Noon at Tiffany's (39 page)

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 Paris 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.”

“Then there would be the regular
sometimes
people,” Clara added, her excitement growing, “Henry and George, Mr. McBride, Emily and at least four or five once-in-a-while visitors. We could charge them a dollar each to stay for the weekend.”

Clara rested her back against the sofa leg and wrapped her arms around her knees. “We’ll have a weekly artists’ salon.”

“Mr. Yorke and Mr. Booth both know how to fish,” Alice said. “That would help lower our food expenses. We could have cook-outs every evening on the beach, and when we didn’t want to cook, we could have our meals at Palmié’s guesthouse.”

At the knock, they looked up to find Mr. Booth and Mr. Yorke standing in the open doorway. “Tell us, gentlemen,” Clara said, “just what sort of landlords do you think you’ll make?”