Noon at Tiffany's (7 page)

A few girls giggled, though most remained grim.

Miss Griffin voiced what was on all their minds. “How are we going to get an entire new window done by Wednesday? The selection alone is going to take that long. Cutting all those pieces for the soldiers’ tunics and Mary’s robes in four days, plus the other repairs? It’s an impossible task to put on us, and none of us can afford to be let go.”

She looked into their solemn faces and forced down her own frustration. “First, we should congratulate ourselves that of the four windows, two and most of a third were well received. I’m immensely proud of you and your fine efforts. If we’re all willing to work extra, I know we can remake this window and finish the others by Wednesday. I must ask that you all commit to working two or more extra hours each day, including Saturday.”

At the smattering of protests, Clara held up a hand. “Finishing the window in four days will keep our positions safe, and at the same time prove to Mr. Tiffany that we’re made of sturdy stuff. We need to show Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Tiffany that we can handle anything they throw at us.”

One by one the women nodded their consent, and with that, the mood in the room was changed. The infusion of energy bound them together as co-conspirators.
Clara squared her shoulders. “All right then, ladies, onward into the Coliseum and let’s see what we can do with those lions.”

Tiffany’s

March 12, 1889

Dearest Ones,

We’ve just now accomplished the impossible and resurrected the Crucifixion window, which fell mortally wounded under Mr. Tiffany’s cane. As it turns out, Mr. Tiffany’s judgment was correct—the window was made better with his suggestions. A rare mixture of businessman and artist, he seems to have escaped that terrible disorder that routinely afflicts the wealthy class—extremely bad taste in art.

After dinner I’m going to Dudley’s apartment for a rehearsal of Mr. McBride’s medieval play. I play the King’s wicked cousin, who plots against the life of the beautiful princess—to be played by our lovely Alice. If wickedness is the only quality necessary, I feel sure of my success in my part. George is quite pleased with his role as the torturer and does not share my anxiety over acting roles. When told he’d have to gouge out the princess’s eyes, he positively beamed.

Love, Clara

P.S. It’s hard to believe the Great Blizzard was just one year ago. To honor those who perished, I recited Tennyson’s poems on death while we worked.

Noon at Tiffany’s

June 5, 1889

Dearest Ones,

I have time for only a short note and a buttered roll. Once I dig myself out from under Tiffany’s latest avalanche of work, I’ll respond to all the robins I’ve let fly by with nary a peep.

Mama, why all this fretting about Reverend Cutler? Of course I approve of his desire to court you—he’s a fine man. If his company makes you happy and gives you solace, then please accept him at once without concern for us. We know better than anyone what a beautiful and extraordinary woman you are. I’m overjoyed at the prospect of a romance for you. You have been a widow for far too long.

It’s astonishing how much one can care for cats. Ida B. Smith, the little beast, has steadily advanced into my affections. Miss Todd, however, does not share those same sentiments. At the sound of the dinner bell last night, we entered the dining room only to find the chicken platter empty and the cat, visibly swelled, fast asleep on the napkins. We contemplated the scene with some dismay, until Josie said quite earnestly, “Do you think she’ll die?” This amused us all, except Miss Todd.

I am turning into a regular bon vivant. Friday night, George, Dudley, Alice and I are to attend New York City’s Annual Artists’ Soiree at the plush Dakota Hotel. It is said that the drawing rooms are forty-nine feet long, the ceilings, eighteen feet high, and the mahogany floors are inlaid with silver!

I can hardly wait to attend. It is the event of the year, and I hope to make myself better known to my peers. I will give you a full account in the next robin.

Love, Clara

June 7, 1889

The Dakota Hotel

C
LARA LEANED AGAINST
Alice, drinking in the splendor of the Dakota Hotel ballroom. Swirls of pastel gowns, accented by the men’s black-and-white evening dress, lent an air of regality to the festivities going on around them. “I’ll wager there’s more artistic talent in this room than in the entire Metropolitan Museum.”

Alice looked over her fan. “And I would bet there will soon be a plethora of paintings entitled ‘The Soiree’ flooding every gallery in New York.”

George appeared, towing Dudley Carpenter by the sleeve. Without any attempt at subtlety, Dudley commandeered the chair closest to Alice. His infatuation with her was no secret, considering that she was the subject of most of his paintings. Unfazed by his adoration, Alice treated him in the same manner she would a tiresome younger brother.

“We have a rather lively group attending this evening,” George said. “Although we did have to endure several rounds of boring exchanges of opinion.”

“Personally,” Dudley drawled in his Tennessee accent, “I enjoy listening to people discuss the purpose of art.”

“It was a lot of hot air from a bunch of overweening nitwits,” George growled.

“As usual, Mr. Waldo and I disagree,” Dudley said, brushing invisible lint off his lapel with fingers faintly stained by oil paint. “I found the discussions, revivifying, especially for those of us who feel that art puts people in awe of human capability and leaves them inspired.”

“Revivifying?” George frowned. “My dear boy, the only revivifying going on in any of that twaddle was Mr. McBride’s discourse on the origin of artistic talent.”

“Artistic talent is a question that’s been debated since humans began scratching pictures on cave walls,” Alice broke in. “Is it God-given, passed
down through the blood, or obtained through study?”

“As an art instructor,” George began, “I can tell you unequivocally that it’s acquired through rigorous training.”

“What’s your verdict, Miss Wolcott?” Henry Belknap approached with a bored-looking Louis Tiffany trailing behind.

Clara tensed, at once aware of her décolletage. The gown of deep lavender silk was one of Alice’s castoffs that Josie had made over by ripping out the high collar and sewing in a low neck with a frill of lace. She couldn’t imagine what her sister had been thinking, cutting away so much fabric. She leaned close to Alice. “Give me your fan.”

The desperation in her voice caused Alice to turn in alarm. “Are you feeling faint, dearest? You look flushed. Are you ill? Shall I send George for a glass of water?”

Giving Alice a look, she yanked the fan from her hand, flipped it open and held it against her exposed flesh. Tiffany came up behind her, placing his hand on the back of her chair. She could feel his breath flowing over her neck like warm waves. Uncomfortably aware of his hand so near her bare shoulder, she shifted, pressing the fan closer.

“So, Miss Wolcott,” Henry resumed, “is the artist born or made?”

“Artists are born. To believe anything else is folly.” She gave her answer with such equanimity it seemed to end the debate, until George shook his head.

“That’s absurd. All you have to do to dispel that theory is to attend one of my illustration classes. At the beginning of the term, the new students are undisciplined scribblers; by the end, many of them are quite acceptable artists.”

“You’re speaking of technique,” Dudley said. “There’s no comparison to be made between the true artist and simply a talented amateur who learns the correct way to wield a pen and brush. Anyone, even a chimpanzee, can learn art technique.”

“I believe Miss Wolcott is referring to something more transcendental,” Alice said.

All eyes went to Clara. “The true artist’s drive to create resides in his soul,” she said quietly. “When I work, I’m driven by a passion that comes through my soul, and into these hands. I know every one of you has felt that same intensity—I’ve seen it in your faces.”

“What you are referring to, Mr. Waldo,” Tiffany said, “is the physical training and technical refinement of a person who believes himself to have talent because he has some glorified and romantic notion of an artist’s life. Those poor souls find out soon enough that their brush is never quite equal to their imaginations. The artist’s gift can’t be learned—or taught.”

George opened his mouth to protest, but Louis held up a finger. “That isn’t to say the true artist doesn’t need your services in refining his technique, but don’t mistake that for instilling talent. That gift belongs to the true artist from his first breath to his last.”

Dudley sighed impatiently. “Be reasonable, George. Non-artists don’t view the world in the same way an artist does. Place an artist and a common man in a jail cell, the artist will perceive how the light cuts through the bars and makes shadows and glare; he’ll see texture and design in the concrete walls. The ordinary man will see only the ugliness of his prison.”

George crossed his arms over his chest. “I would wager that if those same men were in that cell together for a year, and the artist carefully instructed the other man in the way he saw things, the ordinary man would soon begin to see things in the same way.”

“You would lose,” Alice said matter-of-factly. “You might teach an ordinary man how to paint a flower, but there would be no part of his soul in the finished product.”

Henry Belknap broke the awkward silence that followed. “Although I practice my art through the lens of a camera, I know what it is to feel such lofty passions. I also know the suffering an artist feels when the critics criticize and destroy his work.”

“Artists and critics go hand in glove,” Clara said. “For myself, I welcome critics—they’re a propelling force behind the quality of the artist’s work.”

“Speaking of suffering,” Tiffany said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to make my way home. The new baby is afflicted with colic, and Mrs. Tiffany prefers not to suffer alone.” He looked to Henry. “Mr. Belknap, shall we share a cab?”

“I think I’ll stay awhile. I want to bask in the abundance of natural talent that presently surrounds me.”

“The man is a pompous ass,” George growled the moment Tiffany was out of earshot. “He preaches to us? A man who rides on the backs of other artists’ work?”

Clara touched his hand. “He meant nothing against you personally.”

“How can you, of all people, defend him?”

“Whether or not you agree with how he conducts himself, George, it’s beneath you to make such disparaging remarks about another artist.”

No one said anything more until Henry struck up a conversation about the opulence of the flocked wallpaper, speculating as to whether the flock tufts were shedding poisonous dust into the air. An incurable hypochondriac, George covered his nose and mouth with his handkerchief, refusing to remove it despite Dudley’s teasing.

“Although we’re spellbound by all this talk of wallpaper,” Clara said, rising from her chair, “I think Miss Gouvy and I will join Miss Griffin and mingle among the throngs. I want to learn more about the women who are fed up with being barred from participation in national artists’ societies and have formed The Women’s Art Club. I hear they’re signing their work using initials or a special mark, so as not to give away their gender, and having great success as a result.”

As they proceeded into the room, Mr. Belknap excused himself from the men and fell in behind her and Alice. “I was wondering if I might join you two ladies?”

Clara hesitated, and then nodded. She’d hoped to speak to the other women without the constraint a gentleman’s presence would place on their conversations.

“I enjoyed your views on the passion of true artists, Miss Wolcott,” Henry began. “I’m convinced you’re a sentimentalist.”

“You are sadly mistaken on that account,” she said drily.

Henry smiled. “Unless my memory fails me, I do believe that was you sitting next to me at
La Traviata,
sobbing into your hanky.”

“That isn’t fair, Mr. Belknap. Every person in the audience was in tears. If I remember correctly, you were soaking your own handkerchief long before I even unfolded mine.”

“I take exception to that assumption,” Henry said. “Something was in my eye.”

“Something from the flocked wallpaper no doubt. No, I’m definitely not one who wallows in sentimentality.”

Alice made a face. “Excuse me, but aren’t you the person who begged Miss Todd to let you take in that fleabag of a stray cat now known as Ida B. Smith? A reasonable person would have left the pitiful thing on the
doorstep, or deposited it on someone else’s stoop.”

They came to the circle of women where Miss Griffin was waxing euphoric about the use of the new Kodak camera in art. “Oh, all right.” Clara sighed, “I admit to being a bit of a sentimental fool from time to time, but I do try not to let it interfere with my life.”

With her words left hanging in the air, they looked at one another and broke into laughter.

Lenox Hill

June 7, 1889

Louise talks of having yet another child, but I am reluctant. Six seems enough for any family, although I do long for another son, which would please Father as well.

Miss Wolcott attended the Dakota soiree. There is something about her that draws me, though were I called on to explain, I could not.

I am clearing the land for the construction of a simple summer home in Laurel Hollow, overlooking Cold Spring Harbor in Long Island. It is only an hour and ten minutes from Manhattan by train and trotter. I plan on having a magnificent garden, a clock tower, and a fountain pool for lilies and bog plants. I have dubbed the place, ‘The Briars,’ as the land is covered with them.

I have not touched brush to canvas for far too long. I am too weighted down with all the cares of business and home. I fear the muse has deserted me.

Dear God how I long for a life where I might touch fire! L.C.T.