JEWELS THAT SPEAK: Tiffanys, Freuds, and Me

By Lynn Burlingham

This moving memoir relates Lynn Burlingham’s battle for her own identity as child, teen and adult amid the influence of her famous extended family: great-grandfathers Louis Comfort Tiffany and Charles Culp Burlingham; grandmother Dorothy Tiffany Burlingham; grandfather Einar Håkon Sørensen; uncle George F. Kennan; and Anna Freud, her grandmother’s colleague, companion and confidant, and her father’s psychiatrist.

"An engaging read and an enticing peek into the secret lives of two celebrated families." –Kirkus Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: May 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781642371895

Book preview

JEWELS THAT SPEAK

Tiffanys, Freuds, and Me

JEWELS THAT SPEAK

Tiffanys, Freuds, and Me

A Memoir

Lynn Burlingham

The Amber Press

Jewels That Speak

Tiffanys, Freuds, and Me

is a memoir.

Names, places, and incidents have been drawn from family papers, books about family members, internet research, and the author’s diaries, letters, and memory.

Copyright © 2018 by Lynn Burlingham

All rights reserved.

The opening chapter of Jewels That Speak

was published in a slightly different form as

The Freuds, the Tiffanys, and Me

in the winter 2012 issue of New Letters

Nature’s Beauty Lingers and Uncle George originally appeared

in The Great Plains Writers Group, Echoes from the Prairie (2013)

Published in the United States by The Amber Press

[e-mail]

Book design by Molly Cook/MACook Design

ISBN-13: 978-1978203495

ISBN-10: 1978203497

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919219

CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform,

North Charleston, SC

For my children, Roland, Cora

For Paul—diamonds and shoes.

Jewels speak

Bathe my eyes

Touch my skin

~ LB

Contents

List of Illustrations

Family Tree

Part I

Grandmother and Anna Freud’s Garden Party

The Tiffany Heritage

Grandmother’s Amber

The Freudian Influence

The Grandfather I Never Knew

Part II

The Amethyst

The Carnelian

Part III

The Freud Rings

Mormor’s Pearls

Part IV

Uncle George

Part V

The Moonstone

Nature’s Beauty Lingers

The Citrine

Part VI

Krissie: The Sapphire

Randi: The Seed Pearls

Stephen: The Pink Diamond

Michael John: The Ruby

Part VII

Dorothy’s Moonstone

Part VIII

Tom’s Diamonds, Cartier’s Emerald, and Grandmother’s Topaz

Part IX

Therapy 1

Therapy 2

Part X

The Tiffany Ring

Part XI

The Little Onyx Pinky Ring

The Onyx and Diamond Pinky Ring

Last Diamonds and Laurel Leaves

Part XII

Tiffany Forks and Spoons

Afterword

Notes

Sources

Acknowledgments

Illustrations

1. Louis Comfort Tiffany

2. Dorothy Tiffany Burlingham

3. Robert Burlingham, Sr.

4. Dorothy Tiffany Burlingham and Anna Freud

5. Charles (Bompa) Culp Burlingham

6. Lynn with Bompa at Old Black Point, Connecticut

7. Elizabeth Sørensen (Mormor) and Einar Håkon Sørensen (Bessa)

8. Bob Burlingham with Lynn in Hopewell, New Jersey

9. Lynn with Anna Freud in Walberswick, Suffolk

10. Mossik Sørensen Burlingham

11. Bob and Mossik Burlingham in Norway

12. Family outing in Norway

13. George F. and Annelise Kennan

14. Bob Burlingham with his children in Riverdale, New York

15. Lynn at twelve in London

16. The Burlingham children in London

17. The Burlingham children in Princeton, New Jersey

18. Lynn and Tom in New York City

19. Lynn with her Hunter College Elementary School students

20. Roger, Lynn, Roland, and Cora in Nantucket

21. Roland and Lynn

22. Cora and Lynn

23. Lynn and Paul at Beloit College

24. Lynn and Paul get married at Danforth Chapel, University of Kansas

25. Lynn and Paul at home in Lawrence, Kansas

I

o n e

Grandmother and Anna Freud’s Garden Party

1955

I came to the garden party at Grandmother and Anna Freud’s cottage in Suffolk, England, in my billowing orange-red party dress, ready to perform. My sisters, Krissie and Randi (a Norwegian name pronounced Rondi), were also dressed prettily—Krissie, the oldest sister, in a flowing blue garment that cascaded from the empire bodice to the freshly mowed grass; Randi, the middle sister, with her silky blond hair touching her shoulders, the fabric of her dress continuing the yellow sheen that fell simply to her pink bare feet. Dad lowered his head so his glasses descended an inch on his nose. His eyes, leveled at ours, gave us our orders: Dance beautifully for Mother and Anna.

Grandmother lay on a chaise-longue covered to her chin with gray blankets, her coffee-bean eyes searing me with her gaze. Anna Freud—we children always used both names, never just Anna—was sitting nearby on a cushioned swing loveseat, her short hair gathered up to one side with a child’s hair clip. She patted the seat next to her with one hand. Should I start dancing, or should I sit beside her first? I hated her. Why should I do what she wants?

I quickly sat down and raised my eyes to hers. Your father loves to see you dance, she said.

As if I don’t know that! Do you, too? I asked politely.

You move gracefully.

I rubbed my knees together, raised my finger to my teeth, and bit my cuticle. Don’t bite your nails, said Anna. Pretending not to hear, I blinked at her.

Randi’s clasped hands and fidgeting feet told me she wanted to get this over with. Anna now nodded her head, so I jumped up and waltzed over to my sisters. In unison, we spread our arms and interwove our expanding circles out over the verdant grass. A little Isadora, I improvised a dream of a snowflake drifting down from the sky—a snowflake that wanted a long and exciting journey before it touched the ground. Floating down the slope toward the sunken garden at the lawn’s end, I disappeared from the grownups’ view. Just for me, I transformed into a butterfly and flew over to a narcissus, landing softly, delirious with the sweet scent. My wings lifted again and fluttered over to a daffodil, drawn to its brighter yellow and larger petals. Then back up to the main lawn I floated, a snowflake once again. With my reappearance, the stiff posture of the grownups relaxed. Intuitively, I made my snowflake-self die slowly, gracefully, regretfully at my father’s feet.

Dad smiled down at me. Grandmother’s arms were out from under her blankets, and Anna had sunk into the swing’s cushions. Tea was served. We sat cross-legged on the grass, eating scones as daintily as we could.

I can’t wait to get out of this dress, whispered Randi.

Why does Dad make us do this? I asked, brushing crumbs from my lap.

To please Anna Freud and Grandmother, of course, said Krissie. Lynnie, they like your dancing best.

We loved the old ladies’ scones smeared with Devonshire cream and raspberry jam freshly made from Grandmother’s garden, so we each ate two. My second-youngest brother, Stephen, couldn’t sit still for long. As soon as he had eaten, he left the tea gathering to play catch with my youngest brother, Michael John. While I sat—as I was expected to do—I closed my eyes and imagined that I was on top of the dense hedges that divided the property from the road. My sisters and I sometimes climbed up there and lay hidden, looking up at the changing cloud formations in the sky, but alert to the conversations of people clopping by on their horses, walking past, or riding along on bicycles.

I opened my eyes. Dad was sitting next to Anna on the cushioned swing, his head leaning toward her, and hers toward him, their foreheads practically kissing. The word dream floated over to me from my father’s mouth. I heard Anna say our analytic session, and the phrase hung in the air to tantalize and infuriate me with its secrecy. I brushed my flat ten-year-old chest with the back of my hand in disgust and thrust it out, pretending I had bosoms. Mom had big ones. There she was, sitting in a chair next to Grandmother, her posture deferential as she asked, Dorothy, would you like another cup of tea?

We were certainly living up to our expected characters: my strong mother—a limp rag; my weak father—a gallant Prince Charming; Krissie—a fairy; Randi—a snow maiden; me—a fiery snowflake; my brothers—where were they?

Back home at our own cottage, Thorpe View, two hours later, we reverted to type. Set the table, said Mom.

Where’s Dad? I asked, rummaging in the cutlery drawer.

In his study.

Krissie alone in her room. Randi peeling spuds. The boys? Where were they?

1960

My mother, Krissie, Randi, Michael John, and I were all gathered at the long wooden table in the modern addition of our English friends’ country house outside of London—a wall of glass windows—watching my skinny, graceful father dance effortlessly up the hill with the turkey carcass in his hands. Dad was showing off for the famous ballerina Svetlana Beriosova, who, like the seven of us Burlinghams, was a guest of the family for an English rendition of Thanksgiving. As a fifteen-year-old student at the Phyllis Bedells ballet school, I was thrilled to be meeting the famous dancer in such an intimate setting. Yet Dad was making a fool of himself at my eleven-year-old brother’s expense. Stephen had run up the hill like a jackrabbit because he was mad, upset with our father. Dad’s peace offering: the carcass.

What was going on in Dad’s mind? He had embarrassed me; he was shaming his son. Svetlana’s regally arched neck supported her tightly bunned head with those discerning eyes. In Russian-accented English, she made small talk at the table while gazing out the window at my sheepish dancing father. Stephen had disappeared behind the stone wall at the top of the hill in a flurried flash. Since Dad was doing this for the entertainment of his audience rather than to truly make amends with his son, he stayed where we could still see him doing some sort of Irish jig, the carcass in his hands, held high over his wavy brown hair.

I strangled my fingers under the table. My eyes took in the purplish turkey gizzard pushed to the side of my plate. There was the abrupt sound of a chair knocking the wood floor. Mine? Moments later, I vomited into the toilet, salty tears stinging my cheeks.

The Tiffany Heritage

What do I make of a Tiffany heritage?

My grandmother, Dorothy Tiffany Burlingham, was the youngest daughter of the artist Louis Comfort Tiffany, the creator of Tiffany glass, and thus the granddaughter of Charles Lewis Tiffany, the foremost maker of silver and fine jewelry.¹ Grandmother had turned her back on her father and the extravagance and opulence in which she was raised. She never talked about her birthright. Nor did the Tiffany heritage appear to matter much to my father—my closest Tiffany descendant. After the fire that razed Laurelton Hall, the Tiffany country estate on Long Island, he was told to pick out anything he wanted before its contents were auctioned off. From all the grand remains, he chose only a simple but beautiful camellia plant. If that legacy had not brought happiness or satisfaction to Grandmother and Dad, why should it mean anything to me?

Instead, the central part of this family heritage seemed to be rooted in conflict. Dorothy Tiffany had married Robert Burlingham, who was also a descendant of a well-known, well-respected New York family. Yet the two paterfamiliases were at war with each other’s values, not in partnership. And Grandmother’s newfound loves, Sigmund and Anna Freud, seemed to enjoy fanning the flames of the conflict when they could have helped her own it so that she would be able to move on.

So how did this happen?

Having rebelled against her father by getting married in the first place—and to an uptight Protestant Burlingham, no less—and after bringing four children into the world with Robert, Dorothy became increasingly aware that her own psyche was in peril. She had married Robert, the son of a powerful New York attorney, thinking he was a refined, gentle, sober soul. He was a surgeon, a religious man of the Protestant faith who believed in serving humanity—such a stark contrast to her brilliant, volatile, not particularly religious father. A celebrated artist who created luminous visions in glass to dazzle and delight the public, Louis Comfort Tiffany had shown a darker side at home: under stress, such as during the periods following the deaths of his two wives, he drank and raged at his children. Dorothy had no way of knowing that Robert’s own darkness was about to surface. His underlying manic depression would soon burst upon their young family life, with his manic episodes seemingly as dangerous as her father’s irascible temper.

Terrified of what Robert’s mental illness might do to her and to their children, Dorothy fled from him. Seeking answers to her own burgeoning disequilibrium and that of her children, she sought out the Freuds in Vienna, where she eventually took up psychoanalysis—for herself eventually with Sigmund, and immediately for her two eldest children, my father (Bob) and his sister Mary (Mabbie), with Sigmund’s daughter Anna. While she was working on getting to know her inner self, Robert remained in New York City, struggling to hold on to his career with an increasingly limited capacity to do so. His parents tried to help him negotiate life with his intermittent manic episodes.

As Dorothy moved further along the new path of psychoanalysis, the tug of war between old and new ideologies, between inner needs and outer expectations, intensified. Robert did not conveniently disappear; instead, he asserted his right to spend time with his children. A tactical duel for ownership of Dorothy then took place between the considerable intellectual and psychological power of Sigmund Freud and the considerable intellectual and legal power of Robert’s father, Charles Culp Burlingham. Sigmund wanted to keep the Burlingham family close to his family for the sake of his beloved unmarried daughter Anna, who had formed what seemed like an indissoluble bond with Dorothy and Dorothy’s children. Charles was determined to honor Robert’s right to have access to his children and to reclaim his wife. Charles also wanted his grandchildren brought up in the traditions he believed in: duty to mankind supported by the Protestant faith.

As for Dorothy, she was just waking up to her own potential as a woman. Born in 1891 into the tight trappings of wealth and glamour, married in 1914 to a man and a world that placed importance upon serving others, she found herself in her late thirties and early forties embracing her own inner world and helping others embrace theirs as a lay analyst under the training of the Freuds and the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society. Robert, in the meantime, held on to his belief and hope that his family would finish their rounds of psychoanalysis with the Freuds and come on home to him.

My parents, Robert Burlingham, Jr. and Rigmor (Mossik) Sørensen, met smack in the middle of this complex series of events. Mom, who was Norwegian, had come to Vienna in the summer of 1935 as a beautiful, strong eighteen-year-old to spend time with her older sister, Annelise Sørensen Kennan, and Annelise’s husband, George F. Kennan. George, an American in the Foreign Service, was living with his wife in a sanatorium getting treatment for bleeding ulcers. While Mom was visiting the Kennans, they introduced her to the Burlinghams, who had four interesting American teenagers in the family about her age. Mom immediately took to Mabbie, and a little later to my father, whom everyone called Bob. She also became friends with the two younger Burlingham teenagers, Katrina (Tinky) and Michael. When Mom graduated from high school, the Burlinghams invited her to live with them while she pursued Library Science courses at the University of Vienna. During that year, Grandmother contracted tuberculosis and went to a tubercular sanatorium to rest her lungs. The romance between Mom and Dad blossomed while she was away.

In 1937, the tension wire that had held this complicated family situation together snapped, mirroring the frightening political eruptions in pre-World War II Vienna. On December 7, 1937, Louisa Burlingham, the wife of Charles Culp Burlingham and the mother of Robert Sr., died. On Christmas Day, Robert Sr. arrived in Vienna unannounced to help Grandmother with her tuberculosis. (He was the last person she wanted help from, even though, as a