by Echo Heron
As the tuberculosis progressed and her life ebbed, Alice found peace in making watercolors of the flowers she most loved. Clara kept the paintings, and when she and Edward purchased the bungalow, the first thing she’d done was to plow up the backyard and plant what would come to be known as ‘Alice’s Garden.’ She truly believed it was her one-sided conversations with Alice, while she tended to each stem and tree, that made everything bloom so abundantly.
An automobile much too expensive for the neighborhood pulled up in front of the bungalow. Henry Belknap, impeccably dressed in bottle-green blazer and cream slacks, got out and made his way toward her. Leaning inside the car he kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Are you thinking of who you’re going to run over next?”
Clara slapped the steering wheel in mock exasperation. “I wish Edward would stop telling everyone that little piece of fiction. You know perfectly well he has a tendency to exaggerate things for the worst. I was only trying to scare him a little. It wasn’t my fault he didn’t move fast enough.
“It’s about time you showed up.” She patted his hand. “Seven months is too long between visits, especially …” she gave him a withering look from over the tops of her glasses, “since you never answer any of my letters. How are you?”
Henry removed his straw boater and passed a handkerchief around the inside band. “Surprisingly well for a man of seventy. And you?”
“Still kicking,” she said, getting out of the car and taking his arm. “Come in and have lunch; we’ll catch up on all the news. It’s just you and me. Edward’s in New York taking care of another snag in Miss Owens’s estate.”
“She was a lucky woman to have you and Edward looking after her at the end.”
“It was the least we could do for the dear, considering she provided us with a home for all those years.”
Henry arranged the hardboiled eggs on a plate, and set the table while she made canned tuna sandwiches.
“I’ve just received another letter from Dudley,” he said, pouring the lemonade. “He’s moved from La Jolla to take a new position teaching art in Santa Barbara. He says his two boys are growing like weeds.”
“He’s done an admirable job raising those two on his own since Margaret died. Hopefully he’ll bring them back to see us one of these days.” Clara cut their sandwiches on the diagonal and put one on his plate. “And what are you up to these days? Last time I saw you, you were writing that book about Salem.”
“Good God, it has been a while; I finished writing that book ages ago. I’m writing one on my family history now, and after this one, I’ll probably write another on photography. McBride and I have a contest going to see who can write the most books in the shortest time. I’m pretty sure he’s got me beat—the man is prolific.”
“Is he still the art critic for the New York Sun?”
“Oh yes, and if you thought he had a swollen head before, he’s recently been crowned the dean of American art critics, so there’s no living with him. He’s hobnobbing with Matisse, Steiglitz, Marin—he’s even involved with that Gertrude Stein woman … or man … or whatever she is.”
He wiped his mouth. “Are you and Edward happy with your Ormond Beach house?”
“My bones and various moving parts are ecstatic over it,” she laughed. “My body was threatening a revolution if I didn’t get out of the snow and ice. Of course, with the Depression Edward’s worried about paying the taxes on both houses, but I expect we’ll weather that storm better than we could the cold. Since the Yorkes and the Palmiés have moved down, he’s been much happier. He and Mr. Yorke have formed a men’s bicycle touring club.”
Henry held up a hardboiled egg as if making a toast. “That’s our Edward—wheeling to the finish line.
“How is the Clara Booth Scarves, Necklaces and Fans Company doing?”
“I had to change the name,” she said. “Fans are passé, so now I’m Clara Booth’s Scarves, Handkerchiefs and Necklaces Company, and I’m not too sure about the necklaces either, considering the price of materials. I’ve already lowered my price on the scarves from five dollars to three, and the necklaces aren’t moving at all. But who could blame people for wanting to hold onto their money now? If you want, I’ll show you my latest scarves after we eat.”
“Only if you’ll let me buy a half dozen from you; I’ve become the most popular man among the ladies in my family who receive them as gifts.”
After they’d washed the dishes and put them away, she led him through Alice’s Garden to a small screened-in studio set in the far corner of the property. Cluttered with jars and bolts of different colored silk, the workshop was nonetheless a sunny, cheerful place. She pulled a large square of painted silk from a fiat gift box and held it up. “This one is part of my swamp collection from that time Edward and I ventured into the Everglades.”
Arrayed in intricately detailed white feathers and plumes, two herons perched on the branch of a bald cypress hung with Spanish moss. Their bright gold eyes focused on the viewer. All around them, water and sky were alive with the brilliant oranges, reds and yellows of a Florida sunset.
She shook out a second scarf, this one long and rectangular. Painted end-to-end was a sky of purple, orange and lavender radiating from a molten setting sun. Running along the bottom, the lustrous quality of the waves had been perfectly captured.
“The richness of your colors takes my breath away,” he said. “These are works of art. They don’t belong on shelves, they belong in galleries, for God’s sake.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, but nobody cares about this sort of thing any more. Art has long since moved away from the naturalists and Art Nouveau. Nowadays, everyone wants Art Deco—just look at the new Chrysler Building. It’s the reason Mr. Tiffany withdrew his money and left Joe Briggs to run an ailing company that built its reputation on an outdated style.
“Anyway,” she sighed, “you can’t stop progress in fashion. Young women don’t want fancy things.” She looked down at her own straight-line rayon pants and plain cotton blouse. “It’s all slim-line silhouette styles. Simple lines, no fussy undergarments.” She paused, and then added, “Thank God!”
They ambled through the garden and sat on the bench overlooking a sundial surrounded by peonies. Henry filled his pipe, but left it unlit.
“Have you seen Mr. Tiffany lately?” she asked.
Henry nodded. “I visited him at Laurelton Hall two months ago.”
It wasn’t often she and Henry spoke of him, though she did like to keep up with what he was doing. For a time she’d kept in touch with Joseph, who passed on the rumors, both good and bad. It was he who’d informed her that after she’d left, Mr. Tiffany’s drinking had escalated to the point that he’d almost died. A nurse was called in to watch over him day and night, and within months the Times was reporting that Nurse Sarah ‘Patsy’ Hanley, described as ‘a young adventurous Irish redhead with vivacious and engaging ways,’ was frequently seen about town on the arm of Louis Comfort Tiffany.
When Louis gave over Laurelton Hall, his art collection and 1.5 million dollars, all in support of young artists, Clara was sure the nurse had pushed him to it.
“The nurse,” she said, “is she still with him?”
“Patsy? Absolutely. They dote on each other. Louis has done a rather good job of teaching her how to paint, too. She’s had a few shows of her own—mostly landscapes and flowers. McBride says she’s not all that bad.
“They’re still living in that house he built for her next to Laurelton Hall. Being around the art students day and night drove him crazy. Poor Louis—he wanted to keep them strictly within the Art Nouveau camp, but they refused to bend under his cane. I think he’s about ready to give up that struggle.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I suppose you’ve heard that he’s asked Patsy to marry him on several occasions?”
An inexplicable pang of jealousy passed through her. “No. Have they married?”
“Patsy refuses. She thinks his children woul
d resent it, although I doubt that. One of the twins confided that she was just glad Patsy got him off booze and onto her.”
They laughed until she couldn’t get her breath, and he had to bring her a glass of water. Later, when they’d talked themselves out, they leaned against his car watching the late afternoon sun take on a golden hue.
“Clara?”
She knew from his tone what he was going to say. Closing her eyes, she let out a heavy sigh. “Why do you always bring this up when you know I don’t want to talk about it?”
“Because it isn’t fair. Without you and the others, his company would have folded like a house of cards.” Henry made her look at him. “Hasn’t it ever crossed your mind that Tiffany’s became a success just after 1888 and went out of production the year after you left? Do you think it was only coincidence that Tiffany’s thrived for just those years you were in charge of the designing?
“Why won’t you give McBride permission to write about what you did there? Surely there‘d be no harm in it now?”
She pulled away, the first stirrings of the old frustrations and bitterness beginning in her chest. “You and McBride have to stop bringing this up, Henry. That was a long time ago. I don’t want to stir up the muck.”
“But why? What’s wrong with letting the world know who you are and what you did?”
“Because it isn’t the honorable thing.”
He got into his car. “All right, Clara, you win again, but I, for one, sincerely hope that someday you and Nash and all the rest who got nothing for their efforts are given the respect you’re due. I can’t think of any who are more deserving.”
Point Pleasant
August 22, 1932
Dear Emily,
You must not listen to Edward about my driving! I drive perfectly well. The traffic box man came by only to say that I passed through the yellow light and was under it just as he changed it to red. I asked how I was supposed to see through the roof of my car—for this, he had no answer.
I’m glad you approve of our extravagant expenditure on the Westinghouse Electric Refrigerator. Besides saving about $2.50 a month on ice, we’re glad to be done with that terrifying Ice Man. We were always on edge when he came around with those ice tongs and that crazed expression. Now we’re comparing the cost of oil for our cook stove to the cost of an electric range. (This has nothing to do with the Oil Man—he’s a perfectly nice gentleman.)
It sounds like Canandaigua is set for a bumper crop of grapes this year. Are your buyers all one winery, or do you sell to various vintners? In either case, thank God for the Volstead Act, otherwise you’d be selling your grapes for jam instead.
Everywhere we go we see such poverty—mothers and children going hungry, men without work and no savings to cushion their fall. You are correct in your assertion that we are well off comparatively. I found great comfort in your conviction that if the country goes to the dogs, we’ll all go together. For my part, I was all set to join the tax revolts, but Edward held me back.
I’m off to the Grand Central Art Galleries exhibit. If I’m to catch the ferry in time, I have to leave off here.
Love, Clara
Dearest Counselor, Friend and Sister Emily,
The Boss left this for me to mail. I figured for the price of a 2-cent stamp I might as well get my money’s worth, so here’s my two cents:
Now, as for her driving—you might want to pray harder, because she’s driving all around the place just as though she knew how. She drove me to the ferry yesterday amid the traffic and wisely, I kept my eyes closed for the duration of the trip. She doesn’t listen, but I told her just because she has a license doesn’t mean she can drive.
I’ve been laying down stones for the new driveway, and I don’t mind saying that I do feel very tired and full of aches by bedtime.
The Boss got a new commission for a dozen scarves from some fine ladies’ store over in Boston. It perked her up. It might be that I’m partial, but her latest work is grand.
I hope you still have enough spare money to get on the bus and come down here before our season closes. I’ll leave off now, before I go over the one-ounce limit and have to purchase a 3-cent stamp. I miss you.
All my love, Edward
Clara was admiring Alfred Hutty’s Path in a Southern Garden, when a slender woman standing by the gallery entrance caught her attention. She touched the woman’s elbow. “Dorothy? Do you remember me? I’m—”
“Clara!” Dorothy pulled her into an embrace. For a long time the women stood with their arms around each other, saying nothing. Touched by the genuine warmth of their greeting, tears came to Clara’s eyes as she held Dorothy at arm’s length, sizing her up.
The ravages of age seemed not to have touched her, though, on closer inspection, Clara saw signs of worry etched around her magnificent dark eyes. “I think the last time I saw you was just after your marriage to Dr. Burlingham. How are you?”
Giving the street a last quick glance, Dorothy pulled her to one of the viewing benches in the middle of the room, talking as she went. “The children and I are doing well. Bob, my eldest, is driving down to pick me up. He’s late and I—” She laughed at Clara’s shocked expression. “I know, I’m sometimes just as surprised when I think that one of my children is old enough to drive.”
“One of your children? How many are there?”
“Four. The youngest is twelve. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?”
Clara shook her head in wonder. “It doesn’t seem that long ago that we were sitting in the Lenox Hill attic sipping hot cocoa. Where are you living now? I read that your sisters and their families are still at Lenox Hill. I assumed you …”
Dorothy’s features hardened, and for a moment, she looked exactly like her father. “I had no intention of following my sisters’ dutiful examples. My father’s generosity in having my siblings live there was no more than his desire to remain in control of everyone. As a woman of an independent nature, I expect you, above all, can understand my decision.”
Clara smiled faintly, “I do, although I doubt your father will ever comprehend, let alone believe the wisdom of your choice. He was raised in different times with different rules. Still and all, it makes me happy to think that the women of your generation have the freedom to rebel these days. In my time we were bound and gagged; it took a long while for us to fight our way out of the prisons men built for us.
“So if you aren’t at Lenox Hill, where are you?”
“The children and I have been living in Vienna, with Dr. Sigmund Freud and his daughter, Anna. I’m studying psychoanalysis. I only came back to New York to see my father, since I doubt very much I’ll see him again.” She paused. “He’s not at all well, Clara.”
The news hit her almost as a physical blow. “Your father is ill?”
Dorothy gave her a long searching look then gently squeezed her hand. “He’s eighty-four, Clara and very frail. His eyesight and hearing have failed, and at times his mind wanders so that I’m not sure he even knows who we are.”
Frail? She couldn’t even begin to imagine Mr. Tiffany in any other way than full of life and bluster. Frailty wasn’t any part of the man she’d once known.
A good-looking young man came up behind them and touched Dorothy’s shoulder. “Mother? Are you ready to go? I have the car parked outside.”
Dorothy rose and kissed her son on the cheek before making introductions. She took a card from her handbag and wrote an address on the back. “I’m sorry Clara, but I must run. My family and I are sailing back to Europe this evening. This is my address in Austria. Please write. I promise I’ll reply.”
From the gallery door, Clara watched after them as they got into the Bentley and drove away. For a moment she felt older and sadder than she’d ever felt in her life, as if she understood for the first time how fleeting life was, and how little time was left. When her thoughts tangled, threatening to drag her down into desolation, she sought out the one gift that never failed her—the beauty of art tha
t surrounded her.
January 18, 1933
Salem, Mass.
Dearest Clara,
I don’t know if you will have already heard the news by the time you receive this, but Louis Tiffany died yesterday after a bout of pneumonia. He went peacefully, surrounded by family, and, of course, Patsy.
I visited him briefly at Christmas and was saddened at how much he’d deteriorated in both mind and body. Nonetheless, there were moments when he perked up, and, at one point—without prompting from me, said: ‘I’ve missed my dear Clara. I wish I could see her once more.’
I wasn’t sure I should share this with you, considering I promised not to rile that sleeping dog, but now that Louis is gone, I hope you’ll make allowances. Perhaps it might even bring you some bit of comfort to know he was still thinking of you at the end.
I look forward to seeing you and Edward in April. Perhaps we can all meet at Emily’s cabin this summer and have a reunion-retreat with whoever else is left from the old 44 Irving Place family. I will write to Emily and begin paving the way for our possible convergence. I’m sure if we encourage her to serenade us on the zither, she’ll have no objections.
I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, but I was sure you’d want to know.
Love, Henry
May 27, 1933
Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn
It was a good day. Clara awoke full of energy—the usual aches and pains that gnawed at her joints, held at bay.
Passing through the cemetery gates, she followed the attendant’s directions until she found what she was looking for. With great care, she gathered the flowers from the backseat and made her way up Vale Path.
She spotted him partway up the hill, just below his parents’ grave, noting at once the striking contrast between the father’s traditional limestone marker and the son’s modernistic, prism-shaped stone.
In a nearby tree, a crow watched her with apparent interest, while she took her time breaking off the blades of grass that had grown too tall across the front of Louis’s marker. When she was satisfied, she propped the spray of wisteria and peonies to one side of his name and stood back to admire her work.
