Clara and Mr. Tiffany by Susan Vreeland Read Free Book Online Page A

understanding more now.
    “You near ’bout done?” Dudley asked.
    “No! Charles capitalized on the notoriety by selling silver officers’ swords in Central Park during the Civil War.”
    “An opportunist!” said Mrs. Hackley. “Who can respect an opportunist?”
    “I can,” Bernard said. “Who was hurt by this? No one.”
    “Tell that to the Tennessee boy soldier who had one of those fancy swords planted in his gut,” said Dudley. Such a sensitive one, he was.
    Hank told us that through Charles’s friendship with P. T. Barnum he learned the benefits of linking his name with fame by giving magnificent silver loving cups to Jenny Lind, the midget Tom Thumb, and the sculptor of the Statue of Liberty. Newspapers picked up the stories. Free publicity for Tiffany & Company.
    “A conniver,” Mrs. Hackley muttered.
    “One of Barnum’s circus elephants ran amok once,” Hank said.
    “I remember that,” said Merry, brightening. “It trampled a few chaps, so it had to be killed.”
    “Charles bought the carcass, had it stuffed, and put it in his store window with a sign: ‘Killer elephant to be made into commemorative belts, fine wallets, ivory cuff links. Order yours while the finest parts last.’ It was a huge success.”
    “Bully for him!” Bernard said. “The King of Diamonds tops the Prince of Humbug.”
    “But there’s one more generation.” Hank peered at me. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Clara, that your employer has never finished a year in the black. It’s Charles and his Tiffany and Company, not Louis, that keeps your Tiffany Glass and Decorating Company afloat.”
    Then everyone, even Mrs. Hackley, looked at me. I swallowed the morsel of fish in my mouth without chewing. I was not working in a carefree land of fantasy flamingoes and jeweled peacocks. Now I understood the tension that made him smash vases.
    “I suppose the stakes for him in Chicago rest in part on your shoulders.” Bernard patted my arm. “No need to worry. Diamonds are made under pressure, and you’re our brilliant
Claire.
”

CHAPTER 6
DAFFODIL

    S PRING, AND GRAMERCY PARK WAS DRESSED THIS SUNDAY IN yellow daffodils, frilly-edged goblets on six-pointed saucers. They reminded me of Wordsworth’s poem about wild ones. How did it begin? Oh, yes. “I wandered lonely as a cloud.” And later, “What wealth the show to me had brought.” Fine for him. Only a poet or a woman in love could measure wealth by flowers. I wasn’t either one.
    Wandering too, and in a similar mood, I came to Madison Square Park. An organ-grinder had stationed himself and his monkey beneath a magnolia tree radiant with enormous creamy blossoms, each petal a cup of sunlight. He was surrounded by children, nannies, and white-veiled prams looking like mobile wedding cakes. Everyone in the park was with someone. Even the organ-grinder had a furry friend. Loneliness crept over me despite his cheerful tune.
    A bent woman was selling violets and daffodils. Francis had brought me daffodils every week when they were in season. Two springs’ worth of daffodils.
    “May I buy just two daffodils?” I asked.
    “They’re three for a dime.” Her voice was a rasp against metal.
    I put a dime in her deeply creased palm, thanked her, and walked away, watching the blooms bounce and flutter.
    A top-heavy omnibus pulled by two lathered Clydesdales stopped at the corner, headed uptown. I got on. The clop-clop of the heavy hooves sent up a languid rhythm as we passed the shops of Ladies’ Mile and then the mansions of Fifth Avenue. I descended at Fifty-seventh Street and walked to Alice Gouvy’s West Side flat close to the Art Students League, where she was studying. I hadn’t seen her since the service for Francis.
    As young girls in Tallmadge, Ohio, we had spent delicious days along a clear stream that emptied into the filthy Cuyahoga River. In one place on the bank, a spot we called “the theater,” we acted out
Hiawatha
, trading off reading it aloud