Clara and Mr. Tiffany

by Susan Vreeland

  I felt my breath come fast and strong. “What do you say?”

  Mary raised the cry. “Yes. We’ll walk together.”

  “Above all, I want there to be no division in the department. We need all of you in order to make a big showing and to stretch across Fourth Avenue.” I gave Nellie a hard look. She shrank into the hunch-shouldered posture she had when she came to ask for a job. “We must be unified, whatever the cost to our emotions.”

  “You have me,” said Theresa, lifting her chin high above her lace collar threaded through with pink ribbon.

  “Me too,” said Carrie.

  “What about you, Marion?”

  “I’m with you.”

  “Anna?”

  Anna answered in Yiddish.

  “Mind telling us what you just said, missy?” Mary asked.

  “It’s an oath my papa says at his garment workers’ union. ‘If I turn traitor to the cause I now pledge, may this hand wither from the arm I now raise.’ I just felt like saying it.”

  “That’s a fine pledge, Anna. Thank you.”

  “Miss Byrne?”

  The wrinkles in her face tightened and deepened. “It’s not dignified.”

  “How dignified is it to be out of work and turned away because we happen to wear skirts?”

  “When you take off that skirt tonight, look for the union label,” Anna said. “There’s nothing undignified in that.”

  “I’ll come back to you, Miss Byrne. Miss Judd?”

  “How many days will we have to do this?”

  “As long as there is a picket line. Do you want to go through it alone?”

  “It’s just walking to work together, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then all right. I will.”

  Miss Stoney gaped at her with eyes as big as pigeon’s eggs. “Mildred!”

  I’d never known anyone to use Miss Judd’s first name.

  “Miss Stoney?”

  “I can’t. I can’t embarrass Mr. Tiffany that way, parading in the street like suffragettes.”

  “How else are you going to get to work?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t we stay home just one day?”

  “It won’t be just one day. If you stay home tomorrow it will be harder to come the next day. That’s just what they want, to break us out of timidity. I realize some of you think it’s inappropriate to associate art with labor unions.”

  “Or women with labor unions,” said Miss Byrne.

  “Think of the word union in its pure sense, and think of the raw feelings afterward if our department were divided.”

  I waited, giving her plenty of opportunity to come around.

  “I’ll come back to you too. Bertie, you raised your hand. What union is your father in?”

  “The Gas Stokers’ Union.”

  “He works hard. Shoveling coal?” She nodded. “Do you think of him when you turn up your gas radiator? Are you proud of him? Do you want him to be proud of you?”

  “I’m in. He’d strap my backside if I didn’t side with you.”

  Nellie’s face contorted into a thousand tight shapes as I went through the list.

  “Minnie?”

  Her thin English lips were pursed with the effort of deciding. “Indeed.”

  “Olga?”

  A raised hand.

  “Beatrix, I recognize that your family history does not include union members. Do you stand with us?”

  “Most certainly I do.”

  “Thank you. Julia, you’ve had and still have a difficult time at home, but you are an amazingly strong and capable young woman. As strong as another woman from Poland, Miss Rose Schneiderman, who like you, cared for her younger brothers and cooked for the family when she was only a child so her mother could work in a fur coat factory in this city. Eventually Rose worked in a cap-making factory, organized the women there into a union, and raised their wages by two dollars a week. So you see, everyone, Polish women aren’t afraid to take on mighty responsibilities. We have built up this department by hard work so there would be a place for you, Julia. Are you with us?”

  “I guess so.”

  I kept looking at her.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Now, Nellie?” I asked in a firm voice. No answer.

  “Some of you may know that Nellie’s sweetheart works in the Men’s Window Department. She has something immeasurable at stake.”

  Sympathetic words surrounded her. Nellie’s hand curled around a small gold locket at her throat.

  “You don’t want to be the only one not with us,” Theresa said.

  Nellie looked around sheepishly at everyone waiting for her answer. Mary squeezed her arm roughly, and Nellie let go of the locket, raised her hand to her shoulder, and uttered a faltering yes.

  “Thank you. Now it’s back to you, Miss Byrne.”

  Her arms were folded across her chest and her shoulders were up to her ears as though she wanted to hide inside herself.

  In the back I saw Agnes for the first time. She moved next to Miss Byrne, shoulder to shoulder, and I think it was her mere presence as another senior staff member that made Miss Byrne give her assent.

  At that, Miss Stoney’s mouth dropped in an expression on the razor edge of outrage. She was well provided for and didn’t need the job.

  “You love the work, don’t you? The glass, the colors.”

  Her eyes brimmed over.

  “Don’t think that other leaded-glass companies would be in any hurry to have women in their studio if they see us turned out. There isn’t another leaded-glass company in the city that has hired women. I know. I’ve asked them all. Mr. Tiffany is unique.”

  All eyes were on Miss Stoney. The younger girls looked up to her for her talent and respected her as a venerable aunt. She was the last one to commit, and she knew it.

  “Miss Stoney, are you walking with us, or are you staying home thinking about us?” I demanded.

  “Except for Agnes, I’ve worked for Mr. Tiffany longer than any of you. Seventeen years. He’s been good to me. I can’t go against him.”

  “You won’t be.” I softened my voice. “Staying home would be going against him, since he depends upon our department.”

  Everyone waited in silence, giving her time. Some had the grace to look away.

  Miss Stoney took a long, nasal breath and stood up straighter. “All right. I’ll go with you, only because I don’t want your bad opinion of me.”

  “I appreciate the difficulty. Thank you.

  “Bring your lunch, everyone, so we won’t have to do this a second time in order to get back in the building in the afternoon. Put it in a drawstring bag and tie it to your waists. You’ll need both hands.”

  I raised my voice as I had seen Edwin do to conclude. “We have a motto for tomorrow, and it’s the same motto as Susan B. Anthony’s motto. ‘The true republic—men, their rights and nothing more; women, their rights and nothing less.’ ”

  “Our rights and nothing less,” Mary said, squeezing Nellie’s waist.

  “Nothing less,” Theresa echoed. “Nothing less.”

  CHAPTER 39

  RED, WHITE, AND BLUE

  A LIGHT MORNING FOG GAVE GRAMERCY PARK AN OMINOUS AIR suitable for clandestine affairs, not of the heart but of politics. Alice and I found Theresa waiting for us, wearing her feather boa. I had thought her flighty, but maybe I was wrong. Yesterday she showed some mettle. Miss Judd stepped around the corner precisely at the stroke of nine. Had she been this punctual at birth, arriving at nine months to the minute, and every day since? Lillian, Patricia, and Miss Lantrup from Corona came, which attested to Alice’s persuasiveness. I hadn’t been sure about Agnes, but there she stood, serious and serene, next to Miss Stoney. Anna outdid herself, swinging around the corner at a trot that bounced the highest pompadour of blond popovers I had ever seen.

  “I thought I was late,” she said, out of breath.

  In a few minutes, Carrie took a count. “We’re all here,” she announced.<
br />
  “Thank you for coming, all of you.” I looked at Miss Stoney, Nellie, and Agnes in particular.

  “We’ll wait a bit until the fog lifts, and then we’re going to walk together to preserve our jobs and to declare our talents. But we are also walking through that line of men and placards to show that no mean-spirited jealousy can keep us from our rightful work. Be proud to be suffragettes for women in the arts.”

  Alice and Lillian unrolled the banner. There it was for all eyes peering out of Gramercy Park windows to see: TIFFANY STUDIOS WOMEN’S DEPARTMENT DECLARES WOMEN’S RIGHT TO WORK IN THE ARTS. Theresa, Mary, and Carrie clapped. Judging by the wincing expressions of the Misses Judd, Byrne, and Stoney, for them the banner increased the gravity of our action.

  “Remember that Mr. Tiffany needs you. He thinks women have keener sensitivity to color nuances than men do. Never forget that. Walk proud in that knowledge. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Not down. You are not scabs. You are just going to your legitimate jobs. If we walk abreast down the middle of the street—”

  “Why in the street?” Miss Byrne asked. “Why abreast?”

  “Because it signals a wrong to be redressed. It shows we’re capable of organizing and taking action. It shows we’re committed to our cause.”

  “It shows we ain’t afeard,” Mary said.

  “Mary, you walk next to me on the left. Nellie, you walk on the other side of me. Carrie on the other side of her. Link arms. Alice, you walk on one end. Agnes on the other end. Keep the line tight. When we get to the picket line, fold back behind me into two lines, like the wings of a dragonfly closing. I’ll go first. Ignore taunts. Help your partner through. That will mean that you, Agnes, will be the last to enter the building. Good. When Mr. Tiffany sees you, any doubt of our solidarity will vanish. I suspect that he will be on the other side of the showroom door. Everyone, shake his hand. Even if you’ve never shaken a man’s hand in your whole life, start now. Those of you from Corona, drop out of line in front of the building. You don’t need to go through the picket line. Thank you for your support.

  “When the traffic is clear, I’ll lead you across until we take up the whole width of the street. Then I’ll come back to the middle of our line.”

  “When is it ever clear?” muttered Miss Byrne.

  “The motorcars will mow us down,” Nellie said.

  “Not if we hold tight on to each other’s waists. Walk firmly in the knowledge that Liberty out there in the harbor is a lady.”

  I gave Nellie a squeeze around her waist. “You’re going to the job Patrick trained you for. Right is more powerful than bullying. Walk to the rhythm of ‘Women’s rights and nothing less.’ ”

  The fog dissipated enough for us to be seen. It actually lent a portentous atmosphere. Theresa flung her feather boa across her shoulders and bellowed out our slogan, and we set off, with Anna’s pompadour as our bouncing beacon.

  When we reached Fourth Avenue, I saw Bernard standing on the opposite corner, hands behind his back, as though at attention watching the Queen’s Foot Guards pass. That he approved of me, that he cared enough to support me with his presence, tightened my throat in a spasm of affection.

  He looked down the street for a space between an oncoming streetcar, motorcars, and wagons. In a few moments, he touched his forehead deftly as if in salute and gave an Englishman’s restrained nod of encouragement, and I started across, my ducklings following, my footsteps firm on the pavement, feeling at the center of my universe. Once across, I stepped back to the middle of the line. Walking abreast thirty-one strong, we filled the street, and the vehicles waited behind us, none too quietly. Their horns heralded our approach. Nobody could miss us.

  In the next block, Dudley stood waiting to see us pass. It was a generous act considering his connection with Henry Belknap. The next, William York looked with concern at Alice at the end of our rank, passing him closely. On the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twenty-fourth, George stood with his small sketchbook held to his chest, and the other arm upraised like Lady Liberty holding a fistful of brushes aloft as if it were a lit torch.

  On the corner of Fourth and Twenty-fifth, Mrs. Hackley had planted herself firmly, legs apart. Wearing a navy blue skirt, a white waist, and a slim red tie, she waved a little American flag on a stick in front of her great bosoms. She knew some change for women was afoot, and though her own life might remain unchanged, in years to come she would have the satisfaction of knowing that she had cheered us on, this important day in 1903. Bless her flip-flopping heart.

  The men filled the sidewalk, walking in a double line in opposite directions, the loop wrapping around the corner. It seemed as though all two hundred had turned out, each one carrying a homemade placard on a stick. Up to this point, the walk had been easy, but as we approached, with the traffic piled up behind us, the men shook their signs and shouted.

  “Women don’t need jobs.”

  “An honest wage for an honest man.”

  “Girlies—stay home where you belong.”

  I held Nellie tight at my side. “Look Patrick dead in the eye, like the strong woman you are. The issue is bigger than your fear.”

  We started the dragonfly fold, which put me in the lead of one platoon in the grand army of women who I felt sure would ultimately, someday, win power in the workplace for all women. What a privilege that was!

  Nellie took her place behind me next to Mary and in front of Carrie. I held my hand out behind me for her to grab.

  One man shouted, “No girlie is going to take my job,” right in Mary’s face.

  “Interloper,” another man shouted.

  “Job stealer.”

  “Same to you,” I said, calm as a sea horse.

  The men tightened their double ranks in front of the door, shouting, “Virago!” and “Upstart bitch!” but I kept moving ahead steadily.

  “Nellie, you ought to be ashamed!” I heard.

  I felt an arm behind me trying to yank her out of line. I held her tight, and so did Mary and Carrie.

  “You have a lot to learn, Patrick,” she said quietly.

  The two men directly ahead held their position inches away from me though they didn’t dare touch me with their hands. With a firm step and an erect posture, I wedged my shoulder between their shoulders, and they let me through. I did the same for the second rank. Our line split theirs, and I opened the showroom door and heard Theresa somewhere behind me saying loudly, “The true republic—women’s rights in the arts and nothing less,” and then the shrill ripping of our banner.

  Just inside, Mr. Tiffany heard it all and motioned for us to enter the building quickly. He looked beyond me to the line of women.

  Look at me! Don’t ignore me, Louis. I did this for you, because I know you need us.

  “Good morning. I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Driscoll,” he said so stiffly that his nervousness was transparent. “I’m glad to see the others too.”

  “We’re happy to be here, and eager to get to work.”

  “Top o’ the morning to you, sir,” Nellie said behind me. I had never heard her say that before.

  He couldn’t suppress a one-note laugh. “And to you,” he said, a bit flustered.

  Next to Mr. Tiffany, just like a receiving line at the Tiffany Ball, were Mr. Platt, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Belknap, who pumped my hand and said, “Good show, Clara.” Peeking around the corner, Frank was bouncing his happiness and relief. Never let it be said that because he was deaf he didn’t know what was going on around him. He had ways.

  We marched up the stairs so that people in other departments would see our banner pass, torn but readable. In our studio, we cheered for ourselves, hugged one another, tacked the banner to two wooden easel frames, and set to work with new resolve.

  Around ten-thirty, Mr. Belknap sent me a scribbled note delivered by Frank, saying that Mr. Thomas would be meeting with union leaders at eleven. At noon, Frank brought me another that simply said, Louis fears bad press.

  All afternoon there was no
thing. The girls worked in solemn quietness. Julia spilled a pot of liquid wax. A twelve-inch rectangle of glass slipped out of Miss Stoney’s hands and fell to the floor.

  Fretful and embarrassed, she said, “That’s the first time in seventeen years that I’ve ever dropped a piece so large.”

  Sensing an opening to speak, Nellie asked, “Will we have to do that walk again tomorrow?”

  “I can’t say yet.”

  The girls worked an hour longer to make up the time lost in the morning, and to find out whether we would have to do it again. At six o’clock, Frank brought another note. I read it aloud.

  “Mr. Tiffany refused the demand to fire all women, although he has promised the union that he would make concessions. The union agreed to suspend picketing but continue the work stoppage.”

  “What concessions?” Carrie asked in a guarded tone.

  “It ain’t over till we know,” said Mary.

  “I’m ready to do it again,” Theresa declared.

  “No. Come to work as you normally do tomorrow,” I told them, much to Miss Stoney’s and Miss Byrne’s relief. “But there might be some men still left at both entrances now, so go down in three groups, with either Miss Judd, Miss Byrne, or Miss Stoney. Nellie, you walk with me.”

  Mary fell into step with us. “If Patrick gives you any trouble, he’ll get a bad dose of hurts from me.”

  Mr. Belknap was at the showroom door, as if to see us out safely. Henry, a bodyguard! God love him for his intention.

  Apparently, Patrick was waiting for Nellie at the workers’ entrance, so we had guessed right to use the showroom entrance. I walked her home.

  “I’m proud of you, dear.”

  “It was mighty scary, but I’m glad I did it. Being the only one out would have been terrible hard on me.”

  “Until this is resolved, you might have a rough time with Patrick.”

  “To be sure, there’ll be big ructions, all right. I’ll have to avoid him till then.”