Noon at Tiffany's (45 page)

He stopped her before she could protest. “You know about getting back on the horse that throws you? Mr. Tiffany and Mr. Platt know nothing about how to run your department, and I would never presume to attempt such a task. You have to pull yourself together—the department will only be as strong as you are.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m worn down. First there was Katie’s death, and now
this?
It’s more than I can bear.”

“No, it isn’t.” Joseph pulled her to her feet. “I’m sorry for the loss of your sister, but you have to put that behind you for now and think of the living who depend on you.”

He led her to the washbasin and handed her a dampened cloth. She held the cool cloth to her swollen eyes and thought of how strongly her mother would agree with Joseph. Everyone, especially her girls, would be disappointed if she didn’t rise to the occasion.

The haggard woman in the mirror bore little resemblance to the sensible and resilient person she’d once been. Until she found that woman again, she would have to play the role.

“Wash your face,” he prompted. “I’ll arrange your hair. Half of it has fallen out of its pins.”

Despite her misery, she gave him a puzzled look.

“Yes,” he sighed, “Mrs. Briggs says pinning up her hair tires her arms, so she’s made an expert hairdresser of me.”

44 Irving Place

May 21, 1903

Dear Mama and Emily,

I’m not myself as of late, and I’m hoping another season at Point Pleasant will put me right. The cabin is far from my everyday life, and the only rest I have. I beg both of you to come and stay. Katie’s death has made us all in need of a break from hard life. I want to have you close while Mr. Tiffany is in such a demanding spirit—having me do twenty of the same thing instead of four. Sometimes I think he means to squeeze as much out of us as he can, before the men’s union shuts us down for good.

Now that we’ve been relieved of the windows, I’ve been making lamp designs, until there seems to be no end of them. I’m not sure if my department will survive, but I won’t give up on it until I am forced. Every difficulty we’ve ever been in before has opened out into something bigger and more advantageous to us.

I’ve stopped going to see the animals. It seems so wicked to capture those beautiful creatures and keep them with all their wonderful lithe strength and grace eternally pacing up and down in a small prison with no variety or change, until their entire lives become only eating and sleeping.

We’ve had gusting winds for three days. One woman was blown off the sidewalk near the Flatiron Building, while others held onto lampposts until the police could help them out of the vicinity.

Don’t worry about money, Emily, I’ll send you $50 now and more in a few weeks. Buy a new pair of spectacles and extra coal and some new arctics and flannel undergarments while they are cheap. Your health isn’t worth sacrificing for the sake of saving money.

I must go. Here are the Palmié ladies looking so pretty and twinny and becomingly dressed to take drab old Clara to dinner at that German restaurant over on Third Avenue. Afterward, Philip is taking us to hear Felix Adler speak.

Love, Clara

P.S. Yes, Mama, I promise to have my photo taken when I’ve gained back some of the weight I’ve lost. Mr. Tiffany referred me to a photographer who, he assures me, is one of the best in New York. She takes ‘artistic’ photos that will make me look glamorous and totally unlike myself.

P.P.S. No, Emily, I don’t see marriage as a solution to any of our troubles.

Pt. Pleasant, N.J

August 1, 1903

From the top of the dune, Clara could see her mother and Edward, heads bent together, strolling on the shore below. No doubt they were plotting strategies regarding the men’s strike.

The men’s strike. It ate at her like a disease. She dreaded going into work each day, anxious over what cruelties the men would subject them to next. Some days it was nothing more than the men lined up on either side of the hallway, waiting for her and her girls to run the gantlet of taunts and insults. Of late, there had been kicks and pinches.

Mr. Tiffany had been forced to employ private police to guard the building, but otherwise, negotiations lagged.

Seeing her, Fannie beckoned to her to join them. Linking arms, mother and daughter walked on, Edward trailing close behind.

“I’ve come to hear what you two are planning for me,” Clara said.

“You always were a perceptive child,” Fannie laughed. “Mr. Booth and I have come to the conclusion that you need to reset your mind about this men’s department business.”

“Reset my mind?” Clara put her hands on her hips. “Just what does that mean?”

Edward coughed politely. “If you’ll excuse me ladies, I’ll put myself to use in fixing the cabin’s water pump that seems to have pumped its last drop.”

“Such a nice man,” Fannie said, watching after him.

“Such a coward is more like it,” Clara muttered. “This resetting of my mind must be a troublesome undertaking. Edward is usually at his happiest when he’s telling people what to do.”

They sat on a rock, letting their bare feet dangle in the water. “So, Mama, how could I possibly reset my mind, when I have such hate for these men?”

Fannie looked at her in surprise. “Hate? I thought these men were once your friends.”

“They were, and that is precisely what hurts most. Our two departments have worked amicably for years. I can’t stand that they’ve turned on us with such loathing!”

Covering her face, she waited for the lump in her throat to ease enough to allow her to speak. “I have less than four weeks before I’m to plead my case in front of the Tiffany board of directors. If I fail to convince them, they’ll side with the men. I don’t mind so much for myself, but many of my girls have families who depend on them for their survival.” She picked up a stone and violently threw it into the water. “It’s too much! I hate this worrying day after day!” Furious with herself, she broke into sobs.

Her mother held her until she cried herself out. “You’re all bogged down in the muck. You’ve let them pull you to the level of unenlightened men, and they’ve blinded you to the obvious solution.”

“Obvious solution? You mean gather them in a large burlap sack and drown them?”

“In a way, yes. Drown the misguided hatred inside them. That can only be done with all the compassion and joy you and your women have to give these poor creatures.”

“That’s preposterous! You’re suggesting we use kindness with the same people who would just as soon see me and my girls begging on the street—or dead.”

“Yes,” Fannie smiled, “although I don’t believe they wish to cause you such severe harm as you believe. These men have wives, sisters, mothers and daughters. I doubt there is one man among them who doesn’t think of his loved ones and feel ashamed of himself even while he’s persecuting you. They won’t change their behavior, so you must change your reaction to that behavior. Don’t you see? It’s your negative reaction they seek. They
want
to distress you and make you retaliate because that gives them justification for their own poor behavior.

“They might easily act badly toward a frowning, angry woman who threatens them, but not to one who is smiling and wishing them well. With that in mind, I suggest that you and your women forego your rancor and act kindly toward them—send them gifts.”

“Gifts?” She looked at her mother, certain she was suffering from sunstroke. “I’ll do no such thing! The very idea makes me want to spit.”

“It can’t hurt to try, my dear. Smiles and kind words cost nothing, and a few pennies spent on rounds of cheese and good bread will be worth every bit if it softens the heart of only one man. If you treat them cordially, they will respond in kind.”

Peals of women’s laughter were carried to them on a breeze that smelled of fresh-baked pie. The stubborn resistance that proved both friend and enemy in her life reared its head. “What about the meeting with Mr. Tiffany and the board? Shall I bring them cheese and bread too?”

Fannie pressed Clara’s hand to her lips. “Do you remember what I used to say each time you and Emily engaged in one of your battles of the will?”

The entire scrapbook of their childhood skirmishes opened in Clara’s memory. Without hesitation, she lifted her head and recited: ‘It’s the soft tongue that breaks the bone.’”

“Precisely!” Fannie smiled. “I would suggest, my dear, that you face Mr. Tiffany and his board with an eye toward breaking bones.”

The Briars

August 27, 1903

Louise is out of sorts. The quacks have told her she suffers from bowel cancer and that it’s hopeless. I don’t believe it’s more than some sort of intestinal parasite she picked up in one of those filthy places she visited during her lunacy at the Women’s Infirmary. She has moved into her own rooms, where a good deal of moaning goes on. I bring her little bouquets of flowers each day, as this is what she prefers to all other gifts.

Mr. Thomas is busy convincing the board we can get more out of Clara for much less—a dangerous assumption. How is it that, after all these years, the men still don’t see how much more creative and able the women are at making beautiful art? I’ve warned them that they’re playing with fire.

The rabble at Cold Spring persists in questioning my rights to what they are saying has always been ‘their’ beach. All this with an eye toward building public bathhouses directly on
my
land! Over my dead body will I allow them to pollute my property with their noise and filth! L.C.T.

September 3, 1903

Right from the start, the thing that made the meeting distinct from any other, the thing that would be joked about in board meetings throughout the city for years to come, were the heaping bowls of ice cream. For the first twenty minutes, the only sounds inside Tiffany’s meeting room were of spoons clinking against the bowls.

If the ploy worked on the factory men, Clara thought, it might be successful with this crowd, too. She’d adopted Fannie’s other advice, as well, and showered the men’s department with bread and cheese, and notes of appreciation. Though not all her girls fully grasped the reasoning behind their actions, they learned to greet the men with cheer and good will, no matter what foul words or stones were thrown in return.

By the time the last gift basket was sent, only Mr. Fitzgerald and his Union bosses remained staunchly loyal to the cause against them.

John Dufais, Tiffany’s secretary, indicated with a nod they should begin.

Mr. Thomas cleared his throat. “As you are aware, Mrs. Driscoll, Mr. Tiffany is not partial to long, drawn-out meetings, so I’ll get straight to the point.

“The union stands firm in their demands that the women’s department be shut down, the women got rid of, and all commissions for windows, lamps, and mosaics be handed over to the men’s department.

“At present, your department is made up of thirty-five women, four boys, Mr. Briggs and Mr. Bracey. The men’s union wants all of the women let go, excepting you and Miss Northrop. Mr. Briggs would be given his own Mosaic Department with Mr. Bracey as his assistant. The four boys would also be his, plus ten new men he could hire at his discretion.

“Moreover, Mrs. Driscoll, the men insist your salary be reduced from thirty-five dollars a week—an amount perceived by Mr. Fitzgerald and his men as something of a personal affront—to fifteen dollars a week.” Mr. Thomas reddened and looked away.

Clara didn’t wonder that he couldn’t look at her—his own wife having committed suicide after being unfairly demoted from her position by an employer jealous of her superior skills.

“You and Miss Northrop will be strictly limited to lampshade design,” he continued. “All other work will be taken on by the men’s department.
The men and their two managers are also demanding raises. They’ve insisted on having their daily beer restored, with the added demand that a supply of comestibles be brought in with—”

Mr. Schmidt, another of Tiffany’s board, cleared his throat. “I think, Mr. Thomas, what the men are asking for themselves is none of Mrs. Driscoll’s concern. Suffice to say, the men have threatened to strike if the women’s department isn’t closed down.”

“Let’s not waste time.” Louis got to his feet and faced her. “Mrs. Driscoll, I regret to say that the general feeling of the board is that we should accept their demands and do as the union has asked.”

Clara was relieved that her mother and Edward forewarned her of the possibility this would be their decision. Yet, even with the knowledge they were only testing her, it hurt to think that the entire board would go against her.

She glanced from one face to the next, noting their expensive clothes and jewelry, absolutely sure that her designs helped pay for every stitch and bauble. Considering that not one of them was able to meet her gaze, she suspected they were aware of the same. Going completely against what she was feeling at the moment, she smiled as if she’d been awarded ten thousand dollars and a new wardrobe.

“First, I would like to thank you for asking me here today. I also want to thank Mr. Tiffany for giving me the opportunity to put my artistic talents to use, and for the chance to see how much the world appreciates what I create—as is evidenced by the profits and awards my work has amassed for his company.”

She paused, letting her words sink in.

“Too, I am thankful for the experience of managing a large department. No one has thirty or more workers to manage without some serious trials.” Her smile held, confident. “Therefore, I am of the opinion that in order to keep the men’s department happy, Tiffany’s Women’s Department
should
fold.”

Clearly shocked, the men turned to look at one another.

“You see, gentlemen, my mother taught us that when one door closes, many others open. Thus, if my department is closed, and my women fired, I will, at that time, explore the opportunities that will certainly be opened to me.”

With a weary sigh, Mr. Thomas sank down into his chair.

“Opportunities, Mrs. Driscoll?” Mr. Platt asked, eyebrows raised.