“Well, we could. But since you fit, you might as well sit down and have a real bath like the Queen of England over there in Buckingham Palace.”
She emptied the first pot that Charley brought and passed it back to him.
“We’ll hot up the next pot on the cooker. That’ll make it easier to sit in.”
Charley made two more trips before Nelly thanked him and shooed him out the door.
“You can take yourself out for a walk around the corner. We’ve got women’s work to do.”
“You don’t mean I’m to be naked?” asked Josephine, as soon as he’d gone.
“Near enough,” replied Nelly. “Now, don’t worry yourself. A good bath never killed a person yet.”
Josephine took off her dress and wrapped her arms about herself, not quite believing what Nelly expected of her.
“Oh, you can leave on your underthings if you’re so edgy. They could do with a wash as well, I’m sure.”
Josephine shut her eyes and lowered herself into the warm water. “Uck! I can feel the ridges on the bottom pressing into my legs.” She didn’t like to mention the bruises on her thighs.
Her chemise and pantalettes clung to her skin. She supposed it might feel this way to jump into a rain barrel after a summer rain. There was something unnatural about being so wet indoors.
Nelly dunked the soap bar and set to work, rubbing the lather all over, until Josephine squealed with laughter.
“Ah, she’s ticklish, is she?” Nelly’s fingers started to wriggle and Josephine started to squirm, soon sending waves over the side of the tub to soak the floor.
“All right, we’ve got your hair to do yet. Let’s not empty it all out.” Without warning, Nelly dipped Josephine’s whole head under the water and brought it back up before she had time to be scared.
“I went under!”
“Aye, that you did!”
Nelly set to soaping Josephine’s curls.
“You’ve a lot of hair for a little person,” she said, rinsing it clean with the water left in the pot.
“I snip it off sometimes, if it gets too wild. With my sewing scissors.”
Laughing, Nelly helped her out of the tub and peeled off the sodden undergarments.
“I never saw a grown person laugh before,” said Josephine. “I only know the mean variety with pinched-in lips.”
“You’ve had a bad start, Missy, but I can make you a promise that there’s laughter to be found in all but the darkest corners.”
The bath ended with Nelly nearly as sopped as Josephine and one thin towel trying to do a job beyond its ability. Charley came home to find them still damp but well scoured, nibbling buns together like old ladies in an uptown tea shop.
Her bath was only the first of many novelties for Josephine that week.
After expressing his initial dismay at the cost of an entire wardrobe made to measure for Little Jo-Jo, Mr. Walters had become deeply interested in the process. He hired Eliot Jacobs, Custom Clothier, who promised a special rate due to the limited yardage involved. Mr. Jacobs had proven up to the challenge of creating miniature versions of gowns worn by great women of history: Cleopatra, Marie Antoinette of France, and Abraham Lincoln’s fashionable wife, Mary, who was famous for her devotion to fancy dresses.
Josephine tolerated hours of fittings, standing on a table in Mr. Jacobs’s workshop. From her unusually elevated vantage point, she could see every corner of the crowded studio. Looking like headless monsters, tailors’ forms stood near the dusty windows, stuck with pins and pattern pieces. Bolts of fabrics were stacked on shelves up to the ceiling. Spools of ribbon, boxes brimming with buttons, and reels of thread littered every surface.
Josephine gazed down upon Mr. Jacobs’s gleaming bald head and admired a master tailor at work. She turned, inch by inch, while Mr. Jacobs pinned here and fussed there.
“You’re a patient little thing, I’ll say that for you,” praised Mr. Jacobs gruffly.
“I’m used to being told, is all,” said Josephine shyly. “It’s having someone sew for me I’m not used to. Instead of the other way around.”
And along with being fitted for new clothes, she had two short lessons in how to wear them. How to walk, how to turn, and how to curtsy without falling on her nose.
Her feet, too, needed particular attention. The cobbler, a wizened Mr. Amos, was bent nearly to her own height from decades at his bench. He was delighted to create a whole series of ornate slippers, sized for a fairy.
“You’re not the first tiny lady I’ve attended to!” he crowed.
“What do you mean?” asked Josephine, thinking she misunderstood him.
“It’s over twenty years now, but Mr. P. T. Barnum himself hired me to make the wedding slippers for Miss Lavinia Bump Warren when she was married to General Tom Thumb!” He peered into Josephine’s face. “You do know who I’m referring to? The most celebrated midgets ever known on this earth?”
“Yes!” said Josephine. “Of course I’ve heard of them!”
“General Tom Thumb died last year, may he rest in peace.” Mr. Amos shook his head sadly.
“I guess I never thought about them being real people,” said Josephine, “who wore shoes and hats and such. More like famous stories that somebody made up. You actually met Lavinia Warren?”
“I met her, I measured her feet, and I had the honor of crafting the slippers she wore to walk down the aisle of Grace Church on her wedding day!” Mr. Amos grinned at Josephine, displaying the three yellow teeth left in his mouth. “And I’ll tell you the truth, my dearie. Your feet are smaller than hers.”
Josephine suddenly had an idea.
“Mr. Amos?” she said, touching his arm.
“Eh?” Mr. Amos bent farther toward her so she could speak into his ear.
“I have a little money of my own, sir. Saved up from working before. What I really want is—” She hesitated. “I mean, all your fancy slippers are beautiful, sir, but what I want is a real pair of shoes. To just wear. And I’ll pay.”
The very next day, Josephine had her plain, brown leather high-lows with a buckle in front. Real shoes that really fit!
“Oh, Mr. Amos!”
“Well, they are pretty, if I do say so myself. I like a shoe that meets the ankle, but for a child the heel should be low to the ground. I’m happy you like them, my dearie.”
And Josephine had bought them with two dollars of her own money! That made her think about having a new dress too. One that wasn’t a costume, that she could wear every day instead of her raggedy kitchen dress. When consulted, Mr. Jacobs kindly agreed to create a simple frock in exchange for her remaining coins.
“You look as pretty as a picture postcard!” exclaimed Nelly fondly. “That green linen suits you. Brings out the color of your eyes.”
Mr. Walters had also ordered six pairs of stockings, including striped ones, which Mr. Jacobs assured him were the very latest thing from France.
“Why, these would fit the hind legs of a cat!” Mr. Walters exclaimed, holding them up in amazement. And that gave him his next brilliant idea.
“Rosie has a big old dog, doesn’t she, Nelly?”
“Aye, sir. His name is Barker. He’s a retriever.”
“Well, it’s time he earned his keep. What do you say to riding a dog, Josephine? I shall order a saddle.”
“Me? Ride a dog?”
Josephine thought briefly of the howling hounds that had chased her the night she fled from school.
“Will he be even-tempered, sir?”
Mr. Walters roared with laughter. “Every bit as pleasant as I am, my dear.”
“I’m not sure that’s a comfort,” she murmured in reply.
Several days later, the wardrobe complete and her manners polished, Josephine sat in Mr. Walters’s office. She listened in bemusement as he spoke at great length and great volume into a peculiar instrument on his desk called a telephone.
“Yes? Yes? Hello?” he shouted. “New York Tribune” This is R. J. Walters
calling you. I want to notify your reporter of cultural affairs-that would be who? Who? Mr. Gideon Smyth? Thank you.
“Please notify Mr. Smyth of a reception being held at the New Amsterdam Hotel—Hello? Yes, to honor the sudden arrival of a new celebrity in our midst. All the way from Middle Europe. This is an occasion of great importance. He will want to be notified. Little Jo-Jo is the smallest human in the world—
“Tom Thumb? A giant by comparison! Come and see for yourself! On Friday evening at five o’clock. The New Amsterdam Hotel…”
Over and over, Mr. Walters made this invitation, to reporters and journalists at every newspaper within the range of his telephone.
When he finally replaced the handpiece and looked at Josephine, he bore the smile of a man proud of a long day’s labor.
“Not everything you said was true,” Josephine accused him. “What if they find out? What if I make a mistake?”
“Let me tell you something,” said Mr. Walters, his voice humming with reassurance and warmth. “Not everything I told them needed to be true. It just had to be intriguing. In the world of entertainment, that is known as the ballyhoo—the talk that brings them in the door. Once they’re inside, what they’ve been told will pale in the face of the real thing. And in this case, the real thing is you.”
Mr. R. J. Walters Discovers
WORLD’S
SMALLEST GIRL
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 1884—Mr. Randolph James Walters, proprietor of the Museum of Earthly Astonishments located on the Bouwerie, and in Coney Island, today announced that he has discovered and employed what he claims to be the world’s smallest woman currently on exhibition.
In a special viewing at the New Amsterdam Hotel in this City, hosted by the dapper Mr. Walters, the miniature native of Bavaria, known only as Little Jo-Jo, was introduced to the world.
This lovely lady is eighteen years old, weighs 19 pounds and measures 28-1/2 inches in height. She enjoys perfect health, her form is symmetrically developed, and her green eyes fairly sparkle with intelligence.
This City has not welcomed such a diminutive person since the famous pair of General Tom Thumb and his lovely wife, Lavinia Bump Warren, were sponsored by P. T. Barnum, twenty years ago. R. J. Walters, while acknowledging the inspiring midgets who married in 1863, was quick to remind us that Little Jo-Jo is a full 3-1/2 inches smaller than Miss Warren.
Little Jo-Jo has dark, curling hair and slightly swarthy skin, leading Mr. Walters to suspect that she has some gypsy blood. This would explain her fiery temperament and her fondness for the tambourine. At times, her deportment about the hotel parlor was modest and ladylike, but she displayed moments of a spontaneous passion.
Mr. Walters reminded the audience that she has been living in foreign lands and made assurances that her adjustment to society would be swift and charming.
Little Jo-Jo’s feet are only four inches long, but perfectly proportioned, and shod in beaded handmade slippers. Her dresses, by themselves, would be worthy of exhibition as each is a splendid recreation of an historical costume, elaborately embroidered and bejeweled. The dress and contents together are a magnificent show, already enjoying visits from some of the more prominent families in this City.
Little Jo-Jo will be on display at the Museum’s summer location in Coney Island, New York, starting June 27th. She can be viewed on the platform in the Main Promenade from 10 o’clock A.M. to 8 o’clock P.M.
Notwithstanding this attraction alone is enough to fill the Museum to overflowing, also on view will be many of Mr. Walters’ other novelties.
he train from the city took more than an hour, but because it was Josephine’s first train ride ever, it wasn’t long enough. Gazing up at the huffing steam engine, Josephine was amazed to see a machine so tremendous. Climbing aboard took every bit of bravery she’d saved up these past few days. And when it began to move—why, this iron monster seemed to be galloping as fast as any horse or faster!
Josephine stood on the bench, with Nelly and Charley sitting next to her, in a third-class compartment. She hung on to the windowsill, trying to see every block of the city flashing by.
“Don’t you want to look out, Charley?”
“I can’t really see anything past a few feet, Jo. It’s my albino eyes. I don’t take much pleasure from scenery.”
“Oh, Charley, I didn’t realize.”
“Don’t worry your wee self,” said Nelly quickly. “He’s used to it. Half-blind and skinny as a pencil, but still my handsome boy, eh, Charley?” She patted his knee.
Charley changed the subject. “This year is the first time we can take the train all the way there,” he told Josephine. “We used to take the steamer ferry, but now, since the new bridge opened up last year, the train is the quickest way to go.”
The Brooklyn Bridge spanned the river like a giant’s castle drawbridge. It would never, could never, hold a railway train! As well as all those horses and carriages and carts wheeling along beside! Surely they would all hurtle through the cables holding it up and tumble into the water.
But the train crossed in safety and kept on chugging, spitting out smoke and soot, and joggling from side to side until Josephine’s insides were churned like new butter.
Soon after the train crossed the bridge, the landscape changed. No longer city streets and people, now there were acres of coal yards and ash pits. Josephine turned away from the window.
“Are we allowed to move about?” she asked. “Can we explore the train?”
“Surely,” said Charley. “There’s other museum folk on board too. We’re all moving out for the opening this weekend.”
Nelly stayed where she was while Charley took Josephine in hand.
“I will be your Guide to the Fantastical,” he announced, changing his voice to sound impressively like Mr. Walters. “I will show you things you have never seen before….” The train rattled terribly as he led her down the passage.
“That’s Rosie.” Charley pointed though the window of the next-door compartment. A woman, who seemed oblivious to the motion, was knitting with gray wool.
“She’s the Bearded Lady. She used to be the Fat Lady too, but she renounced buttered cake and has lost half her employ.”
“Where’s her beard?”
“She tucks it into that lacy shawl about her neck and chin. The beard is real, all right. Mr. Walters may be a honey-fuggler, trying on a trick from time to time, but Old Rosie is genuine. I tugged on those prickly whiskers when I was a kid, and she howled like a dog in a rat pit.”
He opened the door to the compartment.
“Hey, Rosie! This is Josephine. She’s the new featured exhibition.”
“How do you do?” said Josephine. Rosie nodded without stopping her needles.
Lying asleep across Rosie’s feet, his fur vibrating from the motion of the train, was an enormous dog, the color of butterscotch candy.
“That’s Barker,” said Charley “That’s the beast you’re supposed to go gallivanting about on.”
“Him?” Josephine stared. His body covered most of the floor between benches. His tail alone seemed at least half her height. How big would he be standing up?
“Hey, Barker!” called Charley. The dog opened one eye and closed it again with a slight snore. Rosie shifted her knitting needles to one hand and leaned down to give him a pat.
“He’s a good boy,” she said, clucking softly. “He’s been with me these eleven years.”
“I don’t think you have a lot to worry about, Jo,” Charley sniggered. “He doesn’t seem to be much of a stallion.”
Josephine eyed Barker’s tremendous paws, folded neatly over his nose.
“He could knock me flat with one swat!” she said.
“Well, then,” answered Charley, with sparkling eyes, “you’d best make friends with him.”
“How do I do that?”
“He likes his ears tugged on,” advised Rosie. “Just so.” She demonstrated. Josephine didn’t think she’d dare.
&nbs
p; “Or,” said Charley, “you could let him tug on yours!”
They returned to the corridor just as the train lurched, tipping Josephine onto her backside with a thump. Charley scooped her up and held her for a moment while the train hammered on.
“Hey!” Josephine wriggled, as her cheeks flared with warmth. “I’m not a baby.”
“Don’t be wrathy! I was only saving your life.”
Charley set her down and turned away. Josephine bent over, pretending to adjust her stocking, while she cooled down. It had been a shock to find herself in Charley’s arms, but he seemed to think nothing of it. He was merely continuing the tour. He poked his neck into another compartment, pushing Josephine in front.
“This is Eddie,”
Eddie looked up from reading and smiled with friendly curiosity.
“Excuse us, Eddie. This here is Josephine. She’s the new one Mr. Walters used to fill up his amusements advertisement.”
“Ah, yes! Little Jo-Jo. It’s an honor to meet you.” Eddie bowed awkwardly from his sitting position, and blinked soft, brown eyes before returning to his book.
Josephine clutched Charley’s jacket tail as they held on in the corridor.
“He seems a comely enough gentleman.” She tried to keep her voice low and yet still be heard above the racket of the wheels. “What does Mr. Walters use him for?”
“Oh, his face is fine and likely,” said Charley, “but underneath his clothing, his skin is like a prehistoric reptile.”
“He’s the Alligator Man?”
“He’s got a horrible ailment,” Charley told her with relish. “A rare condition that makes his skin look scaley and cracked like the bark of an old tree. It’s so plug-ugly you could cry.”
Josephine looked back over her shoulder. That gentle, pleasant face was sitting atop a lizardly body? She found that she, too, could be astonished.
“Hey! Filipe! I didn’t see you at the station!” Charley punched the arm of an older boy, who tapped him back with a grin.
“Where are the snakes?” asked Charley.
“Snakes?” asked Josephine.
“They’re not allowed on the train,” answered Filipe. His accent was different from that of Nelly and Charley. “They will ride tomorrow on the roof of Mr. Walters’s carriage.”
Earthly Astonishments Page 5