Clara and Mr. Tiffany (25 page)

My intention to be as unperturbed as a sea horse vanished.

“There’s a danger in claiming sole ownership of an idea, Clara. Ideas can originate in more than one place and time. For example, Mr. Tiffany produced leaded-glass wall sconces with Thomas Edison for the Lyceum Theatre.”

“Like my department does? With copper foil on small pieces?”

“No. They just dribbled melted lead over a tray of chipped glass. It was all experimental in those days.”

“Then it wasn’t like mine, but the men doing geometrics with flat glass is a clear usurpation of my process.”

“You can’t restrict usage of a process, Clara.” Mr. Belknap raised his shoulders. “In any case, geometrics will be simpler and faster to produce, and that means they’ll be less expensive. Mr. Platt sees it as a moneymaker. That should at least give you some assurance of his belief in leaded-glass shades.”

“At the same time as it robs me of my specialty.”

“Not entirely. Since Mr. Tiffany believes that women have the more acute color sense, you may have to supervise their selectors closely.”

“Won’t that be a feat of diplomacy!” A bit of Emma Goldman’s anarchy sparked in me. “What if I refuse?”

“I wouldn’t recommend that. Don’t worry. Theirs will be craft. Yours, art.”

He gave me an understanding look and turned to the dragonflies. “Maybe the veins could be made in the glass.”

“Threads of opaque black glass dripped over the iridescent? It’s too intricate to be left to chance. I’d have to be right there directing each trickle of glass.”

“Mr. Nash wouldn’t allow a woman to work in the hot shop.”

“Do you think the metal shop could make filigree overlays in these wing shapes if I designed them?”

“They could. They could do it with acid etching. Do you want me to ask them?”

In a surge of yearning, I said, “I do,” and it felt and sounded like a marriage vow.

“I want this to work for you, Clara.”

“And I want to matter here.”

I WALKED AROUND
the studio to advise on Mr. Tiffany’s
Four Seasons
windows.
Spring
had orange and purple tulips in the early morning when the sky was silvery, using clear glass drizzled with angular black threads to represent still-leafless twigs against sky.
Summer
showed lush Oriental poppies with a lake reflecting a cobalt-blue sky at midday.
Autumn
depicted the harvest of apples, Concord grapes, and golden corn, each kernel a separate piece of glass, with an early moon several layers behind the diaphanous sky.
Winter
presented an evening campfire burning below a pine bough covered in melting snow with sparkling drips of water.

The panels were to be positioned two by two in an eight-by-ten-foot rectangle intended for the 1900 Paris Exposition Universelle. The girls took to this project enthusiastically, identifying themselves as “summer girls” or “spring girls,” depending on their assignments, learning the French names for the seasons, and greeting one another with lilting
bonjour
s. All this I encouraged because the project presented a challenge. Each panel had areas several layers thick, so progress was slow and I had to keep them from getting discouraged.

The intricate decorative areas framing the four scenes had round, protruding, press-molded cabochons, and hammer-chipped chunks we
liked to call jewels, of the type I had given to Wilhelmina. Miss Byrne was the best jewel chipper, so I assigned her to work on all the panels.

“I like the sharp-edged chunks better than rounded cabochons, so may I use more of them?” she asked.

A timid, older woman, she rarely gave her opinion, so I was curious to know what lay behind her request. “In order to give off more intense sparks of light?” I asked.

“Well, they do, but it’s because they suggest that someone enjoyed creating them by hand.” She smiled at me sheepishly, revealing her delight in spite of herself.

“Ah. Go ahead, then.”

I came back to my drawing table and made cutouts of six open-winged dragonflies and placed them nose down around the bottom edge of a wide conical shape I’d made of stiff paper. It looked too regimented. Alice suggested to soften them by putting marsh flowers between them at the upper portion of the cone, but I thought that would compete with the dragonflies. Agnes thought the wings could overlap. I liked that idea, even though it would make it impossible to use the same filigree metal overlay patterns on each wing. Each one would have to be designed and made individually, which would be more expensive.

I went ahead with that plan anyway, and took it to Giuseppe to have the plaster mold made. When he delivered it, I didn’t like it. It was too conical, too sharply geometric, especially now that I knew the men’s department was making geometric leaded shades. I went to work shaving off the bottom edge to curve it inward. Just that little adjustment made it more graceful. I gave my cartoon to Alice for her to trace it onto the mold and watercolor it according to my color scheme.

When I worked out the cost, using the estimate from the metal shop for the wing overlays; the iridescent glass, which was more expensive; and the fittings and a simple squat vase for an oil canister, I worried. The base was a compromise. I really wanted to make a mosaic one suggesting a pond, but I needed to get the lamp approved, so I settled on the less-expensive blown form. I didn’t want to send Mr. Mitchell into a state of apoplexy.

…

BY WEEK’S END
, I was pleased with it and took the painted plaster and some glass samples to the Divinities of the nether floors for approval.

Mr. Mitchell’s voice rumbled in his throat before he said, “Original,” as if he felt called upon to praise it against his will. “How much, time and materials?”

“Ninety-seven dollars if I use iridescent glass, eighty-seven dollars if I don’t.”

“
Ouff.
”

“That’s without a base, but it includes my design time, which wouldn’t be factored in on subsequent models.”

He left and came back with the other Crowned Heads: Mr. William Thomas, assistant business manager; Mr. Henry Belknap, artistic director; and Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge Platt, treasurer.

“Mr. Tiffany is feeling poorly, so we’ll decide,” Mr. Platt said.

“I can wait,” I hastened to say. I needed Mr. Tiffany’s vote.

Mr. Belknap turned the plaster model to show it off from all directions. “It’s exquisite,” he declared.

Mr. Platt squinted at it with beady countinghouse eyes. “Impractical on account of the cost.” His prominent Adam’s apple bounced above his paper collar.

“I agree,” said Mr. Thomas.

I figured he was a mouse by his plain, Midwestern farmer looks, his mousy little mouth working as though nibbling on a hay seed, and his thinning, mouse-colored hair. At least Ebenezer Platt was distinguished-looking, with a high swoop of silver-gray hair.

“But it would generate talk,” said Mr. Belknap. “It ought to be shown at the Paris Exposition. We have to speculate on extraordinary pieces once in a while despite their cost, for the sake of our reputation and to keep ahead of the competition. I think it’s a good investment. It’s a bravura piece, and its debut in Paris is bound to be greeted with enthusiasm.”

Bless him.

Mr. Tiffany came into the room looking pale except for dark circles
under his eyes. His eyebrows popped up when he saw the painted mold. He sat in front of it and gestured for Mr. Belknap to turn it around. I held my breath.

“It’s the most interesting lamp in the building. Try some simple foliage at the top. Long, narrow leaves to set off the detail of the dragonflies.”

Alice’s idea exactly.

“What kind of a base?”

“I thought about a squat, blown form in the green-to-blue range to suggest water.”

“Too subtle. We need a more obvious element to unify both parts. Model a socle, like a wreath of lily pads, around the bottom of the base, to be made of bronze. It’ll be a Japanese touch.”

“That will raise the cost even more,” said Mr. Mitchell.

Mr. Tiffany ignored him.

The splotch on Mr. Mitchell’s cheek reddened. Tiffany’s word was law. I lifted the plaster cast and sailed out of the office feeling as mighty as the woman in the harbor with upraised arm.

Mr. Farmer-John Thomas followed behind me.

“You’re a dangerous influence here. Don’t overreach yourself, Mrs. Driscoll,” he said in a threatening voice.

I’m sure he could not detect any unevenness in my stride as I walked between the gilt doors and into the elevator, thinking, “
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
” With only the elevator boy to hear, I said, “I am an
influence. I
am an influence.”

THE PROTOTYPE DRAGONFLY LAMP
went into the showroom a month later, prominently placed on a table by itself. The next day, the Tiffany tap came down the hall at breakneck speed. Mr. Tiffany sat down close to my worktable and said, “A rich woman just purchased your dragonfly lamp.”

“Wonderful!”

“I told her she couldn’t have it.”

“Why not?”

“I want the first one to go to London for a show at the Grafton Galleries. I told her you would make her another. And I want three more on the condition that one will be done in a week for that customer.”

“I can do it,” I blurted, though I wasn’t at all sure.

Using my most urgent persuasion, I would have to build a fire under the men who had a part in it—the solderer, the metalworker who would make the burner base, and the bronze caster who would make the filigree on the wings according to my drawings and the socle of lily pads according to my wax model. I knew I could count on Mary McVickar to cut, and to come in an hour early until we finished. I wanted to do the selecting myself.

“The second one will replace the prototype in the showroom,” Mr. Tiffany said, “and a third one will go to the Paris Exposition Universelle next year. That one has to be a stunning showpiece that will make La Farge wilt into his boots.”

My chance!

“For Paris, how about a squat mosaic base with low belly, no shoulder, and rectangular tesserae placed concentrically in colors of blue and green to represent a pond? It will show off your iridescent glass. And”—I grabbed a breath—“bronze overlays of dragonflies set diagonally as though they’re flying over the pond, and water plants growing from the bottom.”

“Complicated, but possible. Very possible.” His artist’s eyes had a shimmery, far-off expression, as though they were seeing parallel to mine, exactly what I had described. He turned his gaze to me, and his minute, slow nod was contemplative, collegial, and—dare I think it?—loving.

“Don’t go to them for approval. Bring it to me.”

B
ERNARD WAS ATTACHING OUR NEW IMPROVED BICYCLE LAMPS
when I got home from work that day. They used carbolic acid in the igniting mechanism. That wasn’t something I wanted to think about when my mind was swirling with the prospect of making a dragonfly lamp for Paris.

“Care for a little spin tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m too weary.”

“Just a wee one before dinner?”

“All I want to do is to lie down awhile and close my eyes. I’m sorry. Let’s do it tomorrow evening.”

“In that case, would you like me to read more of
A Woman of No Importance
to you?”

It was Francie’s choice for this month’s play reading.

“No, thanks. I detest that title!”

“I believe Oscar Wilde meant it ironically.”

I touched his arm lightly as a way of showing appreciation.

Upstairs in my room I drew down the shade and fell into sweet oblivion as soon as I hit my pillow, and was awakened by Hank and George in animated conversation coming up the stairs. Oh, Lord, they were heading for my room. I buried myself more deeply at the knock.

“We know you’re in there,” George said.

“I’m resting.”

He opened the door. “That’s all right. You don’t have to open your eyes. I’ll only have to repeat everything if you don’t listen now.”

“Just don’t pace. Sit, and don’t talk loud.”

He landed with a bounce at the foot of my bed, and Hank took the
only comfortable chair. George had been at the Vanderbilt mansion in Hyde Park all week, and launched into a description.

“French classical … half-round portico … massive columns.”

I was aware of his voice in the same way I was aware of birds chirping outside, but I didn’t follow what he said any more than what the birds said.

“Gilded moldings … herringbone parquet floors … Isfahan carpets … Brussels tapestries …”

Bernard ducked his head in the doorway. “Give the poor woman a little peace. Tell us at dinner.”

“She wants to hear now,” George protested.

“No, she doesn’t. Out. Out.”

“Who are you to say what she wants? Her protector?”

“Everyone, please,” I begged.

I felt George leap off the bed, and got twenty minutes’ quiet before the dinner bell rang.

“DON’T YOU WANT TO HEAR
what Monsieur and I are going to do for Freddie’s bedroom?” George asked, passing a platter of boiled pork sausage.