Jenny and Barnum

by Roderick Thorp

  On Sunday Captain MacDonald ordered all leisure activities halted in honor of the Sabbath, and on deck the ship’s minister tried to give a sermon about Jonah, but the wind carried his words away. All afternoon there was hymn singing on the afterdeck, with passengers from steerage coming up to join the more fortunate. A heartbreakingly beautiful Christian spirit developed as their voices lifted in wonderful song. At the end of the day Captain MacDonald uttered the opinion that there was no more beautiful sound than that of a woman singing, which was his way of revealing a surprise for the ship’s entire company. He had arranged with Miss Jenny Lind for her to sing for all aboard in the Grand Saloon next Saturday night, two nights before the Great Western’s arrival in New York. It was, he said, a fitting conclusion to the voyage, and many understood. Some of the immigrant women wept. They had thought they would never hear Jenny Lind sing. Now, on the eve of their last contact with the Old World, she proposed to sing for them free. She was a saint, some of them said.

  The sun went down at the edge of a smooth, pink-and-green sea, the clouds above edged with cold fire. A wonderful Sunday and the end of the first five arduous days at sea.

  The Barnum troupe could do no less than offer a performance of its own, Tom Thumb realized when he heard the news, and after consultation with some of the others, he went to the captain and made the offer, which was accepted promptly. Tom Thumb didn’t bother to talk with Lavinia and Gallagher. He hadn’t seen them, and didn’t want to. Gallagher had moved in with her, it seemed—at least, he was nowhere to be found.

  Happily, the weather stayed clear for three straight smooth days. But no wind, and the Great Western demonstrated what the fuss over steam was all about, for in still air over fifty-four hours it still managed to travel 675 nautical miles, the navigator reported—better than 11 knots!

  Chang and Eng were able to come up on deck, causing a stir, and Anna Swan got as far as the Grand Saloon, where the curved glass canopy was opened to give her a breath of the fresh salt air.

  The troupe put on its show on Thursday afternoon, without incident. Tom Thumb got out of the Grand Saloon when Gallagher was performing. Lavinia was nervous at the start of the duet, but when she saw that Tom Thumb was apparently more interested in his performance than in her, she decided to be put off—and showed some of it to the audience. Tom Thumb had already figured that he would have to tell Barnum to get rid of both of them, but if she was going to ruin performances with displays of bad character, then the problem would show itself to Barnum without a word from anybody. None of it was going to matter to Tom Thumb now. His life was going to be the same as it had been before he had met her—he wouldn’t even have to get used to something new.

  On Thursday night the Great Western sailed into a pack of icebergs, clearly visible under a moon beginning to wane. The ship’s company was up on deck to watch the wonder of steam as Captain MacDonald moved the ship through the ice one step at a time, ordering half speed, dead slow, quarter speed, right paddle, left paddle, the ship threading through the floes like a nimble waiter in a crowded dining room. Icebergs had been the death of sailing ships for thousands of years, and now, as everyone could plainly see, steam had consigned their danger safely to the past. As the last berg floated past the starboard quarter the passengers let out a cheer, and caps flew into the air, some arcing over the side and into the water.

  It had been a good voyage so far, and encountering the icebergs completed the sense of having survived an adventure. Tom Thumb thought that if Barnum had been aboard, he would have asked the captain if it could be arranged for icebergs to be kept at the ready, so the steamship company could guarantee their appearance during every crossing and thus raise the price of passage.

  The dining room and the Grand Saloon were crowded that night, and the air belowdecks was filled with the odors of good food freshly cooked and the sound of violins thinly carrying over the roar of conversation. Every table was crowded. Jenny Lind found Tom Thumb in the Grand Saloon, trying to avoid being stepped on by hurrying stewards.

  “Come sit with Otto and me,” she said.

  “If it’s no imposition,” the little man said.

  “I thought you weren’t well, we’d seen so little of you. I think you’ve just been avoiding us.”

  Goldschmidt stood up as they approached and signaled a waiter.

  “Just get me a couple of cushions,” Tom Thumb told the waiter. “And a little whiskey and water.” He stood on the chair while he waited for the cushions. “Thank you for asking me to join you. Sometimes it gets pretty dangerous out there for a fellow my size.”

  “A charming performance this afternoon, General,” Otto Goldschmidt said in his mild way. He raised a glass of wine in a toast. “I would love to see you as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  A busboy arrived with the cushions, the waiter right behind him with the drink. Tom Thumb sat on the table while the cushions were put in place. “We thought of that,” he told Goldschmidt, “but I haven’t got the stamina to do it the real way, night after night. It wouldn’t work unless we could show that it was more than just a stunt.”

  “You’re much the best of the troupe,” Goldschmidt said. “Please don’t misunderstand, but the others are performers because of their situation. You’re a professional entertainer—more than that, one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

  “Well, of course, the others didn’t get the opportunity I had, being brought up in it by Barnum. He made me tell people I was older than I was, for the sake of the effect, and the result was I had to act it. I was always acting in those days, even if I didn’t know it. Most people don’t understand, but performing—doing it right—takes something extra. If it isn’t talent, it has to be something, the result of a lot of effort and practice. You can always see it.” He stopped, because Lavinia and Gallagher were passing by, on their way into the dining room. Lavinia glared at Jenny, then let her eyes sweep past Tom Thumb as if he weren’t there. Tom Thumb didn’t want to see Jenny’s reaction, but with so much at stake, he felt that it was his duty to make sure that she was not overly disturbed. Her face was red—from suppressed laughter. Goldschmidt looked nonplused. Jenny waited until Gallagher and Lavinia were out of earshot, then leaned close to Tom Thumb.

  “You mustn’t concern yourself about that woman,” she said. “For some reason she’s taken a dislike to me. I don’t think she’s terribly bright.”

  “It’s a long story,” Tom Thumb said. “Try to pay no attention to her until we get to New York. After that, I’ll see that she doesn’t bother you.”

  “She doesn’t bother me,” Jenny Lind said. “She’s trying to upset you. What gives me no pleasure is seeing how you’re struggling with the problem.”

  “As I said, it’s a long story.”

  Goldschmidt finished his wine and bade them good night, kissing Jenny’s cheek when she offered it. Whatever she thought of Lavinia, she was another woman who had things just the way she wanted. Tom Thumb knew he was in a foul mood now because of Lavinia and that he had to be careful here. Fortunately, Jenny was interested in making small talk about her concert Saturday night. Nothing was going to be asked of Signore Minelli, for instance. He had been seen up and about for the past several days, but his condition was apparently too delicate for him to assume any responsibility Saturday night. Tonight he had been too frightened of the icebergs to venture out of his stateroom. Tom Thumb finished his drink and ordered another. Minelli and Goldschmidt were her playthings, one content with a kiss on the cheek and the other being kept carelessly in reserve. Now she said she wanted to eat. Tom Thumb wanted to wait until Gallagher and Lavinia were out of the dining room, but he did not want to say that to Jenny. She saw it in his eyes, however.

  “I don’t need to eat this minute,” she said. “I can wait until you’re more comfortable.”

  “No, no. I’m just getting drunk here.”

  She giggled. “We were very drunk that first afternoon. Is that what is upsetting your friend? She w
anted you to see her, but I monopolized your time.”

  “She’s not upset,” he replied diffidently. “She wants to pretend she’s upset so she doesn’t have to face how upset I am.” Talking about it made his anger rise. He stared at Jenny Lind. “She’s a dope. She just threw away the only chance she’ll ever have for a wonderful life. That other guy is just a bum—an alcoholic, lying bum.”

  “Surely it can’t be as serious as that—”

  “She left the door unlocked,” Tom Thumb sneered.

  Jenny’s eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

  He realized what he was doing, but he didn’t want to stop, as stupid and dangerous as it was. “She left the door open. This was after we took the tour of the ship. Maybe she didn’t want me to see what she was doing, but I find that hard to believe—”

  “Disgusting. Not another word, I beg you. It makes my head spin.”

  He was alarmed. “I’m very sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s a wonder you’ve been able to keep your sanity. Well, at least I know why we haven’t seen so much of you.” She shook her head. She said one more word, so softly that Tom Thumb was not sure he heard it correctly. He thought the word was, “Brazen.”

  He did not last until Lavinia and Gallagher emerged from the dining room. He ordered a third drink, thinking again that he was drinking too much. He might have even said it, or tried to say it, to Jenny Lind. He talked constantly, holding her rapt attention, knowing he was getting terribly drunk, and then suddenly he was incoherent, staring at the woman, wondering what he was trying to tell her in the first place.

  Then he was being carried to his stateroom, his voice loud but seemingly not connected to him, his raving, or whatever it was, filling the passageway. Somebody smiled at him as she passed; he thought it was Jenny Lind but it wasn’t; he didn’t know where she was; but then he was in his bed, thankful, out of harm’s way, and finally unconscious.

  Near dawn there was a knock on Jenny Lind’s door. At first she thought it was Tom Thumb; she had not been sleeping, visions of his sudden collapse in the Grand Saloon plaguing her thoughts. No such problems bothered Hannelore, whose snoring in the adjoining stateroom sounded like two lumberjacks sawing the ship in half.

  “Who’s there?” Jenny asked through the door to the passageway.

  “It is I, Giorgio. I am healthy again. I could not sleep, little bird, and I thought you, too, might be awake—”

  “Go away,” she whispered. “This is no hour for your foolishness!”

  “Please, I love you! I yearn for you. Otto has had you all to himself throughout the voyage. I want to hold you and kiss you—”

  The thought made her stomach turn. “I warn you, get away from the door or you will never set foot in the United States! Go away, or you will be headed back to Liverpool on the return voyage—”

  The last word was hardly out of her mouth when she heard him scampering away, like a mouse running up the inside of a wall.

  It was as if even in his sleep Tom Thumb knew what he had done to himself, that he had disgraced himself, for he was in an agony he could not have imagined. When he awoke—every half-hour, it seemed, so sick he felt as if he had swallowed a drowned rat—the weight of his shame fell upon him. He could see all the possible ramifications of what he had done, but he was too sick to do anything about it, too sick to do anything but suffer. All that was going to happen, Jenny Lind’s reaction and its consequences for Barnum, would have to wait; but wait it would—the nightmare was that it was waiting already. The only sure way to take control of the future was to do something so incredibly stupid that it irrevocably disturbed the natural flow of things.

  Saturday was another calm, clear day, and now that the Great Western was so close to North America the temperature moderated, and the huge sliding glass roof of the Grand Saloon was opened so that Anna Swan could have another glimpse of blue sky. She was still on the center banquette, surrounded by children, when Jenny Lind and Otto Goldschmidt entered. Jenny wanted to understand the acoustics of the room before the concert this evening.

  “Could we have the roof closed for just a few moments?”

  “Yes, yes,” Anna Swan replied. “Do what you like, please.”

  While Otto played the same musical figure over and over on the piano, Jenny moved around the room, noting how certain tones were muffled or enhanced by distance and the nature of the materials covering the walls.

  “I’m so looking forward to your singing, Miss Lind!” Anna Swan cried. “I have to sit in the back. Will I hear you clearly?”

  “You will hear me perfectly, Miss Swan!”

  “Rest your throat, Jenny!” Otto called from the piano.

  She stepped up to the banquette, against which the elephantine woman leaned, her black dress cascading to the floor like bunting over the bow of an unlaunched ship. From under the hem jutted Anna Swan’s black leather shoes, as big as triangular valises.

  “It’s so wonderful of you to sing for us, Miss Lind.” Her vast breast heaved a sigh, and she dabbed at her enormous eyes with a lace handkerchief the size of a bath towel. “I would happily exchange the rest of my life for just one day of yours.”

  “You mustn’t talk such foolishness,” Jenny said, embarrassed.

  “It’s true. You should see how the men look at you. Even Tom Thumb.”

  “Now that is foolishness,” Jenny laughed.

  “Have you seen the General?”

  “Not since we passed the icebergs,” Jenny said warily.

  “Chang told me that he got very drunk again and had to be carried to his room. He’s having a terrible time.”

  “Someone is giving him a terrible time,” Jenny said.

  “What do you mean? I was talking about his drinking. Didn’t you see him at your house?”

  “No, but I saw the other two, Little Miss Lascivious and her friend. I’ve said too much. I do not like that little woman and I disapprove of her conduct—no, I am horrified by it.”

  Anna Swan’s eyes narrowed. “I am a God-fearing woman, Miss Lind.”

  “And so am I. I must rest. I look forward to singing for you tonight, Miss Swan.”

  Tom Thumb’s hangover lasted two full days. By Saturday evening he was truly sick again, as if he had never left St. Petersburg. His lungs were raw, his throat sore. He knew it was the night of Jenny Lind’s concert, but there was nothing he could do that would make him fit to attend it. Common courtesy demanded that he send around a note explaining his absence, but he was too depressed to bring himself up to the fundamental standards of mankind. Being guilty of rudeness made him writhe. He knew he was compounding his problems, but it was as if some element of his character wanted to do exactly that.

  As the time for Jenny Lind’s performance approached, he thought he would send his regrets while she was singing, so the explanation for his absence from the audience would be waiting for her when she left the concert platform. But then the night-table clock clacked loudly past eight, and Tom Thumb simply watched the minute hand start down the right side of the clock’s face. He could not even stir himself to put the paper in his lap. He sneezed, his nose and head burned. He was telling himself he would apologize when he saw her—telling himself, but not really believing it. It was as if he wanted his life to end, but he didn’t have the strength or the moral fiber to do anything about that, either.

  At eight-thirty someone rapped on the door. He yelled, “Come in!” and the door opened—but nobody was there. He had to sit up to see Lavinia and Joe Gallagher coming in. “Get him out of here!”

  Gallagher pointed his cigar. “Don’t get tough with me, midget—”

  “Out! I’ll get the steward!”

  “Wait outside, Joe,” Lavinia told Gallagher. “I’ll be all right. This will only take a minute.”

  What made her think she could talk like that in his rooms? He wanted to order her out, too, but if she had something to say, he wanted to hear it. Apparently it wasn’t going to take long an
yway. Gallagher closed the door behind him.

  “Make it quick,” Tom Thumb said. “I haven’t been feeling well.”

  “I hope not, for the sake of your conscience,” she said. “Maybe it proves you still have one.”

  “Look who’s talking—!”

  “No,” she said, approaching the bed, “you listen to me for a change! One of the things I’ll always remember about you, Charlie, is your big, know-it-all mouth. Maybe this time if you have your ears open you’ll learn something. Like how to behave. Like not to lie about people.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What you’ve been talking about—to her! Jenny Lind! You’ve got to be about the biggest hypocrite and liar I have ever known! What were you calling her after Vienna? A frightened, hysterical old maid? And now you’re cozying up to her? Well, that’s your business—but don’t you tell her lies about me! I did not leave the door unlocked for you to walk in on me! You violated my privacy! Nobody said you could come in! That afternoon I asked to see you because I wanted us to have one last chance before I did anything—I hadn’t done anything up to that point, no matter what you believe—”

  He felt sick in his stomach. He started to get up. “Look, tell your lies to him, not me—”

  “You don’t understand anything, do you? Can’t I see people without your dirty mind going to work? You and your old maid Jenny Irondrawers are a wonderful pair, because her mind is as dirty as yours. And her mouth is just as big. Anna Swan looked down her nose at me at dinner tonight. I wanted to find out why—and she told me!”

  “Jenny Lind’s been laughing at you, especially since that afternoon in the dining room when you came up batting your eyes—”