Clara and Mr. Tiffany (43 page)

“Their union might pressure them for solidarity. I’m sorry. I have to go. Mr. Thomas and Mr. Platt don’t even want me talking to you.”

That last sliced me to the bone.

OVER THE NEXT COUPLE
of weeks, the recognition that trouble had been snowballing right under my nose descended like wet fog. One afternoon when worry pulsed so fiercely I couldn’t work, I went to Agnes’s studio, knocked, and didn’t wait to enter. I caught a glimpse of her quickly slipping into her apron pocket what looked like a small silver flask. How incongruous, in light of her primness. After all these years, I knew her very little.

I told her what Henry had said. She shook her head slowly. Since she was part of the firm’s design staff, any strike would not affect her.

“If the foundrymen sided with the men glass workers, they could effectively shut down my lamp production just by not fulfilling my orders. The same if Albert didn’t release any glass to us.”

“This has turned serious.”

“Ever since those men confiscated the two windows, we’ve had no new window commissions. That has to be Mr. Tiffany’s decision, maybe to cool the heat.”

“Maybe it was a union demand,” she said.

It hurt to imagine him buckling under to them so easily, stooping to shut us out by letting us dry up. He loved our department. I was sure of it.

“Whether he
chose
to stop giving us commissions or he was forced to, it amounts to the same thing—a penalty for talent, punishment for being women. We can’t let the girls become idle, Agnes, or one by one they’ll be picked off and fired.”

“They can do this project when I have it ready.” The window depicted a River of Life coming out of distant hills with an apple tree in the foreground. “It’s a memorial panel for my father for our church in Flushing. He died last year.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“He had an orchard, and there are many garden wholesalers in Flushing, so I’m hoping the motif will appeal to the congregation.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“I expect that all other church commissions will go to the men until this is resolved,” she said.

“That may be a while.”

She tapped her front teeth with her fingernail and looked around the room for ideas. “A New Orleans couple asked for a magnolia window. I’ll prepare it next, and give it to the girls.”

“Good. That will occupy two cutters because of the drapery glass.”

“And I have an idea for a parrot window on speculation. We’ll keep them going. I know you don’t want to lose any of them.”

“Thank you, Agnes.”

“I’m sorry it has come to this.” She drew out the flask again and poured two small glasses. “You might need some fire in your belly before this is over, so come to me.”

I felt it impolite not to take what she offered. The sip scorched my throat even as it burned away some formality that had existed between us.

“Be prepared. Have a plan.”

A rare thing it was for her to reach out to me. I nodded an acknowledgment and stepped out.

A PLAN. I WENT TO
the Astor Library on Lafayette Street and read up on the women’s labor movement. I was much impressed by Rose Schneiderman, who organized the girls working in the cap-making trade. They weren’t allowed in the union either, but that worked to their advantage because it prevented the bosses from using the union label. As a consequence, the bosses encouraged the women to start a women’s union. The organizing spread quickly from Schneiderman’s factory with twelve
girls to the thirty cap- and hat-making factories throughout the city. When the men went on strike for higher wages, the women’s union went on strike too, one hundred of them for thirteen weeks. I couldn’t imagine what effort it must have taken to bolster their spirits for that long, and remembered Edwin working day and night to maintain the morale of the striking tailors. In the end, the cap makers won an increase from five to seven dollars a week. That situation was different, but the solidarity Schneiderman developed was inspiring. The account didn’t give me a plan, though it did prepare me for what I might have to do.

In the meantime, I knew Agnes’s work wouldn’t occupy all of the girls. I was desperate to keep new shade designs coming faster than ever so that my own bosses would recognize our contributions to the business.

Something of Puck got into me, and I wanted to make a lamp that was a landscape window in the round, to remind The Powers downstairs of what we did that one magnificent week that the men refused to attempt. I set irises alongside a stream with cypress trees in the distance. It was a radical departure, and I loved it, not just because it was beautiful but because it meant daring and accomplishment. It would remind the girls of that week too. I needed to keep that spark alive. In Mr. Tiffany’s absence, Henry approved it instantly.

At the first sign of spring, I studied the apple blossoms in Central Park for a vanity lamp that would reuse the small wisteria mold and base. That way I could start someone on it without asking for a new wooden mold to be spun. I was overcome with gratitude for the unknown woman who would buy it without knowing the anxiety that had accompanied its making. All she would know was that her dressing table would have apple blossoms all year round.

An apple and grape lamp gave the girls a wide range of color choices. The more artistic freedom I gave them, the more I realized that these weren’t
my
lamps. They were
ours
. It wasn’t just my department that was threatened. It was ours.

There was nothing like the tulips in the parks to make one cheerful, and when one sees cheerful things, I reasoned, fear loosens its grip. On a brisk but calm Sunday with the streets splashed with sunlight, I armed myself with a sketch pad and colored pencils and set out on my wheel
alone, working out my frustration with the muscles of my legs. Stuyvesant Square was dressed in yellow tulips as bright as canaries. Gramercy Park was bordered in deep red tulips the color of ripe strawberries, and Madison Square Park wore the delicious blush of a peach—a feast of the palate, and the palette. I wanted to swallow that color, that whole tulip, in fact. The desire was so intense that I saw, as a vision of the mind, the peach color already in me.

The impulse to love a flower and to create a lamp were the same to me. It was in the air. It took my breath away. I would fight tooth and nail, if need be, to continue. I tried to hold on to the glory of tulips as I rode home, but nothing can dampen your spirit like the end of a day of respite from ominous forces.

JULIA’S MOTHER DIED
at home, having refused to go to a hospital. She left a handwritten will in Polish giving the husband ten dollars to prevent his suing the “estate,” Julia translated. One hundred fifteen was to be spent on her funeral and burial, the remaining seventy for her children. I just couldn’t stomach the Old World notion that paying for one’s burial is more important than paying to save one’s life.

At the funeral the older brother put on a big act, wailing on his knees. His posturing nauseated me. He’d left Julia the tasks of removal from the morgue, the death certificate, the funeral arrangements, the selection of a plot in Potter’s Field, the borrowing of black clothes for the funeral, and the daily responsibility of cooking for the family. Hardest of all, she had to keep the money out of her father’s hands. She was only fifteen but looked about twelve. Through it all, she had that sickening, set-jaw look of sticking to her menfolk to the end.

MORE CLOSED DOORS!
Now even Nellie came into my studio and closed them. There was nothing like a strike brewing to keep the hinges working.

She drew the little chair alongside me. “I have something to tell you.” Leaning forward so no one would hear, she asked, “Do you know how Patrick waits for me outside the workers’ door?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re going to get married.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Driscoll. I’m too young for marryin’. You don’t have to be worryin’ none. My papa won’t let me for six more years.”

I let out an exaggerated breath of relief, which made her freckled cheeks turn pink.

“It’s this. I was about to go through the workers’ doorway on Twenty-fifth when I heard some angry voices. Well, not angry.” Nellie searched for a word.

“Agitated?”

She looked blank.

“Stirred up?” I shook my hands to give her the idea.

“Something like that. They were arguing. I couldn’t hear everything, because I was hiding behind the door, ye see, but I did hear the words
strike, Friday
, and
both doors
. And I heard someone say, mean like, that it was only a matter of time till they take over our lamps too and shut us down for good and all.”

A shard of glass thrust beneath my skin would have been easier to take than that.

“I suspected as much. Does Patrick know you heard this?”

“I don’t think so. When I heard footsteps coming down the stairs, I had to go out like on every other day.”

“You did the right thing. Thank you for telling me. Don’t mention it to anyone.”

I marched right into Mr. Thomas’s office and told him I knew the men’s long-range plans, not just to win the exclusive right to make windows but eventually to obliterate our lamp operation as well, which was tantamount to firing us all.

“I will not have my girls ousted by the petty jealousy and fears of the men. We ought to be colleagues, not enemies.”

“Granted. I can’t speak about windows, but as for shades, the firm will put up a fight.” He shuffled papers impatiently. “I would rather see every man in the place out of work for a year than see your department disbanded.”

“That’s an extravagant statement, but you are only one. The two hundred men seem like an army to me, and they have the strength of a union behind them. You did nothing to get the two windows returned to
us, and you haven’t given us any window commissions since. How can I count on you to block the move against our lamps?”

He hesitated. “I’ll do what I can.”

Equivocator.

“You cannot allow what I have built up for this company to be so disrespected.”

“I said I’ll do what I can.”

“For the good of the company, you had better do better than you did with those stolen windows.”

I PACED IN MY BEDROOM
that evening. “Weasel!” I said out loud. Even though I liked Mr. Thomas tolerably better than Mr. Mitchell, I couldn’t trust him to support us. He would crumple at the first challenge. “Mouse!” All I’d worked for might be ripped away from us. My girls, what would they do? Go their separate ways to find new jobs? Our beautiful community. Did all that I had built up amount to nothing? “Rat!”

Alice poked her head in the doorway. “Did you see a rat?”

“Yes, a two-legged one. In fact, two hundred of them. The men are going on strike against us. They’ll picket on Friday.”

“Oh, no!” She flumped down on the bed.

“This is the reward we get for beautiful work. Extinction.”

“The reward for being women. What does Mr. Tiffany say?”

“He’s been suspiciously scarce lately.”

“He could at least send you word of what he intends to do.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’s probably feeling tremendous pressure from the union. I can just imagine Mr. Platt telling him to give in and fire us all, pointing out how much money that would save.”

“No. That wouldn’t happen. Your lamps are moneymakers.”

“They’d be given to the men.” I took off my shoes and threw them at the corner of the room. “It hurts because I think so much of him, and thought he felt the same about me.”

“A man might say, ‘Don’t take it personally,’ and shrug it off, but I know that’s impossible for you.”

She sat biting her thumbnail, then leapt off the bed and dashed out
the door. After a short while, she came back with George, Dudley, and Bernard.

“This stinks awfuller than a she-skunk in heat,” Dudley said, and waited expectantly for at least a smile from me.

“What are you going to do?” Bernard asked.

“Stage a march, like the suffragettes. Arms linked.”

“Bully! Right up Fourth Avenue. Bust right through their picket line.” George swung his fist into the air.

“I meant that sardonically, George.”

“Mean it seriously, Clara,” Bernard said evenly.

The idea did have merit as a show of force. Rose Schneiderman would certainly think so.

“It’s not like we’d be scabs. We aren’t strikebreakers hired to do the men’s work. We would just be going to our own jobs, together.”

“Fifth Avenue might be better,” Bernard said. “More visibility. More embarrassment to Tiffany if he closed the department.”

“But it’s wider. We’ll look less effective strung out across it.”

“Not if I get the women in Corona to join,” Alice said.

“I know Lillian would. You work on them tomorrow, but it’s got to be a secret.”

“I changed my mind,” Bernard said. “Fourth is better. Ripping, in fact. That way, they’ll see you coming blocks away and hear the horns on the motorcars. Build up more tension.”

“You need a banner,” George said.

Dudley was quick to offer to make one. “What do you want it to say?”

“Sissy Tiffany men want women’s work. Unfair,” said George brightly.

“No, George.” I thought a moment. “Tiffany Studios Women’s Department declares women’s right to work in the arts.”

“We need a slogan,” Alice said. She darted out to her room and came back brandishing a copy of
Revolution
, Susan B. Anthony’s periodical. “We can use her motto. ‘The true republic—men, their rights and nothing more; women, their rights and nothing less.’ ”

“Good.”

“Edwin would be proud of you, Clara,” George said.

I felt stronger just remembering his rallying speech at Cooper Union.

“Don’t tell Henry Belknap. That would destroy the element of surprise.”

They all clamored down to dinner.

“Aren’t you coming?” Alice asked.

“Not just yet. I have to get my thoughts in order.”

I wrote a note for the next day.