Noon at Tiffany's (35 page)

“Don’t bother calling Mr. Mitchell. I’ll tell him of my plans on my way downstairs.” She hesitated, “Unless, of course, you wish to have me dismissed. To be perfectly honest, I’m so tired of this constant work, that at this point I don’t much care if you do.”

Halfway down the hall, she remembered her last order of business and hurried back to his office, where Tiffany was already attempting to raise someone by telephone.

“While you’re alerting Mr. Mitchell of my arrival,” she said, “please inform him that I won’t return to work until I’m assured in writing that my salary has been raised to twenty-five dollars a week starting immediately. Seeing how the men’s managers received year-end bonuses and I did not, I’m sure you’ll agree this is a fair request.

“And stop looking so glum, Mr. Tiffany. Try to concentrate on all the glory and fortune you’ll have in return for a little patience.”

Noon at Tiffany’s

March 14, 1899

Dear Ones,

Received the robin this morning and savored each sentence as one does the first juicy peach of July. What tries me now is the no-let-upness of Tiffany’s. If it were not for Mr. Booth’s help with the bookkeeping and finished contracts, I would surely lose my mind.

Last night Mr. Booth took Alice and me to the corner of Broadway and 27
^th
Street to see the Holland Brother’s kinetiscope parlor. While I found the concept of moving pictures exciting, I can’t say that watching dogs and monkeys doing tricks and people flapping their arms about like asylum escapees was particularly stimulating. Here in New York, all I have to do is look out the window, and I can see the same thing in color, and with sound, any time day or night, for free.

We have added another worthy soul to our Irving Place family: Mr. Thomas Yorke, who works at the same firm as Mr. Booth and is quite knowledgeable about a great many subjects. Even
you
might find him agreeable, Emily. Mr. Yorke and Mr. Bainbridge have adapted
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
into a play for the other boarders. We’re having auditions this week.

The work at Hyde Park agrees with George. His salary has increased to $12 a week, so at last he feels he is worthy.

I visited Alice at the Corona factory yesterday. The furnaces felt especially comfortable, coming in out of the damp wintry weather. They’re in an immense, scalding hot brick room, with great shafts of golden light pouring from the open doors. Dark and evil-looking men wearing few clothes were rushing around with long red-hot pokers. I do enjoy going over there.

My new assistant, Mr. Joseph Briggs, is a nice Englishman with a great deal of good sense, since he seems to favor everything that I do—a good start to an effective working relationship. Of course, he’s a full six inches shorter and a good twenty pounds lighter than I, which makes it even more likely that he would agree with me.

He’s a little mysterious about himself, but he did tell me that when he first came to America, he worked in the Wild West shows, holding out playing cards for the sharp shooters to shoot out of his hand! Lucky for us nobody missed the target, for he has a keen sense of beauty and is a master mosaicist, which eases our workload considerably.

I must return to work. Today I’m designing a set of glass water lily screens for Mrs. Astor’s shower room.

Love always, Clara

P.S. Purchased my first store-made shirtwaist at Wanamaker’s for $1.95. It’s pink with white stripes. Imagine—it was ready to take off the shelf and wear. Clever!

Mr. Bainbridge clapped his hands. “Miss Owens has graciously allowed us to use the dinning room for a limited time, so we must make this dress rehearsal count. I don’t need to remind you there are only two weeks left to opening night. As I call first scene characters, please line up stage left. Alice of Wonderland?”

Amid cheers and whistles, Clara stepped forth, wearing a pinafore, white stockings and black slippers.

“Mad Hatter!’

Laughter broke out as George swept off his top hat and made a flourishing bow with all the exuberance of the Mad Hatter.

From the back of the room, Emily Wolcott spoke up in a voice that demanded attention. “Since I’m a frequent visitor here, I have pledged my assistance in the direction and critique of this play. Thus said, I strongly recommend that we wait a few moments until the men return from Dudley’s studio with the backdrops. As I’m sure Mr. Bainbridge will agree, thespians do much better when the scene is set properly.”

“I agree,” George said. “Let’s have a round of refreshments while we’re waiting,”

Emily glowered at his straining waistcoat. “Control yourself, Mr. Waldo. We took tea no more than twenty minutes ago. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d sent away for one of those disgusting weight loss tapeworms Sears and Roebuck advertises in their catalogs.”

The doorbell rang twice and then again.

“That will be the backdrops now,” Clara said, heading for the foyer. “Come on, Alice, they’re going to need help carrying them.” She swung open the door and went still at the sight of Louis Tiffany, hat and cane in hand.

Louis nodded. “Miss Gouvy. Mrs. Driscoll. I see that I’ve interrupted something … a masquerade ball, perhaps?”

“We’re rehearsing a play,” Alice said, quickly pulling off her Cheshire Cat ears. “We were expecting the men with the backdrops.”

“Alice in Wonderland
,” Clara added for want of something better to say. Remembering her manners, she opened the door wide. “Please, won’t you come in?”

Tiffany stepped into the hall and presented her with a leather portfolio case. “I’m sorry to just drop by like this, especially on a Sunday, but I’ve suddenly been called away, and I didn’t want you to wait until I returned to begin work on the
River of Life
window. I’ve noted my changes on the
sketches and thought I’d deliver them on my way out.”

She was barely listening, her mind momentarily occupied by a mortifying awareness of her humble accommodations. The clean and cozy home, of which she’d always been proud, now seemed no more than a hovel made up of cracked plaster, worn carpets, and offensive cooking smells.

“Since you’re here, Mr. Tiffany, you should have Clara show you her new lamp ideas.” Alice touched her arm. “We insist, don’t we, Clara?”

Clara gave Alice a look that, if looks alone had power to harm, would have dealt her best friend a heavy blow indeed. “I’m sure Mr. Tiffany has better things to do than to waste his time with preliminary sketches.”

“On the contrary,” Louis said. “If these are lamps for Paris, I should view them now rather than later—that is, if you don’t object.”

She wanted to say that she did object, but Louis Tiffany would not be deterred so easily. When it came to her new designs, he was like a bloodhound on the scent—nothing stood in his way.

He was barely through the door of her room when she shoved the first sketch into his hands. “This is my electric dragonfly lamp. As you can see, the eyes will be cut beads and their wings very finely veined, like lace. When finished, this base …” she took a stray hairpin off the writing desk and circled the parts, “… will be of iridescent mosaic tiles in a design of ascending dragonflies from a field of arrowhead flowers.”

He studied the drawing. “The way you’ve inverted the dragonflies around the bottom rim and have them in flight on the base is precisely the sort of thing I want.”

She handed him the second sketch and watched as a fan of wrinkles spread out at the corners of his eyes. The lamp was just as it had been presented to her in the dream, its canopy a maze of spider webs, each section in a different colored glass. Thin strips of metal, made to resemble spider threads, hung from the edges of the shade’s rim, anchoring it to a base of mosaic narcissus.

Louis looked from the sketches to their creator in wonder. “These are exquisite. Put your other work aside and make three variations of each of these. I want one of each for my father, the exposition, and myself. After that, I’ll want another half dozen for the showroom. Both lamps are going to sell very well.”

“I’m glad you like them,” she said, placing the sketches facedown on
the desk. “I’ll start on them tomorrow. Thank you so much for stopping by.” The look she gave Alice was clear enough.

Following the silent command, Alice discreetly herded their employer to the door. “Nice to see you, Mr. Tiffany. We hope you have a pleasant journey to … well, to wherever it is you’re going.”

They’d successfully driven him to the foyer, when the doorbell rang again. Emily stepped out of the dining room at the same time Messrs. Booth, Yorke and Belknap barged through the door struggling under two bolts of canvas backdrops.

Mr. Booth nodded to Louis. “I say old chap, clear out of the way, would you? These things weigh more than a team of dead horses.”

Pushing himself flat against the wall, Louis caught sight of Henry. “Belknap! Whatever are you doing here?”

Straining to keep the bolts balanced, Henry lifted his chin. “Hello, Louis. Sorry I can’t talk right now; we need to hang these backdrops in a hurry.”

At the sight of Emily standing with her hands on her hips and staring hard at Louis, Clara felt a spasm of alarm. Given Emily’s acerbic tirades against the ‘Despot Tiffany,’ she knew her sister’s righteous indignation was about to be made known to all within shouting distance. Panicked, Clara shoved her employer to the outer door, but not quite soon enough.

Emily barreled toward them, an accusing finger pointed at Tiffany. Her shrill, scolding voice cut the air like a sword. “Is that Mr. Louis C. Tiffany?”

Confused by the sight of the formidable woman coming at him, Louis half smiled. “Why yes, I’m Mr. Tiffany.” Chuckling, he leaned toward Clara and whispered, “She must be the Queen of Hearts, or is she one of Macbeth’s witches? Either role suits her perfectly.”

Emily arched one of her thick eyebrows and gave him the same look she might give an incubus. “I wish to have a few words with you, Mr. Tiffany. I’d like to know just what sort of presumptuous, inconsiderate halfwit forces his employees to work like slaves while he robs them of—”

Clara grabbed Louis’s hand, and with strength she was not aware she possessed, yanked him out the door and onto the stoop, calling out behind her, “Mr. Tiffany is in a hurry, Miss … Miss Smith. His car is waiting so he must be on his way—immediately.”

She gave a bewildered Louis one last nudge to keep him moving down the stairs. “Thank you so much for stopping in. Have a good trip.”

When Clara returned to the house, she found Emily and Alice in the hall, looking dumbstruck. “Oh for God’s sake,” she snorted, hurrying past them, “don’t just stand there like ninnies. We’ve got to get to the Mad Hatter’s tea party before dinner.”

April 3, 1899

Mother, Kate, Rev. Cutler,

Mr. Belknap and Clara are attending Spring Opera at the Philharmonic to hear Mme. Schumann-Heinck sing. Last week it was to hear ‘Gotterdammerung’, next week it will be ‘Tanhauser,’ with Emma Eames. It’s beyond me how she stands all that yodel-screeching. It’s enough to cause damage to the ears, if not the whole intestinal system.

Mr. Booth kept me company until past midnight. I suspect he’s sweet on Clara, but he is a true gentleman and would never be so bold as to actually tell her so, rather like the men in the Midwest. Unfortunately for him, Clara takes men’s devotions entirely for granted, so she may never notice.

Clara took me to Tiffany’s to see the St. John on the Isle of Patmos window. I swear the figures are alive and breathing.

Emily Wolcott

Tiffany Hall, Irvington-On-Hudson

April 3, 1899

Why Father has called me to this drafty old ruin to discuss his will is a mystery, for he neither needs nor values my opinions. Burnie, of course, did not honor the patriarchal summons, nor did he bother to send excuses. So much the worse for him.

My impromptu visit to Clara was rewarding. Without a doubt, I shall enter the dragonfly lamp in the exposition.

The lady was charming in her costume, And all that beautiful hair held back from her face by girlish ribbons, the rest to hang loose in long curls. As I was being rushed out, several strands brushed my fingers, twining around them like living rings. I wanted to throw her down and possess her then and there. It made for a most uncomfortable ride to Tiffany Hall.

I must remember to ask Belknap about that queer Miss Smith who was ranting in the hall as I was leaving.

The dinner bell has rung. I wonder—would Father still use the switch on me if I dared to be late? L.C.T.

June 22, 1899

Clara faced the assembled company of her department and was overcome with pride. To her way of thinking, each of them was a true artist in her or his own right.

“As you are all aware, Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Belknap will be sailing for Europe on July twenty-seventh to meet with Siegfried Bing. Mr. Tiffany has presented me with a long list of the things he wants designed and finished before he goes.”