Noon at Tiffany's (31 page)

Clara’s disappointment at not being introduced to the Goelets in the showroom yesterday could not be helped. I already fear that with this new triumph, she’ll soon be clambering for recognition and, God forbid, a substantial increase in salary. I hope this glimpse at the grand scale of society will put an end to her unrealistic longings and make her understand that the entitled class would find accepting a common woman as artistic genius an impossible chasm to cross.

As for myself, I can claim no such hauteur; I was deeply affected by her presence in my private studio. I imagined her working with me side-by-side for the rest of our days. The feel of her slim waist still has me in a state of excitement.

Dr. McIlhiney made another attempt at obtaining Nash’s formula books, but without luck. Not that it would have done much good since Nash still refuses to give up his damned formula codes.

I must attend to Lou. She gave me such a look when I returned to the hall with Clara. It makes me shudder to think she may have guessed my thoughts. L.C.T.

Noon at Tiffany’s

June 20, 1898

Dearest Family,

With the crush-rush at Tiffany’s, these short notes are going to be the best I can do for some time. All this designing is a fine thing for me right now, which makes me think I ought not take any vacation this year. I must do especially well at my work now, as I refuse to fail at building my reputation as a topnotch designer.

The city has cleared out for the summer, and there are only 9 of us left in the house. The brutal heat drove Alice and me to make a sitting/ sleeping area on the roof. It’s the only place one can hope to find a breath of cool air.

We have a new boarder, Edward Booth. He’s taken the room directly below mine, and so far I’ve not had any complaints about my heavy step. He is either exceedingly polite, or a sound sleeper.

Last week, George suffered another of his fainting spells, so we submerged him in a cold bath, where he revived nicely. I gave him my wrappers to wear, and of course he couldn’t resist showing off. He did look funny—so like a girl, and yet like himself, and, in association with my dress—like me!

Mr. McBride took me to the theater on Friday to see “The Fortune Teller,” starring Alice Nielsen. I wore my black silk with white chiffon around a square collar and my black velvet hat with the white feathers. I was picturesque against all odds.

My tall Swede, Miss Wilhemson, is to be married in early September to a butcher who has a chance in Texas. She asked me for a letter of recommendation, in case she should need work there. She’s sad to be leaving, as she is quite fond of Mr. Tiffany, even though she mimics his lisp and other of his personal particulars that I shall not mention here, lest I upset Grandmother.

Must leave off here. Mr. Tiffany wants me in his office immediately to go over my cobweb library lamp. He wants a limited number of this one as he plans on charging a fortune for it. He won’t tell me how much.

Love, Clara

P.S. Emily: I’m glad you enjoy teaching your young ladies. Your stories about your ‘problem parents’ are enough to make me wonder what the world is coming to. However, I’m going to cultivate your calm disregard for the feelings of individuals and let great laws, such as survival of the fittest, work themselves out.

Clara knew it was going to be an uphill day from the moment she stepped outside and saw that New York looked like a deserted brick oven.

By eleven, the temperatures hovered at 101 degrees. Despite the bank of electric fans and the girls’ frequent visits to the buckets of cold water
and rubbing alcohol, Mr. Bracey was forced to close the shades. Fifteen minutes later, her cutters began complaining that they couldn’t see and had to have the electric light, which in turn, spoiled the daylight for the glass selectors. Quarrels broke out and at eleven twenty, the resilient Mr. Bracey said he couldn’t see to work for the sweat stinging his eyes.

Miss Lillian Palmié fainted at eleven twenty-five, and one minute later, her twin, Marion, followed suit.

It was eleven-thirty when Clara finally marched to Mr. Mitchell’s office, made a few minutes of amiable conversation about his lovely autumn lampshade, and then demanded the shop be closed. To her amazement, he readily agreed.

She and Alice practically fell over each other getting back to Irving Place, where they were out of their corsets and into cold baths before anyone could ask what happened. Rebellion being the order of the day, Clara refused to get back into her corset and skirts. From the back shelf of her wardrobe she brought out a flat gift box and read the card.

For Clara: the only respectable corset-hating free spirit to be born in captivity. Wear this when you’re feeling adventurous and wish to fly without restriction.

With loving affection, Kate

She pulled on the silk skirt that had been made over into a pair of billowy ankle-length pants and competed the ensemble with a gauzy summer waist and a loose-fitting artist’s smock. At dinner, little was made over her outfit, other than Alice and Miss Owens vowing to make similar costumes for themselves.

What did pull the boarders’ attention was her discussion with Alice about the design for the moth lamp. Mr. Bainbridge misunderstood completely and thought they meant to encase real moths in glass, while Miss Owens questioned how they would go about getting all the moths to stick to the shade and not fall off.

Afterwards, she and Alice carried their sketchbooks and a pitcher of lemonade to the roof, where they listened to the sounds of children playing in the street below.

“I was thinking about your Deep Sea lamp and how nice it would look with a circle of brass shells around the base,” Alice said.

Clara began sketching. “That’s perfect. To that I think I’ll add a series of clear glass beads rising upward from the mouth of each fish and have them ring the top opening of the shade, like air bubbles. I’ve talked to the Corona men and Mr. Nash about making glass that mimics underwater reflections. They said they’d work on it.”

The door to the roof squeaked open, and Edward Booth appeared, looking cool and refreshed in his spotless white linen suit. He carried a thick book under one arm and a leather case in each hand. Despite his burden, there was lightness to his step.

He set the cases next to Clara’s chair. “I beg your pardon ladies, but I wonder if I might join you?”

Alice motioned for him to sit down. “Have a seat and enjoy the ability to breathe again. Clara and I were just going over lamp designs.”

“Actually, it’s your lamps I’ve come to discuss. I found the dinner conversation about your moth lamp fascinating.”

“Are you an artist, Mr. Booth?” Clara asked. “I was under the impression you were one of Miss Owens’s stalwart businessmen, meant to keep her artistic boarders behaving properly.”

“I don’t know how stalwart the superintendent of an importing firm can claim to be, but I do enjoy viewing good art, even though I personally have no artistic talent.”

The fair skin of his neck, barely discernible from the white of his collar, blushed red. “When I visit museums, I might not recognize the artists’ names, but there are certain paintings that make an impression.” He lifted one of the cases onto his lap.

“I have something here that I think might be of service to you. I collect butterflies and other winged insects. These are my mounted specimens, and this book here …” he handed it to Alice, “contains enlarged photographs of flowers. I’d be happy to lend them to you.” He opened the case and placed it on the table between them. The array of richly colored specimens caused the two women to make identical sounds of astonishment.

“You mentioned your primrose and butterfly lamp,” Mr. Booth continued, “and I thought these fine fellows could be the specimens you’re searching for.” He tapped the glass over two small butterflies, one of yellow and the other, orange. “Clouded yellow and orange-barred sulphurs—they‘re quite the dandies.”

He pointed next to an iridescent blue dragonfly. “It’s just a suggestion, but I thought you might like to use this Blue Dasher as your motif instead of a moth. The wings resemble lace, which might work out well in stained glass.”

Clara looked from the butterflies to him. The lines around his mouth suggested he had laughed a great deal in his time, and there was a passion behind his eyes that told her he would be a good person to know. “I’m overwhelmed by your generosity,” she stammered. “I hardly know what to say.”

“That statement in and of itself is fairly overwhelming,” Alice said. “Mrs. Driscoll is so rarely at a loss for words.”

Ignoring Alice’s remark, Clara continued: “These specimens would be of inestimable value in the work we’re doing. I would never be able to thank you enough. The way it stands now, I have to depend on my family to send specimens. I’m still waiting for my box of primroses, and the moths they sent were no more than a small pile of dust by the time they arrived.”

Mr. Booth suddenly got to his feet. “I’ve just had a brilliant idea! Are either of you ladies in possession of a wheel?”

“I’m saving up to purchase one,” Clara said. “Of course, I’ll have to learn how to ride, but considering that thousands of women are bicycling all over New York every day, I doubt my natural clumsiness will hold me back.”

“It’s ever so easy to learn,” Mr. Booth said with growing excitement. “Once you’re up and rolling, I’d be delighted to show you some rides that would take us into the Hudson Valley. There are hundreds of varieties of wildflowers and plants you could choose for your work, not to mention that it’s an entomologist’s paradise. I’ve been meaning to go there to collect more specimens.”

Alice fanned herself with the cover of her sketchpad. “Susan B. Anthony believes that bicycling has done more to emancipate women than anything else. She thinks it gives women a sense of freedom and self-reliance.”

“That would be right up your alley, Mrs. Driscoll,” Edward said, eyeing her outfit. “I see you already have your trousers.”

Tallmadge

July 1, 1898

Dearest Clara,

I am 89 years old—not dead. I want to hear all about Mr. Tiffany’s “personal particulars.” Feel free to send them on to me in a private note separate from the robin—no sense educating Katie or Emily on these matters. Enclosed is a dollar. Spend it on what you want.

Love, Grandma

44 Irving Place

July 10, 1898

ATTENTION ROUND ROBINITES! On July 7
^th
, 1898, I purchased my very own Yukon Ladies’ Bicycle from a man whose wife tried riding it once. He didn’t charge for the lamp, the bell, or the touring case, but judging from the relief on his face when I wheeled the bicycle away, I believe he would have gladly given me the whole kit and caboodle for free, had it not been for his wife’s doctor bills.

My desire for admiration gave me confidence and greatly assisted me in learning how to ride in a remarkably short time. I sallied forth in my new bicycle suit and fancy straw hat with a cornhusk top and wobbled up
and down the street, but was unable to turn around gracefully, so that I had to get off every time.

Finally, with Mr. Booth’s encouragement, I ventured as far as Gramercy Park. The following day, we rode up Madison Avenue and through the park to 72
^nd
and up Central Park West to 110
^th
. Several twists and turns later, we took our places alongside the two hundred other riders cycling up and down Riverside Drive.

To answer your questions, Mr. Edward Booth is six feet tall, English, and of athletic build. He has a beautiful voice and pronunciation, and is most agreeable. We get on quite well as
friends
. He came to America five years ago and thought it an awful place compared with London, but now he says nothing would make him go back to England.

I’m working on a secret project for Mr. Tiffany, which necessitates that I stay after closing. It’s a one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-reproduced, centerpiece table lamp, done in a peacock feather motif. The shade is in tones of royal blue and gold. The bronze base is an ornate swirling water pattern inset with iridescent tiles. Incorporated into the pattern are places for six Favrile glass cups of the most delicate blue. It’s so exquisite as to take my breath away.

Mr. Tiffany is paying me privately ($25!). Were this lamp to be sold, he could easily ask $1,000 for it. I can only guess that it’s meant as a special gift for his wife, although he has not said as much, and I don’t like to ask.

Alice and I are doing piecework for Mr. Tiffany’s father, Mr. Charles Tiffany. So far, he has commissioned me to design a silver cover for his personal diary and a brooch and necklace for his shop. Alice is working on an earbob and pendant set.

Difficult to believe Mrs. Price allowed herself to die. I was sure she would outlast us all. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that Miss Violet Price immediately accepted Mr. Talbot’s proposal.

I have it on good authority that a new type of S-curve corset is in the making. It forces the upper spine forward and pushes the hips backward. The overall effect (other than bending one into a pretzel) is to make the hips, behind, and bosom protrude (the latter into what is called a “pigeon-pouter” bosom). It is said to crush the lungs and be more harmful to a woman’s spine and innards than all the other current fashion contraptions combined.

I decided I’d had enough, and in the names of comfort and health, I’m taking up freer clothing. It’s a change I’ve dreamed of making, but haven’t had the courage to carry through until now. Don’t worry Mama, I’ll be decent and not give in entirely to eccentric behavior.

My love always, Clara

P.S. Henry and I went to see “The Royal Box.” It’s one of those rousing musicals that never fail to make me picture myself as the leading lady, admired by all. Then I come home and sing to myself in the mirror, and the spell is broken.