overwhelming success.” He shuffled through a stack of papers, selected two sheets from the bottom and read:
“Louis Comfort Tiffany has been awarded three grand prix, ten gold medals, ten silver, six bronze and …” Getz brought the paper closer as if not believing his eyes, “… and you have been named Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur for your Favrile glass.” He put the paper aside, clearing his throat. “I am sure it was only an oversight on your part, Mr. Tiffany, but where it asks for the names of your collaborators—”
Judge Riordan interrupted. “That was the question about collaborators who deserve recognition for services rendered in the design and making of the individual pieces? In that space, Mr. Tiffany, you entered your name and the name of your company.
“We mean no disrespect, but we must have the specific name of each designer.”
Louis looked from one judge to the other, his expression changed to one of confused concern. “Specific name? I’m not sure I understand the inquiry.”
The two judges leaned close together, conferring in low whispers. From where he stood, Henry could make out a word or two of the muffled discussion, ‘reputation’ and ‘honor’ being the most alarming.
“Mr. Tiffany,” Riordan said finally, “the rules of entry clearly state that you are obliged to reveal the full names of your collaborators—the individual creators of the pieces. Considering the great number of items entered by your company, are we to believe that you alone designed every piece in your catalogue?”
With growing apprehension, Henry watched Louis’s smile pull down into an expression of haughty indignation.
“You may believe what you wish,” Tiffany said, “but I tell you plainly that I am the designer of all—”
Henry leapt toward the judge’s table, shouting loud enough to drown out the rest of Louis’s declaration. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I think I can explain. The oversight is mine.
“While Mr. Tiffany is the sole designer of a few pieces in the collection, there are, as you correctly presumed, a number of other individuals who designed the bulk of the winning works.” He glanced at Louis whose face was frozen in outraged shock, and quickly looked away.
“Of course, all these collaborators work for Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company under the direct supervision of Louis Tiffany. In my haste to make sure the forms were submitted on time, I’m afraid I didn’t fully understand what was required. However, now that we know what is needed, Mr. Tiffany and I will gladly supply the names of all the collaborators and a list of the pieces they each designed.”
Judge Riordan smiled. “In that case, gentlemen, le polémique has been solved.”
Henry turned in time to see the fury come to his employer’s face. As Louis opened his mouth to begin his tirade, Henry shot him a warning look fierce enough to make him snap it shut.
“I am curious about the windows at the entry of the American pavilion,” Getz said, “Are they both your designs, Mr. Tiffany?”
“I designed the Four Seasons window,” Louis answered tersely. “The other was designed under my personal supervision by one of my employees, although I did most of the—”
Henry interrupted. “The River of Life window was designed by the same woman who designed the dragonfly lamp, your Honor.”
Riordan’s eyes lit up. “Ah, the exquisite dragonfly lamp. What is the woman’s name?”
Filled with a sense that justice was being served, Henry responded at once. “Mrs. Clara Driscoll, with Miss Alice Gouvy as her collaborator. I’m certain you’ll be hearing more about these two artisans in the future.”
Judge Getz gathered his pile of papers and tapped them straight. “Thank you, gentlemen. If you will deliver the list to the clerk at the Jury of Awards office by the end of the day, I’m sure this omission can be overlooked.”
Hotel Continental, Paris
Henry waited until Louis was fixed with his brandy and cigar before attempting to break through the wall of silence he’d built between them.
“You are a success, Louis. You’ve come away with more honors than many of the other exhibitors, including your father. Isn’t that reward enough?”
Louis stared out over the Rue de Castiglione without responding.
“People are thronging to see your exhibit, and there’s talk of a reception in your honor.”
When there still was no reply, Henry dropped all pretenses. “Louis, be reasonable. You have done the honorable thing by giving the names of all your artisans.”
“Damn the honorable thing!” Louis swiveled and threw his glass across the room, where it shattered against the corner of a mirror. Brandy and broken glass ran down the maroon wallpaper, leaving long spears of stain.
The vein in his forehead stood out, pulsing with rage. “How dare you!” he yelled, spittle flying with the force of his words. “Your interferenth threatens to ruin me! Once word is out that I’m not the sole designer at Tiffany’s, people will thtop … stop buying. Siegfried Bing might decide to cancel our contract. I’ll be left without a European gallery.”
“You have an exaggerated sense of your own fame, Louis. If you’re that desperate for praise, then take it for a fact that you have an eye for recognizing and hiring talented artisans.”
Louis poured another brandy, drained it, and quickly poured another. “I have a notion to fire you, Belknap. Were it not for your mother’s busy mouth and my father’s willing ear, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Do as you wish.” Henry picked up his hat. “I’m going out to send a wire to Clara and Mr. Nash. They’ll be thrilled to know they’ve won recognition from the Paris jury.”
When he thought back on it later, Henry would marvel over how nimbly—how fast—Tiffany hurtled across the room and grabbed hold of him.
“Are you out of your mind, Belknap? I forbid you to tell them anything. With Mitchell gone, we have no one there to keep them in line. God only knows what ideas they might have if they think they’ve won recognition. We could lose them to other companies.”
“Not tell them?” Appalled, he shrugged out of Tiffany’s grasp, bile rising to the back of his throat. “You would withhold news of their triumphs from them? What about the newspapers? Surely you can’t keep news like this from the American press?”
Louis straightened his jacket and pretended to study the glowing end of his
cigar. “Don’t you worry about the press. I’ll make sure the reporters are given all they need to know for now. I’ll tell the collaborators about their awards—later.”
Henry felt tired, as if he’d been in an overlong fisticuffs match and was losing the round. “What do you plan on telling the reporters?”
“Exactly what I want them to print—that Louis C. Tiffany won many awards and was named Chevalier de la Legion d’Honneur.”
August 26, 1900
44 Irving Place
Hair tucked neatly under their scarves, Clara and Alice moved about on their knees polishing the furniture legs. They were still in the dog days of summer, but according to Alice, there was no reason they should put fall cleaning off until autumn.
“You have to see Point Pleasant seashore,” Clara said. “My time at Mrs. Palmié’s guesthouse was wonderful.” She hesitated. “Well, almost wonderful.”
“There was a pea under your mattress?”
“A pea in the form of a five-year-old known as ‘Mommy’s little buttercup.’ By someone’s evil design, this child was my across-ways tablemate for the full five days. She had the perverse habit of grinning at me, while patting any piece of food she liked particularly well with the palm of her hand before swallowing it whole.”
She waited a moment, then gave Alice a sideways glance. “Actually, I liked the place so much that I inquired about renting one of the cabins for next summer. It would be easy to ferry over to Point Pleasant on Saturday afternoons and return Monday mornings. It really isn’t that far from here, and we could be back in the city in no time. Mrs. Palmié said the nicer cabins rent for about twenty dollars a month. I thought that if everyone contributed, we could rent one for a couple of months next summer.”
“Why not four months, or even the whole season?” Alice grabbed paper and pencil from the desk. “We’d have a base group of six—you, Edward, Miss Griffin, Miss Nye, Mr. Yorke and I. If we took a place for four months, that’s eighty dollars, which comes to just thirteen dollars and some cents each. That’s less than four dollars a month.”
