Noon at Tiffany's (44 page)

It’s only because Christmas comes on Thursday that I feel I can sneak off to Tallmadge at all. I can work night and day afterward to make up for it—I do that anyway, but never mind. Last month we received an order for 40 dragonfly and 20 wisteria table lamps. Immediately following that was another for 20 conventional peony globes, with each one going for $250 to $750—a fortune in sales.

Mr. Platt asked me to make a watch chain using the sand flea as a model. It’s so detailed that it nearly ruined my eyes, but he’s very pleased with it, and he is the one person I enjoy pleasing. Added to this, I have to make statistical reports for the 1903 lampshades, besides modeling a $200 inkwell so it can go into the works before I leave.

The last few nights Philip has been coming to my room to play the mandolin and discuss the plots for some stories he’s writing. Last night, he remained until after 1 a.m., so I am befuddle-headed today.

I’ve hired on five more people. The new deaf boy and the pretty Cuban girl do such beautiful, careful work. Our new Italian boy doesn’t eat at lunchtime, but instead reads books—he’s thin, but smart.

Frank and the new deaf boy have joined in continuing my education in sign language and the alphabet. They have insisted on teaching me phrases that they assure me are the most useful: ‘Another beer, please,’ ‘I want to eat now,
’
‘Help me get up.’ and ‘Help! I see a bear coming.’

Kate, when I get home, I’ll teach you exercises that may help you stand straight without causing further pain.

I attended the Taft and Belknap gallery opening at 41 E 20
^th
Street with Dudley and Mr. McBride. Henry is so much happier since he left Tiffany’s—something I completely understand.

I hear Mr. Tiffany bellowing nearby. He’s pushing for more of my designs, and I feel my brain is gradually turning to putty or some equally unproductive substance.

Love to all, Clara

P.S. No, Emily, your ‘superior knowledge’ doesn’t impress (or oppress) me. We all know as much as you, but in subjects other than Latin and mathematics. Our interests lean more toward
useful
knowledge.

Lenox Hill

December 26, 1902

Construction of Laurelton Hall coming along as well as can be expected during winter. It shall be magnificent—more breathtaking than anything ever built on American soil.

Louise maintains she will never live there, insisting that she prefers the simplicity of The Briars for her summer residence. I’ve explained the difference between simplicity and unexceptional from an artistic point of view, but to no avail. She does not understand the concept of our station in life. I’m hoping that when she’s done with these endless complaints of stomach pain, she’ll see reason.

Ensconced in all their petty jealousies over my acquisition of all the lands around Laurelton Hall, the rabble at Oyster Bay continue their dispute over my rights to the five underwater acres at Cold Spring Harbor. Their attempts to thwart my plans for building a seawall and breakwater in order to enlarge my private sand beach below the house will assuredly fail. With some persuading the courts will rule in my favor. Let’s see how the scum like that. L.C.T.

January 19, 1903

Dear Katie,

I received your card at the breakfast table today and have made up my mind to come home February 1
^st
. It isn’t foolish at all—the Wolcott girls don’t have abdominal surgery every day. I’ll be there when the doctor takes you into surgery on the 2
^nd
. You may not need my moral support, but you’ll enjoy it just the same.

I’ll bring all the carpet and drapery samples that George chose for the parlor. I’m sending on several silk scarves from Vantine’s that you can wear until your hair grows out. Let me know if you need anything else. Chin up, dearest; you’ll be fit as a fiddle before you know it.

Love, Clara

PS: Remind me to tell you about the American Sculptor’s dinner at Madison Square. There were over 10,000 candles burning all at once. Breathtaking!

Tallmadge

January 30, 1903

Clara: Come home at once!

Emily

February 15, 1903

Dearest Clara,

I expect to rise to the situation gradually, but at present I cannot write much. It was a trial for me, that as good and capable as Kate was, her life seemed humble. You and Emily so easily gathered the renown for brilliance, but Kate served with calm and wisdom. Do you remember how wide open and surprised her eyes were in the moment of death? I think she saw beyond this terrible storm to the land of summer.

After you left, I went into the parlor and sat in front of her picture, feeling shaken and alone. And yet grievous as our loss is, it would have been worse for her if you had died, than it is for you to lose her. Her life lay largely in you. She was always planning for you, for the times when you were home. Your loss would have made a void in her simple life that nothing could fill.

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

C
LARA 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,” Joseph 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.”