Noon at Tiffany's (46 page)

“Yes, opportunities, Mr. Platt. When I first understood that the men wanted to get rid of my department, I began peeking behind some of those other doors I’m sure will open to me. At first I was attracted to the idea of learning how to blow glass at the Corona factory and—”

The men burst into laughter, as if she’d made an excellent joke. She laughed too, but at them, for the idea
had
enormously appealed to her.

“I’m sure it must seem beneficial for Tiffany’s to dispense with my full salary and the salaries of my girls. However, as you are aware, I have been in charge of keeping the books for my department for some years, and therefore, I know exactly how much profit there is to be made from the women’s department’s efforts.

“All being fair in love and war—and I must stress that the men’s demands do feel like war—I took the liberty of meeting with the owners of a glass studio here in New York, who have expressed great interest in my work and have made quite an attractive offer.”

She gave them a few seconds before continuing with the part of her announcement that, while not being entirely true at the moment, would be true once she gave Henry permission to send out word of her availability.

“I have also received word of another proposal from a gentleman who is interested in helping me open my own studio. I’d be designing lampshades and deluxe individual pieces under my own name. He’s already found a small factory situated in the countryside.”

She fixed Louis with one of her sweetest smiles, “As Mr. Tiffany knows only too well, there’s nothing like nature for healthy inspiration.” Pausing, she readied herself for the coup de grace.

“In regard to the Tiffany Girls, it will be an easy matter to get them placed in other quality studios, seeing how they are some of the finest selectors and cutters in the country. I have no fear these women will be able to command wages that are commensurate with their skills.”

Clara waited for someone to respond. When it was clear there would be no further argument, she smiled dazzlingly at no one in particular. “More ice cream, gentlemen?”

September 17, 1903

Louis surveyed the faces of the two men on the other side of the table. How right Clara had been in thinking of the situation as a war. Mr. Parks, the head boss for the Glass Cutters Union, and Mr. Fitzgerald looked like a couple of bloodthirsty soldiers ready for a brawl.

Mr. Parks, a squat man with a thick neck and pale hair cut close to the scalp, tapped his pen irritably on the table. “The Glass Cutters Union rejects all your adjustments and amendments to our original demands. Further, we reject your amendments to raise the men’s salaries in yearly increments. We also want our daily beer rations restored, and lunch provided.”

In his usual agreeable manner, Mr. Platt nodded. “When laid out like that, Mr. Parks, it sounds rather greedy. What are your grounds for such demands?”

“The women are given all the important work, and according to Mr. Fitzgerald here, a total of some thirty-eight windows were taken away from the men last year and given to the women’s department. This resulted in five men—”

“That’s five men with families to feed, mind ya,” interjected Mr. Fitzgerald, his eyes flashing.

Mr. Parks gave Fitzgerald a warning look. “That action resulted in five men being laid off. Meanwhile, twelve extra women were hired by the Driscoll woman for her department.”

“How many men do you have now, Mr. Fitzgerald?” Mr. Platt inquired.

“Thirty-one, not including me or my assistant manager. We used to have forty, until the women’s department came in and stole our livelihoods away from us.”

“At present, Tiffany’s Women’s Department has thirty-five women employed,” Mr. Parks said. “Mrs. Driscoll’s exorbitant salary of thirty-five dollars per week is a disgrace.” He pounded his fist on the table, setting his jowls wobbling. “That alone is a slight to every honest working man in this city.”

“Thirty-five is how much
I
get!” Mr. Fitzgerald chimed in, “Me! The manager of Tiffany’s Men’s Department. The men were like to riot when they was told what she gets.”

Louis rose, his eyes hard as steel. “She has more workers than I do.
She gets more money than I,” he mocked in the voice of a petulant child. “For God’s sake, you sound like my daughters arguing over who has the most dresses. I’m sick of listening to this nonsense, so I’ll expedite matters by enlightening you as to how things are going to be around here.”

Mr. Thomas raised a finger. “Mr. Tiffany? I don’t think you should—”

“I should and I
will
, Mr. Thomas.”

Mr. Schmidt cleared his throat. “Louis, you’re being too hasty. We shouldn’t …”

“I don’t need anymore people telling me what I should or shouldn’t do in my own company!” Louis shouted. “I had enough of that while my father was alive. I’m the head of this business now, and what I say is damn well the way it will be.”

“Louis, please,” Mr. Platt said. “We need—”

“We need guts and honesty for once, and that’s just what I’m going to give these swindlers right now—pure honesty. Do you recall, Mr. Fitzgerald, telling me it was impossible for your department to do those six landscape windows for the Astors? You said you couldn’t have your men working long hours, and you didn’t feel it could be done in six days. Remember?”

Fitzgerald screwed up his mouth. “Sure I remember, but—”

“The women took on that ‘impossible’ job and did it perfectly in the time given them. As a matter of fact, you consistently take twice as long as the women, and the results are never as satisfactory.

“The reason that Mrs. Driscoll makes as much money as you do is that, besides working longer hours, and giving more of her energy to designs that make yours look like the messes they are, she and her girls do better work.”

Mr. Fitzgerald opened his mouth to argue, but Louis pointed a finger, his eyes narrowed. “You keep your mouth shut while I’m speaking, or I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”

His eyes returned to Parks. “Granted, the women lack mechanical genius on the more symmetrical designs, but they have marked decorative instinct; their eyes are more sensitive to nuances of shading, their fingers more nimble, and, they have a superior sense of color. Most important, they pay attention to what I want. They’re as fanatical about detail as I am. We never have returns on their account, whereas with the men’s department, there are at least three returns a month.

“Therefore, gentlemen, none of your outrageous demands will be met. I have no intention of shutting down Mrs. Driscoll’s department. Those women have as much right to their jobs as the men. You’ll receive your usual yearly raises in increments, and if you want beer and a free lunch, go to a bar and buy them yourselves.”

He waved a hand at the door. “This meeting is over. When you want to negotiate reasonably, notify Mr. Thomas or Mr. Schmidt, and we’ll set up another meeting.”

Mr. Parks pointed a finger at him. “I warn you, Tiffany, you won’t get away with this. We’ll strike and shut you down for good.”

“Go ahead,” Louis said. “There are plenty of able-bodied men willing to take your place, men who will be glad of working as hard as the women and will be grateful for the pay.

“One more thing Parks—if any of my women are harassed by your thugs, or if you so much as step foot within fifty yards of this building, I’ll see to it you and your entire organization are put behind bars.”

Louis hooked his cane over his arm and headed for the door. “You can all sit there and jack-jaw for the rest of the day for all I care, but I have a business to run. Good day, gentlemen. Notify me when you’ve come to your senses.”

October 1, 1903

Enormously satisfied after three helpings of Miss Owens’s mulberry pie, George had not ceased talking about his favorite topic: ‘Desserts I Have Loved.’

Alice and Dudley, having both stopped listening sometime after Corn Pudding, but before Baked Brown Betty, returned to sketching the unusual scene before them.

Edward, Mr. Yorke, Philip and Miss Griffin were crowded around Clara’s naked feet, studying them with the same concentration they might have given some rare Egyptian artifact. Miss Griffin, following Philip’s directions on the most scientifically efficacious way to do things, applied half a jar of petroleum jelly to the bottom surfaces of the exposed trotters.

Clara freed her ankles from Mr. Yorke’s grip and sat up. “Do you
honestly think this will work?”

“Certainly,” Edward said. “If we can get a decent mold of your feet, Mr. Bracey will be able to pour the metal for the inserts. This is exactly the best thing for people with broken-down insteps. Once I get them into your shoes, I doubt you’ll ever have an aching back or feet again.”

He nodded at Philip. “Mr. Allen, if you would, please pour the plaster to a level of about five centimeters. I believe Mrs. Driscoll is ready to have her feet immortalized.”

“Wherever did you find the boxes to fit her?” George asked.

“It wasn’t easy,” Edward said, smoothing out the plaster as it oozed into the boxes. “I had to settle for breaking down crates and making them myself.”

“I happen to be very fond of my feet,” Clara said, “so stop talking about them as though they’re carnival sideshow oddities.”

Philip helped her place her feet into the plaster. “That should do it, although … hello?”

Mr. Thomas stood in the doorway looking decidedly ill at ease.

Clara waved to him. “Mr. Thomas. Come in and have a seat. I’m having plaster molds made of my feet.”

Hesitant, he glanced around the room as if looking for hidden assassins. Clara wasn’t sure if he were simply overwhelmed at their number all crowded into the small room, or appalled by the familiarity with which they treated each other. At least, she thought, they weren’t in their wrappers and rolled up shirtsleeves, which was the case more often than not.

George gave up his chair, and Mr. Thomas sat down gingerly, his discomfort palpable. “Mr. Tiffany asked that I stop by to give you the news about the men’s strike, but perhaps I should wait until tomorrow, when I can give you all the details.”

“You may as well tell me now. Misses Griffin and Gouvy here are directly affected by the news, and the rest of these people are my family. Whatever has been decided affects us all in one way or another.”

Mr. Thomas was not a smiler. In his serious, restrained manner, he took a folded paper from his coat pocket and handed it to her. “The strike is ended. These are the terms that have been agreed to by both sides.”

She put the paper back in his hand. “I’m afraid I’ve left my spectacles in my room. I’d be obliged if you’d be so kind as to just tell me what’s been decided.”

He rattled off the terms in a monotone, without once looking at the paper. “The union has agreed to let your department make windows, shades and mosaics just as you have done in the past except …” Mr. Thomas paused and again settled his gaze on her partially submerged feet, “… except you won’t be allowed to increase your present number of workers.”

A sigh of relief escaped her. It was just as well to keep the number of girls to a minimum—it might stop Mr. Tiffany from forcing huge volumes of work on her department, and insure they would produce work of the finest quality.

“It has also been decided that the women’s department out at Corona …” he nodded to Alice, “will continue on as before, with the exception that they will no longer be allowed to have any hand in the design of the lampshades. You, Mrs. Driscoll, are to be in charge of all the designing.”

He stood, allowing his eyes to wander once more to the freakish arrangement of her feet. “You will need to come to my office tomorrow and look over the contract before signing.”

She thanked him and offered a cup of tea she knew he would refuse.

Halfway to the door he turned. “Mr. Tiffany put the entire company at risk in order to keep you and your department intact, Mrs. Driscoll. I hope you appreciate that.”

“Oh, I do, Mr. Thomas,” she said, smiling, “just as much as Mr. Tiffany appreciates those of us who make his company worth risking.”

Noon at Tiffany’s

November 4
^th
, 1903