by Echo Heron
Her strength and ability made it easy for me to lie on my oars, but now we must go on as she would have wanted us to.
Love, Mama
Noon at Tiffany’s
February 20, 1903
Dear Mama,
Today for the first time, my mind seems to have adjusted to our loss. We must go on. It occurs to me that people’s lives are composed of two great elements, love and work, and through these two expressions of ourselves, we influence others. The reason that Kate’s life left such a beautiful impression behind is that she loved spontaneously and unselfishly, creating beauty and peace wherever she went.
We will continue her work. She loved her home and never tired of making it a beautiful, restful place. Let’s keep it so and consider it our tribute to what she was to us. Nothing else we could do would be more pleasing to her.
All my love, Clara
April 6, 1903
CLARA APPROACHED TIFFANY’S dreading the mountain of work that needed to be done, yet knowing that being idle would be worse. She’d always dealt well with tragedy while it was upon her; it was only afterward that the emotions and nerves came crashing down. In the two months since Kate’s death, every day seemed a pointless struggle merely to get out of bed. She had lost weight until her face was hollow, and what little sleep did come, was short and fraught with nightmares.
She kept everyone at arm’s length. Her door was now kept closed. Whether out of respect for her grief or their discomfort with the stranger she’d become, no one dared to trespass.
Alice slipped daily notes of love and condolence under her door, while Edward left a flower each night. Philip serenaded her from the hallway once a week, and Henry sent a pot of tulips and a copy of Past and Present. George came by several times, talking to her through the keyhole until he got tired—or hungry—and went away.
Eventually, Alice managed to get her to a doctor, who diagnosed her with acute melancholia and prescribed she go into seclusion at the Town and Country Club every noon hour, and drink two ounces of whiskey followed by a one-hour nap.
The Tiffany Girls built an invisible shield around her, shouldering and solving all the problems that normally fell to her. At Mr. Platt’s suggestion, she hired on Miss Frances, an instructor from the Art Students’ League, to work alongside her half days. Once she supplied the designs, Miss Francis was able to lay out the lampshades almost as well as she. When the whiskey-induced headaches proved too painful, Miss Francis suggested she give up the liquor and visit the animals in the park instead.
The ostrich and the camel captivated her. She wasn’t clear on why she found such comfort in those two creatures in particular, but Miss Francis suspected it had something to do with the serenity in their eyes.
Occupied by thoughts of zoo animals, she almost missed the four rough-looking men slouched near a corner of the Tiffany building. Their caps were pulled low over their eyes, but she still recognized them as the Union men whose job it was to torment anyone who the Union bosses felt were a threat.
One man pushed himself away from the wall and blocked her path. “Where do ya think yer goin’, Clara Driscoll?”
The other men crowded around, their eyes like those of predatory animals on the scent. She straightened her shoulders and glared. If they expected her to run, they would be greatly disappointed—grief had made her immune to fear. “Once you move out of my way, I’ll be going in to an honest job, which is more than I can say for you and your bunch.”
“Oh don’t ya be worryin’ none ’bout us, Mrs. Driscoll. We’ll be goin’ to work, but I ain’t so sure ’bout you an’ the girls. Won’t be long now, you ’n yer bunch’ll all be out on the street where ya belong.”
Her eyes flicked to the front of the building where Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Platt were walking up the steps. Fighting down the urge to scream, she brought her eyes back to the man slapping his fist against his palm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think you do either, so if you’d please move aside and allow me to go on about my business, I’ll continue on with my day as if your attempt to delay me never took place.”
She stepped to the man’s left and was blocked by another, who smelled of beer.
“Go home and leave the honest work to the men, lady. You ain’t needed here.”
“Get out of my way,” she said, making another attempt to step around them.
They closed in on her, one of them kicking at her shins until his boot got tangled in her skirts. Another caught her arm and pushed her face-first into a lamppost. Her spectacles skittered across the sidewalk into the gutter.
Falling to her knees, she grabbed for her glasses and brought her arms up over her head to protect her face. When no blows fell, she opened her eyes and discovered the men were turned away, their attention on an enraged Louis Tiffany charging toward them, his cane slashing the air as he ran. They scattered like cockroaches.
Agile as a cat, Louis cracked two of them across the back. “Filthy scoundrels! Attacking a woman? If you lay another hand on any of my employees again, I’ll hunt you down and shoot you myself!”
He helped her to her feet, searching for injury. “Have they hurt you?”
She brushed off her skirt and attempted a smile. “I’m all right, thank you. I think they were only trying to scare me.” She let him help her across the street, praying none of the girls had witnessed what happened; it would upset them, and that would require her to spend precious time in calming them down—there was too much work to be done for that.
“They said I no longer had a job. What were they talking about?”
Louis hurried her along. “I should have warned you.”
“Warned me?” she pulled back. “Then what they said is true?”
Louis glanced around nervously, “We don’t want to discuss this here. These mongrels have spies everywhere. Come upstairs.”
The moment they were inside his office, she insisted on an explanation.
“The Glass Cutters Union has issued a demand that your department stop making windows, effective immediately,” Tiffany said. “To prove they mean what they say, the large landscape window your department is currently working on was dismantled late last night and moved to the men’s department.”
“What else? You’re keeping something from me. I can see it in your face.”
“They want your department shut down altogether. Mr. Platt and I told them we’d rather see every man out of a job for a year than to have that happen.”
They were interrupted by a knock. Louis opened the door to find Joseph and Mr. Bracey wearing identical expressions, a sense of urgency wrapped tightly about them.
Before they could tell her what happened, Clara was on her feet and running.
The workroom was in ruins; tables overturned, easels smashed, glass splintered into thousands of pieces. The worst of the destruction had been reserved for her room, where hate was made visible in the broken windows and the torn sketches scattered over the floor.
At the sight of her flock huddled together, each face pale with the barbarity of the men’s show of hatred, something inside her broke. Fleeing the building, she didn’t stop running until she reached the safety of Irving Place. She had no conception of time—it might have been hours or maybe only minutes, when someone sat next to her on the couch and started making comforting sounds one might make to a fretful child.
“We’ll get through this, Clara,” Joe Briggs’ voice was choked with emotion. “We can’t let them get the upper hand; we need all our strength to fight.”
“Did you see what they did?” She pressed the heels of both hands against her temples, the tears sliding down her face. “They destroyed it all. Thousands of dollars worth of glass. All our beautiful lamps, the samples, my designs—everything gone.
“Did Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Platt see what those … those depraved creatures did?”
“Yes, and Mr. Thomas, too. Mr. Platt was irate. Mr. Tiffany seemed bereft of reason,” Jose
ph paused, “but not so much that he didn’t have the sense to order the girls and Mr. Bracey to start setting things right. He sent for two of the company cleaning ladies and then sent me here to fetch you. He warned me not to return without you.”
He stopped her before she could protest. “You know about getting back on the horse that throws you? Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Platt know nothing about how to run your department, and I would never presume to attempt such a task. You have to pull yourself together—the department will only be as strong as you are.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m worn down. First there was Katie’s death, and now this? It’s more than I can bear.”
“No, it isn’t.” Joseph pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry for the loss of your sister, but you have to put that behind you for now and think of the living who depend on you.”
He led her to the washbasin and handed her a dampened cloth. She held the cool cloth to her swollen eyes and thought of how strongly her mother would agree with Joseph. Everyone, especially her girls, would be disappointed if she didn’t rise to the occasion.
The haggard woman in the mirror bore little resemblance to the sensible and resilient person she’d once been. Until she found that woman again, she would have to play the role.
“Wash your face,” he prompted. “I’ll arrange your hair. Half of it has fallen out of its pins.”
Despite her misery, she gave him a puzzled look.
“Yes,” he sighed, “Mrs. Briggs says pinning up her hair tires her arms, so she’s made an expert hairdresser of me.”
44 Irving Place
May 21, 1903
Dear Mama and Emily,
I’m not myself as of late, and I’m hoping another season at Point Pleasant will put me right. The cabin is far from my everyday life, and the only rest I have. I beg both of you to come and stay. Katie’s death has made us all in need of a break from hard life. I want to have you close while Mr. Tiffany is in such a demanding spirit—having me do twenty of the same thing instead of four. Sometimes I think he means to squeeze as much out of us as he can, before the men’s union shuts us down for good.
Now that we’ve been relieved of the windows, I’ve been making lamp designs, until there seems to be no end of them. I’m not sure if my department will survive, but I won’t give up on it until I am forced. Every difficulty we’ve ever been in before has opened out into something bigger and more advantageous to us.
I’ve stopped going to see the animals. It seems so wicked to capture those beautiful creatures and keep them with all their wonderful lithe strength and grace eternally pacing up and down in a small prison with no variety or change, until their entire lives become only eating and sleeping.
We’ve had gusting winds for three days. One woman was blown off the sidewalk near the Flatiron Building, while others held onto lampposts until the police could help them out of the vicinity.
Don’t worry about money, Emily, I’ll send you $50 now and more in a few weeks. Buy a new pair of spectacles and extra coal and some new arctics and flannel undergarments while they are cheap. Your health isn’t worth sacrificing for the sake of saving money.
I must go. Here are the Palmié ladies looking so pretty and twinny and becomingly dressed to take drab old Clara to dinner at that German restaurant over on Third Avenue. Afterward, Philip is taking us to hear Felix Adler speak.
Love, Clara
P.S. Yes, Mama, I promise to have my photo taken when I’ve gained back some of the weight I’ve lost. Mr. Tiffany referred me to a photographer who, he assures me, is one of the best in New York. She takes ‘artistic’ photos that will make me look glamorous and totally unlike myself.
P.P.S. No, Emily, I don’t see marriage as a solution to any of our troubles.
Pt. Pleasant, N.J
August 1, 1903
From the top of the dune, Clara could see her mother and Edward, heads bent together, strolling on the shore below. No doubt they were plotting strategies regarding the men’s strike.
The men’s strike. It ate at her like a disease. She dreaded going into work each day, anxious over what cruelties the men would subject them to next. Some days it was nothing more than the men lined up on either side of the hallway, waiting for her and her girls to run the gantlet of taunts and insults. Of late, there had been kicks and pinches.
Mr. Tiffany had been forced to employ private police to guard the building, but otherwise, negotiations lagged.
Seeing her, Fannie beckoned to her to join them. Linking arms, mother and daughter walked on, Edward trailing close behind.
“I’ve come to hear what you two are planning for me,” Clara said.
“You always were a perceptive child,” Fannie laughed. “Mr. Booth and I have come to the conclusion that you need to reset your mind about this men’s department business.”
“Reset my mind?” Clara put her hands on her hips. “Just what does that mean?”
Edward coughed politely. “If you’ll excuse me ladies, I’ll put myself to use in fixing the cabin’s water pump that seems to have pumped its last drop.”
“Such a nice man,” Fannie said, watching after him.
“Such a coward is more like it,” Clara muttered. “This resetting of my mind must be a troublesome undertaking. Edward is usually at his happiest when he’s telling people what to do.”
They sat on a rock, letting their bare feet dangle in the water. “So, Mama, how could I possibly reset my mind, when I have such hate for these men?”
Fannie looked at her in surprise. “Hate? I thought these men were once your friends.”
“They were, and that is precisely what hurts most. Our two departments have worked amicably for years. I can’t stand that they’ve turned on us with such loathing!”
Covering her face, she waited for the lump in her throat to ease enough to allow her to speak. “I have less than four weeks before I’m to plead my case in front of the Tiffany board of directors. If I fail to convince them, they’ll side with the men. I don’t mind so much for myself, but many of my girls have families who depend on them for their survival.” She picked up a stone and violently threw it into the water. “It’s too much! I hate this worrying day after day!” Furious with herself, she broke into sobs.
Her mother held her until she cried herself out. “You’re all bogged down in the muck. You’ve let them pull you to the level of unenlightened men, and they’ve blinded you to the obvious solution.”
“Obvious solution? You mean gather them in a large burlap sack and drown them?”
“In a way, yes. Drown the misguided hatred inside them. That can only be done with all the compassion and joy you and your women have to give these poor creatures.”
“That’s preposterous! You’re suggesting we use kindness with the same people who would just as soon see me and my girls begging on the street—or dead.”
“Yes,” Fannie smiled, “although I don’t believe they wish to cause you such severe harm as you believe. These men have wives, sisters, mothers and daughters. I doubt there is one man among them who doesn’t think of his loved ones and feel ashamed of himself even while he’s persecuting you. They won’t change their behavior, so you must change your reaction to that behavior. Don’t you see? It’s your negative reaction they seek. They want to distress you and make you retaliate because that gives them justification for their own poor behavior.
“They might easily act badly toward a frowning, angry woman who threatens them, but not to one who is smiling and wishing them well. With that in mind, I suggest that you and your women forego your rancor and act kindly toward them—send them gifts.”
“Gifts?” She looked at her mother, certain she was suffering from sunstroke. “I’ll do no such thing! The very idea makes me want to spit.”
“It can’t hurt to try, my dear. Smiles and kind words cost nothing, and a few pennies spent on rounds of cheese and good bread will be worth every bit if it softens the heart of only one man. If you treat them co
rdially, they will respond in kind.”
Peals of women’s laughter were carried to them on a breeze that smelled of fresh-baked pie. The stubborn resistance that proved both friend and enemy in her life reared its head. “What about the meeting with Mr. Tiffany and the board? Shall I bring them cheese and bread too?”
Fannie pressed Clara’s hand to her lips. “Do you remember what I used to say each time you and Emily engaged in one of your battles of the will?”
The entire scrapbook of their childhood skirmishes opened in Clara’s memory. Without hesitation, she lifted her head and recited: ‘It’s the soft tongue that breaks the bone.’”
“Precisely!” Fannie smiled. “I would suggest, my dear, that you face Mr. Tiffany and his board with an eye toward breaking bones.”
The Briars
August 27, 1903
Louise is out of sorts. The quacks have told her she suffers from bowel cancer and that it’s hopeless. I don’t believe it’s more than some sort of intestinal parasite she picked up in one of those filthy places she visited during her lunacy at the Women’s Infirmary. She has moved into her own rooms, where a good deal of moaning goes on. I bring her little bouquets of flowers each day, as this is what she prefers to all other gifts.
Mr. Thomas is busy convincing the board we can get more out of Clara for much less—a dangerous assumption. How is it that, after all these years, the men still don’t see how much more creative and able the women are at making beautiful art? I’ve warned them that they’re playing with fire.
The rabble at Cold Spring persists in questioning my rights to what they are saying has always been ‘their’ beach. All this with an eye toward building public bathhouses directly on my land! Over my dead body will I allow them to pollute my property with their noise and filth! L.C.T.
September 3, 1903
