Clara and Mr. Tiffany (35 page)

“We thought you’d like to know,” the art director added under hooded eyes.

How canny of them to worm their way into my private grievance and use it for their own purposes. How did they know? Hank?

“Thank you for mentioning that. Yes, it is important to me.”

Could I trust that their public promotion of me would actually occur?

By the end of lunch, the conversation took a leap.

“We would be pleased if you would consider our studio as yours,” Mr. Lamb said.

“Would I have total design freedom?”

“Total.”

“Would I be saddled with administration duties?”

“No.”

“Do you manufacture your own glass?”

“No. We buy from several suppliers.”

“Do you have women working for you?”

“Not at this time.”

Before leaving, I promised to consider their offer, and it came in the mail, properly, two days later. I opened it alone in my room. Forty-five dollars a week. With two weeks of unpaid vacation, that would be $2,250. By saving money and vacation time, I could travel to Europe! I could see the great museums, cathedrals, fountains. I could have a broader life! But, oh, how much more I liked our spacious studio and all my Tiffany Girls than the bleak, cramped workshop at Lamb’s, where I would be the only woman. How would the men there take to a woman coming in as their supervisor?

My Women’s Department was a living entity I’d built up myself. Only Agnes and Miss Stoney were left from the original six. I had increased it to thirty-five at one time. We were thirty-two until Mr. Tiffany had sucked away four of my best, so we had only twenty-eight now. The department was mine more than anything else in the world was mine. I gazed around my bedroom at Merry’s furniture. I owned no home, no furniture, no jewelry, only a meager wardrobe and a bicycle, but I
had
that department. I felt pulled one way by sentiment and allegiances and another way by a salary increase and the promise of recognition.

Temptation lay heavy on my mind. I imagined marching into Mr. Tiffany’s office, slapping down the offer, and demanding that he top it. I could say that Mr. Lamb is proud of his designers and acknowledges them publicly, but I had no evidence for that claim. Or I could leave without explanation. It would be the worst kind of betrayal. I didn’t think I was capable of that. I decided to wait out February, and then see how I felt.

FEBRUARY 14. VALENTINE’S DAY
. Passed without a card or a rose. Still undecided after a week. What if the glass available to me at Lamb Studios wasn’t as beautiful or unusual or varied as Mr. Nash’s glass? They didn’t know the secret of iridescence. That would be frustrating, because it would limit what I could produce.

FEBRUARY 15.
At the end of the day, as though it were an afterthought, a young woman carrying a satchel of books came to inquire for a job. Beatrix Hawthorne, twenty-five, was born in England to American parents and lived with them on the Upper West Side.

After getting acquainted and enjoying her chattiness, I asked what books she was carrying.

“A novel, some poetry, art books. I’ve studied art more as an observer than a practitioner,” she said, opening her satchel. “Here’s Vasari’s
Lives of the Painters
. I’m reading the chapter about Masaccio now, to uncover the goodness in his soul that allowed him to paint
The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden
with such empathy and heartbreak.”

“Only the early painters?”

“Oh, no. I’m wild about Winslow Homer. What that man sees! Do you know his work?”

“A little.”

“In his paintings of children, I see a certain melancholy about growing up, and in his seascapes, water gushes right off the canvas and onto your lap. But he said one puzzling thing—that if a man wishes to be an artist, he should never look at pictures.”

“Do you agree?”

“Not a jot!”

“Maybe he meant you should look at nature instead,” I said. She shrugged. “What’s the novel?”

She glanced around the room as if looking for any listeners and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Theodore Dreiser’s
Sister Carrie
. It’s banned because of Carrie’s moral decline as an actress. That’s unconstitutional, you know.”

“How did you get it, then?”

“From a friend in publishing. I’ll let you read it after I finish it, if you’d like to.”

She spoke with a mixture of accents—British and Bostonian—so I hazarded a question.

“Are you, by chance, distantly related to Nathaniel Hawthorne?”

“He was my grandfather.”

“Gracious! Do you remember him?”

“Oh, no. He died before I was born.”

“Did you ever get to see the scarlet letter?”

“Oh, don’t be naïve. He made that up. Every last thread.”

To have even this filament of connection to creative genius thrilled me. I hired her on the spot.

FEBRUARY 19.
All the papers carried it on the front page: Charles Lewis Tiffany, founder of Tiffany & Company, dead. The bulk of the vast fortune of the merchant prince passes to Louis Comfort Tiffany, founder of newly renamed Tiffany Studios, now vice president and artistic director of his father’s Tiffany & Company.

An awkward quiet reigned in the corridors and in our women’s studio, as if our foundation had been shaken. Beatrix brought an editorial from the
Times
that commented that his death was reported around the world. Both companies shut down for the day of the funeral. Tiffany & Company was draped in black. Macy’s, B. Altman, W. & J. Sloane, Lord & Taylor, Wanamaker’s, and fourteen other stores closed their doors during the hours of the funeral.

Alice and I went to the service together. Charles Tiffany was eulogized as an arbiter of taste, a gentleman whose illustrious career had been
built by an iron hand within a velvet glove, and by honesty, propriety, high standards applied to products and service, and the appreciation of elegance. The atmosphere in the church was reverent while the organist concluded with Charles Tiffany’s favorite hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light.” We watched the parade of bejeweled women in black file past the marble casket which was smothered in chrysanthemums, lilies, and roses, all white, just as Wilhelmina’s pine coffin had been. The next week, his son made his Monday rounds as usual, and I gave him my condolences, such as I could offer in my open studio.

FEBRUARY 27.
Glowering sky, steady sleet, wind rattling the windows, and a studio full of girls bending over summer flowers. There was something magical in that. I looked out from my desk at the heads lowered earnestly to their work—six on two poppy lamps, with Mary and Miss Stoney as selectors; two wisteria lamps going, with Miss Precise and Particular Judd and Minnie Henderson selecting; two dragonflies, a deep sea, a butterfly, and the new peony, with Carrie McNicholl in charge, assuming the position Alice had left. At the moment, Nellie was singing softly about the wild mountain heather of Ireland, and Beatrix was squinting under her electric light. With her eyeglasses sans bows perched on her high, thin nose and a pencil balanced behind her ear, she had a capable and determined look.

Julia Zevesky, the waif who had been rain-sodden when she asked for a job, arrived today with an umbrella. Lately Theresa sported a new floppy silk rose on her collar. Minnie wore a slim silver bracelet now, and Anna had a new tortoiseshell comb in her pompadour piled high like a pyramid of popovers. I had given these girls a chance at life in the arts, and they had thrived, and lived better lives. Did I really want to work my fingers to the bone to do that for men?

Mr. Lamb had said I would be entirely unconstrained in my designs. With Mr. Mitchell gone, now was the time to test the limits of how sculptural, bold, individual, elaborate, and expensive my designs could be here. I dug out an unfinished design and began to draw.

The shade was a panoply of connected webs made by a very ambitious spider, as overzealous as Mr. Tiffany, each web slightly different.
The lead lines would be the filaments of the web. He would like that—the structural ribs of the shade deriving from the webs themselves. If I felt estranged from Mr. Tiffany and diminished by his attentions to Alice and Lillian, what I needed to do was to
invite
his collaboration more. I knew I wanted blossoms beneath the webs, but it would be better to elicit that from him. Still, it was hard to stop.

I wanted it integrated with a tall mosaic base, all of a piece. What small flower grows on a tall stalk, small enough for there to be many crowded together on the base? One I hadn’t used already. With chagrin, I hit upon the perfect one: white narcissus, which shared its name with the Greek youth in love with himself who gazes into the pond at his own reflection, preoccupied with self, self, the self-admiring self, the insatiable self, the self yearning for recognition of its beauty.

When did my need for recognition pulse most urgently? It was in the exhilaration of the act of creation, which made me want to shout to the city,
Look! Look! See what I can do with mere glass to make you see wisteria in February. Let the colors touch you. Revel in the emotions they stimulate. Catch a whiff of the real bud in the brittle reproduction. Surrender to the illusion!

That people would do so was ultimately more important than knowing who the illusionist was.

Filaments of pain insinuated themselves behind my eyes and grew into shards, some sleek missiles determined in their destination, others jagged, wild, and unpredictable. I turned off my light, laid down my pencil, and gazed out at the girls at work. Frank came by and noticed me not working. He emptied all the trash containers in the workroom and washed the glass easels not in use, and all I did was watch him.

Y-O-U S-A-D T-O-D-A-Y.

I nodded.

To unify base and shade, I could lead Mr. Tiffany to see a few narcissus blossoms on the shade too. Elaborate, yes. Expensive to make, yes. But if Mr. Tiffany felt it was his too, he wouldn’t resist. I knew
how
to work here, how to make things happen. The thought of starting over with someone else was wearisome. Maybe it didn’t matter who paid me. I was and would always be working for myself. What to do? Allow myself to be caught and bought, or stay within the web I knew?

I showed Frank my sketch.

C-O-B-W-E-B L-A-M-P, I spelled.

Frank made frenzied gestures, flailing his arms, wiping off his face as if he had walked into a web. It was funny and dear, and I laughed, which made him grin back at what appeared to him only a gaping silent mouth.

I W-A-N-T Y-O-U H-A-P-P-Y, he spelled, and put his hand over his heart.

I did the same. Impulsively, I gave him the Lamb Studios letter to read. His eyes got big with alarm, and his head wagged furiously from side to side. I should have known he would react that way.

Was the need for recognition so vital that I would give up love in order to get it? Had Mr. Tiffany injured me intentionally? No. I would not creep away just because he gave attention to others. I would not leave without a fight, and my weapons were design ideas.

T-E-A-R I-T U-P, I spelled.

He ripped vigorously and hurled the tiny pieces into his collecting trash can. One escaped and fluttered to the floor. He seized it, threw it in, and brushed his palms together as a sign of finishing the job.

I A-M H-A-P-P-Y N-O-W.

M
R. FARMER-JOHN THOMAS, HE OF THE
“
DANGEROUS INFLUENCE
” accusation, came into my studio and greeted me with a hearty “Good morning! I have some great news for you,” as though his cow had just calved. He had slid into Mr. Mitchell’s place as slick as oiled glass. “You’ll be pleased. In fact, I think you’ll be
very
pleased. This will be the highlight of your week.”

“Enough preamble, Mr. Thomas. Tell me.” What a different approach.

He laid down a sheet of paper. “An order for five more wisteria lamps. That makes twenty to date. Selling at three hundred fifty dollars apiece, that’s good business. Peacock, iris lantern, and trumpet creeper—two each.” He laid down another sheet. “
Twenty
peony shades. They’ve been a surprise good seller at one hundred seventy-five dollars. And”—he waved the third sheet with a flourish before he laid it down—“
forty
more dragonfly lamps priced at one hundred thirty dollars, two hundred dollars, and two hundred fifty dollars, depending on size and style.” His usually mousy voice rang out strongly.

“Goodness! Who would have thought it?” I said with enough edge to my voice that he might catch my wicked innuendo.

He pointed to a list. “You’ll see here the models and sizes and some customer requests for certain color schemes, preferred borders, oil or electric. There’s a giant one, a hanging electrolier twenty-eight inches wide. Do two of those so we’ll have one for our front showroom.”

I felt myself breathing faster at the exciting possibilities, not just at the amount but at the variety.

“These don’t add up to forty.”

“The rest are your choice.” Mr. Thomas stepped back and grinned a none-too-mousy grin. “Enough for today?”