Noon at Tiffany's (47 page)

Dear family,

The overwhelming victory of Tammany Hall has left us down as dogs. New York shall once again be at the mercy of the Bosses’ corruption.

Worse yet, Mr. Tiffany’s personal battles with President Roosevelt seem to have pushed him unfavorably into the public eye. Philip informed us that Roosevelt’s summer residence, Sagamore Hill, is in Oyster Bay, next door to Cold Spring Harbor, where Mr. Tiffany is currently building his palace. He has publicly denounced Mr. Tiffany as an immoral man for his egregious actions against the people of Oyster Bay and for ‘laying hands on other men’s wives.’

According to Philip, it’s rumored that if reelected, Roosevelt has promised to have Mr. Tiffany’s glass screen that is presently installed on the first floor of the White House, removed and ‘smashed into small pieces.’ I don’t know how Philip can stand to be involved in such things every day. I can barely tolerate a little strike.

Joseph Briggs and the Palmié twosome just now send their regards.

Love, Clara

P.S. Mr. McBride is taking me to see Enrico Caruso make his debut in the New York opera in “Rigoletto” at the end of the month. I’ve heard his voice is so powerful it makes women faint. If this turns out to be the case, I’ve instructed Mr. McBride to move their silly bodies out of the way so they won’t obstruct our view.

December 8, 1903

The Gertrude Käsebier Studio

273 Fifth Avenue

Work on the Garden of Paradise mosaic panel was not going well. The gold tiles chipped easily in the cutting, so that only one in three could be used. Clara had been forced to take all her cutters and selectors off lamp production and put them on the panel, which, as a result, left them behind schedule on both projects.

The grippe hit next, claiming Frank as its first victim, and then within the hour, three of the women. No sooner had they left, than Miss Hawthorne got a piece of glass in her thumb, which couldn’t be removed without considerable difficulty and much blood. The Palmié twins, sensitive to the sight of blood, grew faint and were forced to lie down.

It wasn’t the best day to have her photograph made, but the appointment with Madam Käsebier had been arranged three months in advance. Since she didn’t intend on having another photograph taken until she was seventy, and as Mrs. Käsebier was much in demand, she had no choice but to go.

She hurried toward Fifth Avenue, stopping by Miss Owens‘s only long enough to change into her black evening dress that displayed her
arms and upper chest to advantage.

Inside the Käsebier studio, she found the usual frightening paraphernalia of a photographer’s gallery replaced with tasteful drapes, a fireplace, full bookcases, and vases of exotic flowers. She was inspecting a display of avant-garde photographs of women and children, when a middle-aged woman in a mauve kimono and funny black-rimmed spectacles entered the room with a flourish. Clara liked her on sight.

Madam Käsebier squinted behind her spectacles, while using Clara’s chin to move her head in every direction. “Your face is most interesting, Mrs. Driscoll—a perfect study for an artist.” She examined Clara’s hands. “What is it you do for work?”

Clara told her.

“I knew it!” Mrs. Käsebier snapped her fingers. “I can always tell an artist by their hands and the sensuousness of the mouth. Come with me, dear. Let me immortalize your beauty for all time.”

Leading her to a model stand mounted on rollers, the photographer ordered her to relax and ‘be herself.’ Clara was thinking of what ‘being herself’ might look like when Mrs. Käsebier commenced to rolling the stand about the room, moving her in all directions, gauging the effects of different light on her face. When she found the light she liked best, she rolled the camera and scrim over and placed them where she wanted them.

“The rollers are a great help in getting different effects,” Mrs. Käsebier said, ducking under the focus cloth. “I once had a piano in here, but I sent it away because I couldn’t keep from moving it around. I was afraid I was going to injure myself.”

Clara laughed, and the first photograph was taken.

“Do you see that piece of thirteenth century Italian pottery on the mantel?” Mrs. Käsebier asked, still under the cloth. “Have you ever seen anything more charming in color and form?”

Clara was searching for the piece when Mrs. Käsebier shouted, “There! Keep your head that way and don’t change your expression.”

A dozen or so photographs later, Mrs. Käsebier handed her a wide-brimmed hat. “Put this on, but don’t pull down the veil, let me do that.”

Clara politely handed the hat back to her. “I don’t like hats in photographs. They went out of style long ago. It would look absurd.”

“Ordinary hats, yes,” Mrs. Käsebier pinned the hat to Clara’s head at
a provocative angle. “But not picture hats like this one. I don’t treat a hat as a hat, Mrs. Driscoll, but as an art object.” Squinting, the photographer tilted her head, set the hat at the opposite angle, and pulled the black veil part way over her face.

“I never wear veils,” Clara protested. “They’re passé.”

“This isn’t veils,” Mrs. Käsebier sighed. “This is lines and shadows. You should never allow the conventions of your sex and the times you live in to inhibit you in anything. There will be plenty of other women who will do that. As an artist, you must learn to live without confines.”

“But I—”

Head thrown back, eyes nearly squinted shut, Mrs. Käsebier clasped her hands. “Stunning! Stunning! It’s a regular Rembrandt! It will be more or less solid black and may not look anything like you, but I don’t care. It’s a work of art.”

“But my poor family,” Clara mewled. “These photographs are for those who care more about me than they do Rembrandt.”

“These are for me, dear. I want them for my window display. You’ll have plenty more to choose from that your family will want.” Mrs. Käsebier disappeared under the focus cloth and then reappeared. “Now tell me—how do you like working for Louis Tiffany?” She readjusted the hat and veil.

“I like the designing, but I’d rather not manage.”

“Or
be
managed?” Mrs. Käsebier gave her a sly wink. “I expect Mr. Tiffany is a hard taskmaster. When I photographed his wife and daughters, they could not relax if he were in the room. Only when he left us to ourselves was I able to get them to unclench.

“Mrs. Tiffany was quite progressive in her thinking. She gave me permission to photograph the youngest girl, Dorothy, in a pose no etiquette book would have advised: sitting sideways in an old ladderback chair, facing the camera, her chin pressed against the head of her dolly. I liked it so well, I’ve made it part of my regular collection.” She paused, and then added, “Mr. Tiffany didn’t care for it. He thought it too simple—not enough grandeur.”

“Consider yourself fortunate your photographs aren’t made of glass,” Clara said. “He’s in the habit of destroying what he doesn’t like.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Mrs. Käsebier said. “One of
the things that makes my work superior is that I try to be sensitive to my subjects’ inner workings—who they are as sentient beings. I’m good at detecting what a subject’s deepest feelings are.

“The Tiffany family was exceptionally interesting in that way. Those children’s eyes held such sorrow.” Mrs. Käsebier’s voice softened. “I believe Mr. Tiffany’s darker nature is reflected in every one of their faces.”

It was too late to return to Tiffany’s by the time she left Madam Käsebier’s. The photographer’s vitality and honesty made her the most interesting woman Clara had met in some time. To have been so clever and sensible as to have found a way to apply her art in the manner she chose, and, at the same time make an ample living and a name for herself, was no less than genius. The woman was living proof that starting her own company with the backing of those who believed in her might be possible.

She was crossing Fifth Avenue, when Philip Allen suddenly appeared at her shoulder. In his Chesterfield coat, he was so handsome that for a moment she was too stunned to move.

He tipped his hat and tucked her arm under his. “What a stroke of luck. Not only have I received good news from my publisher, I have the fortune of running into the woman of my dreams. Let me take you to dinner. I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d rather celebrate.”

She started to give him one of her standard excuses as to why it was impossible, but hesitated. It was time to stop thinking in terms of the impossible and believe as Mrs. Käsebier did—that everything is possible.

They went to Child’s, where, without asking, he ordered her favorite meal of boiled cod and baked potatoes. When coffee was served, he held her hand under the table, and she let him. In his eyes she saw excitement and something that made her want to crawl inside him and stay forever.

“What are we celebrating, exactly?”

“My publisher has decided to publish the book I’ve been writing,
America’s Awakening
, about the moral awakening of the American populace in opposition to the corrupt bosses who run this country. I’m highlighting Roosevelt as one of our guiding lights in all this mess we’re living in now.”

“Have you ever thought of running for office?”

“Of course not,” he huffed, looking genuinely offended. “I consider myself an honest man.”

Later, strolling leisurely toward Irving Place, they passed a drugstore, where an ad for an elixir claiming to grow luxurious hair caught their attention. In the photograph, a young woman in the bloom of health ran her brush through a mane of wavy hair that reached to the floor. The caption under her dainty young feet read: ‘Danderine grew this hair and we can prove it!’

Philip looked at Clara’s wispy tresses, and then raised his hat to show off his own slightly receding hairline. “We should have ourselves photographed and then change the words to read: ‘Danderine grew
this
hair, too, and we can prove it!’”

They broke into laugher. Without quite knowing how it came about, she was in his arms, his mouth fully on hers. Her desire for him was so powerful she feared it might kill her on the spot.

They didn’t hear the approaching steps until the last second. Philip disengaged himself first, though he never took his eyes off hers. Surprised by the abrupt loss of him, she pressed her fingers to her chest, feeling the lingering heat from his body.

Alice and Edward, each carrying several small cartons of ice cream, stood staring at them. “Have you been running?” Alice’ asked, her gaze settling on Clara’s hat, which had been knocked crooked.

Breathless, Clara pointed to the drugstore window. “We were just having a laugh over the Danderine advertisement.”

Edward looked blankly at the ad, then back to them. “Well then, since you both seem so easily entertained, you might want to come back to the house. We’re having ice cream and getting up a game of Whist. Hopefully the hilarity of that won’t prove so overwhelming.”

She stood before the mirror trying to see if she were changed. Other than a lingering glow, she was still the Clara she had been yesterday, but changed in some essential, though invisible way. She remained whole and pure … well, perhaps not so pure, but what did that matter in a city like New York and in times like these?

Lightly touching her lips, she marveled over her desire for him, and
her blatant lack of shame. Apparently, Mrs. Käsebier’s words about not allowing the conventions of her sex and the times she lived in to inhibit her had made more of an impression than she thought. The only damper to her exuberance came when she recalled Edward’s forlorn expression, and the way he kept sneaking glances at her and Philip all night—as if he knew what she was feeling.

“Impossible,” she said, climbing into bed. Edward hadn’t shown the least bit of
that
sort of interest in her. Dismissing the thought, she rolled over and tried to sleep.

44 Irving Place

January 31, 1904

Dear Family,

I meant to write earlier, but Philip took me out for breakfast at the Ashland House on 24th St. and 4
^th
, where we gorged ourselves on milk and new onions, eel with cream dressing and creamed potatoes. We waddled back to my room, where I found George lying in wait.