The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  After showing him the carte de visite of General Tom Thumb, eventually I had persuaded Colonel Wood to have my photograph taken (by stressing the lucrative nature of such an enterprise; he sold the cartes de visites for twenty-five cents each, and kept all the profit himself). And over time, these postcards reached people who might otherwise have never visited a floating palace; they reached good people, respectable people. People who clamored only to see me—not anyone else.

  The postcards had not, thus far, reached Mr. Barnum, as I had hoped; my fame may have been growing, but only along the Mississippi.

  “Get in here, Vinnie,” Colonel Wood grumbled to me one morning as I was making my way to the dining room. As usual, Sylvia was with me; she stopped, gazing down at me with a questioning look. I nodded for her to go ahead, watching as she lumbered down the hall, her shoulders rounded so that her head did not hit the ceiling, and then followed the Colonel into his office. He shut the door; it latched with a terrifying thud, and I realized, a sharp razor of panic cutting itself through my still-sleepy consciousness, that I could not reach the handle myself. I was as good as trapped.

  But no, I told myself sternly. It was broad daylight, he appeared sober, and outside I could hear deckhands and members of the troupe bustling about, engaged in their usual morning activity.

  “Sit,” Colonel Wood barked.

  With some effort, I struggled into the only chair available to me, while he took his seat behind his cluttered desk. He did not offer to place a cushion upon my seat, so that I might be on his level; on the contrary, he grinned down at me with ill-concealed delight, while I sat so low I could barely see over the stacks of paper on his desk.

  I hid my anger, as I was teaching myself to do, behind an excess of manners. “Yes, Colonel Wood? I’m eager to hear what you wish to discuss.”

  “Always so damn polite,” he muttered. “That tiny mouth always pursed so prim and proper. Think you’re above us all out here—you know the rest of the company talks about your airs, don’t you?”

  This was not the first time he had tried to insinuate himself between my friends and me; I knew enough not to rise to the bait. “Thank you for complimenting me on my manners,” I responded with a polite smile. “It is much appreciated.”

  “Hmmph. Well, keep talking like that, Miss Dainty Dwarf. Because you’re going to start doing extra duty. I’ve had some requests for private audiences for you, from some pretty important folks, and they’re willing to pay double the regular price.”

  “Private audience? What do you mean?”

  “Some hoity-toity types, who claim they’re above stepping foot on my boat, want to meet you. Privately, they say. Not onstage.”

  “But where?” I couldn’t conceive of such an idea. I was finally accustomed to being on display in the galley before and after performances; I could not say I looked forward to it, but I had learned how to put the onlookers—and myself—at ease. I could not completely avoid being scooped up as if I were a mere child; there were those who would persist in doing so, no matter how much I protested. I had discovered, though, that if I spoke first, about the most normal of topics—the weather, the political situation, the latest fashions—fewer people were inclined to do so.

  But always I was surrounded by others—Sylvia, the Tattooed Man, the Bearded Lady who had recently joined our troupe, Billy Birch and his men. The notion of being entirely alone with strangers was vaguely troubling to me.

  “I’m going to have to secure some sort of private parlor in hotels, I guess. Most of these towns have one, and I’m sure some arrangement can be made so I won’t have to pay—free advertising, something. Up in Galena, there’s a Mr. Grant who would like to meet you, so that’ll be the first one.”

  “Alone? This Mr. Grant—he’ll be alone?” Uneasiness filled my breast; I shifted in my chair, which was much too big for me. It served only to sharpen my acute awareness—it was almost an electric sensation, my skin tingling and burning—of my physical helplessness.

  “How the hell do I know? If he’s alone, he’s alone. You’ll meet Grant, and you’ll do whatever he asks you to—none of this holier-than-thou behavior, Missy. You understand? He wants a kiss, you get off your high horse and give him a goddamned kiss.” With a leer, Colonel Wood leaned across his desk toward me. His liver-colored lips, beneath his awful mustache still bearing traces of the blackening he used onstage, smacked at me, making disgusting kissing sounds. “You know, you ain’t half bad looking in that photograph of yours. Not so bad in person, either. Is all of you so pretty and tiny? Might have to check that out someday, what the hell, cousin or not.” And he started to laugh again, making those awful kissing sounds.

  It was as if a slimy snake had slithered down my spine; I shivered, even though the air was close and hot about me, threatening to cut off my breath. I slid off the chair and ran to the door but could not open it; I could not reach the latch no matter how high I jumped—and jump I did, panic closing in around my throat like a vise, cutting off my breath, my thoughts.

  Finally, with a great leap, I did reach the latch, but my hand was so small it was difficult to grasp and pull; my panic did not help matters. My grip kept slipping and slipping until suddenly the door gave way, opened from the outside; I nearly fell into the hallway. The thin dancing girl, Carlotta, was staring down at me in surprise.

  “Why, Vinnie, are you all right?”

  I nodded. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that Colonel Wood had not moved a muscle. He remained seated at his desk; he was even going through some papers as if I wasn’t there. And I had to wonder if he had actually said the things that I thought he had.

  All at once my mind shifted, as if it were a mechanical thing and completely out of my control, toward Minnie, my dear sister. I thought of how small she was, so much smaller than me. How sweet, how innocent. Thank goodness she was still home; had I ever thought to go back for her, to show her that the world was not to be feared? “That dreadful man,” she had declared Colonel Wood before she had even seen him. I thought her so simple then; I had laughed at her. Now I wondered how she’d known.

  But, of course, she didn’t. She was only afraid of the unknown in a way that I was not, at least not until this moment. I took a deep breath and told myself I would not begin to embrace such ideas. Mr. Grant was most likely a perfectly respectable man with a family; why else would he not wish to step foot upon the boat?

  As for Colonel Wood—why, I would simply not allow myself to be alone with him again. It was an easy enough thing to accomplish; the boat was always full of people. There was no reason why I ever had to be alone with that man. And I knew I had only to ask and Sylvia would not leave my side.

  Calm again, I walked with Carlotta toward the dining room, where I could hear my traveling companions talking, joshing, breaking into bits of song over the clash of silver and china. My heart lightened, for I knew they would be happy to see me. And indeed they were; as soon as I entered the dining room, there were cries of “Vinnie, Vinnie, come sit by me!”

  I took a seat next to Mrs. Billy Birch and listened to all the good-natured gossip. Apparently Carlotta, seated by my side and suddenly all blushes and modest glances, was engaged to one of the regulars—the unattached young men who followed our boat up and down the river on their own pathetic rafts or canoes, looking for occasional work or trying to make a living fishing or peddling. Mrs. Billy asked me if I’d like to help make her a decent trousseau.

  I nodded, happy for Carlotta. She had no future as a performer, poor dear. Getting married was the wisest thing she could do.

  I joined in the congratulations without the slightest twinge of jealousy, and promised to contribute a cotton nightgown.

  * * *

  GALENA WAS A PRETTY LITTLE RIVER TOWN, LIKE ALL THE others—hilly, with a main thoroughfare lined with shops. I followed Colonel Wood through the bustling street to a handsome building called the DeSoto House; I had never stepped foot in a hotel before and was excited at the prospec
t. I had no inkling that in the years to come, I would stay in the finest of them all, with the most luxurious accommodations. I would even return to this hotel, occupying the largest suite!

  But at the time, I managed not to betray my astonishment at the elegance of this establishment; indeed, I sailed through the door, clad in my most respectable gown, not one I would ever wear onstage but rather one of my church dresses, with matching bonnet, from home. It was a modest blue satin, with a high collar and black-velvet scallops along the hem and sleeves. With my head held high, I managed to give the appearance that I was quite at home in the ornate lobby, wallpapered and carpeted to a fault. Colonel Wood, however, could not maintain his composure. He stopped and gaped, forgetting to remove his hat. He looked cheap and gaudy, totally out of place, and I stared at him through new eyes, secure in my matchless deportment and bearing. Away from the boat, in such genteel surroundings, the unease he stirred in me melted away. He looked exactly what he was—a posturing, insignificant little man. And I felt exactly what I was—an elegant gentlewoman with superior breeding and appearance. A much larger personality, in every way.

  Yet as soon as we were led to a little side parlor, where the Colonel left me with an admonition to “Remember, no hoity-toity airs—I’m not paying you to disappoint the customers,” that unease crept back. Nervously I paced around, trying to admire the ornately carved woodwork and plush carpeting. The furniture was all large and overstuffed, and I remembered, with a pang of despair, that my stair steps were back on the boat. Locating a footstool, I dragged it over to a chair so that I might be able to climb onto it with some dignity.

  Anxious and unsettled, my composure having deserted me, I could not help but recall what Mrs. Billy Birch and Carlotta each had said to me before I left the boat.

  Mrs. Billy had tucked a large stone in my hand. “Put this in your reticule,” she whispered, as Colonel Wood was hovering nearby. “Don’t be afraid to swing it at that Mr. Grant’s head if you need to!” I had accepted the unusual gift with gratitude, and tucked it into my reticule, thankful for its sudden heft.

  Carlotta had summoned me to her room earlier. I did not usually visit her here; when we females gathered for our nightly gossip, it was generally in Mrs. Billy Birch’s room, which was neat and homey, with a spirit lamp for making tea.

  Carlotta’s room, by contrast, was slovenly, her stockings and petticoats draped over every surface, all in need of repair or washing. I tried not to notice them; obviously she wasn’t bothered by the chaos, as she had no blush or apology as she handed me a small envelope. Opening it, I saw that it contained a grayish powdery substance.

  “Prevention powders,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re so little, Vinnie, I don’t know what to tell you to do so that it don’t hurt. But you oughtn’t to be havin’ babies, so use these. Mix ’em with water and then douse yourself with them down there.” And she pointed to her—I still blush to recall—womanly parts.

  “ ‘It’? What do you mean ‘it’? What might hurt?”

  “It. Screwin’. I don’t know what the Colonel thinks these men are going to want to do to you in private, and God knows I hope it ain’t what I’m thinkin’, but just in case. You don’t want to have a baby, do you?”

  “I—I—I have no earthly idea what to say!” And I didn’t; I sat down upon the floor, my legs suddenly giving out, and I stared up at the girl who, I saw, thought she was only being kind.

  “I know your ma probably never told you these things. My own ma didn’t. But you’re such a little thing, and I feel like someone ought. You do know what screwin’ is, don’t you?” She frowned in concern, her crow’s-feet crinkling up; against her sallow skin, bare of the cheap paint she used onstage, her yellow hair appeared even more artificial.

  “I, well, yes, I believe so. Copulating, you mean?”

  “Listen to you, Vinnie!” She grinned, her pale blue eyes round with admiration. “Always coming up with such fancy words—I plum forget you were a schoolmarm sometimes, and then you go and remind me. Copulating—I swear!” And she repeated it again, as if learning a new word in a new language.

  “But why would you give me this?” I held out the envelope, away from my person, as if it might taint me by proximity. I struggled to understand what she was implying.

  “So you don’t have a baby.” She repeated herself patiently, as if I were a child. “Don’t you understand? Screwin’ is how babies get made.”

  “I understand that, Carlotta, but what I don’t quite see is why I would have need for this kind of—of prevention?”

  “Oh, Vinnie! You’re such a smart little thing that I forget you don’t know much of the world! Why do you think men want to meet you alone? There’s only one reason for that, although I have to say it’s not right, not for someone your size, but Lord, I’ve learned it takes all kinds in this world. You have no idea some of the things these river men want—animals, sisters, even other men—”

  “Stop!” I was sickened, horrified, by her meaning. Scrambling up from the floor, I felt my face burn, and I couldn’t look her in the eyes. “Stop—I don’t want to hear this! I have no intention of engaging in—in—what it was you just said. Even Colonel Wood would not—these are respectable people, he said! There is no need for this!” And I thrust the envelope into her hands.

  “But, Vinnie, I’m just looking out for you—you have to be prepared!”

  “No, I thank you, but—no. There is no need, no need at all!” I hurried out of Carlotta’s room, still unable to look her in the face. How did she know of these things? I felt sorry for her, for her life; I felt even sorrier for her fiancé, who must not have any idea of her past. I knew she was only trying to be kind, but I could not help but feel sickened and insulted, all the same.

  I refused even to consider the scenario she had so easily conjured up; still, I felt grateful, as I waited nervously in the parlor for Mr. Grant, that Mrs. Billy Birch’s rock was securely in my reticule, which was attached to my wrist.

  There was a knock on the parlor door; my stomach plummeted to my feet, and I clasped my reticule to my breast. “C-come in,” I barely managed to say, through cold, trembling lips.

  “Miss Bump?” A short, stocky man with a beard opened the door, hat in hand. His gaze swept the room at his own height; it took him a moment to remember to look down. Finally, he saw me; his eyes widened, and his face creased into a slow grin. “Oh, goodness! Just a moment—” He ducked his head back outside the door, and I heard him say, “Julia! Children! She’s in here!”

  At the mention of a female name, my entire body, which I had been holding stiff as a corpse, perhaps in anticipation of my imminent doom, relaxed. I reached up to place my reticule upon an end table and turned to receive my visitors.

  Mr. Grant ushered in his family: his wife and four children, the youngest a little boy still in skirts, carried by Mrs. Grant. The children shyly hung back while their parents approached me, somewhat timidly, as if I might suddenly attack them. They were, I was astonished to realize, almost as frightened of me as I had been of them! This realization made me relax even further; I stepped forward and held my hand out to Mr. Grant, hoping to put him at ease.

  “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Bump.”

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Miss Bump. I am Mr. Grant. This is my wife, Mrs. Grant, and our children. Freddie, Buck, Nellie, and little Jesse.”

  Mr. Grant bowed stiffly, while Mrs. Grant, a plain woman with small, crossed eyes, shook my hand very timidly and shifted the child in her arms.

  “Please, let us sit,” I said, and holding my skirts, I stepped upon the stool and climbed, as gracefully as possible, upon the chair I had chosen.

  The children could not prevent themselves from giggling at my exertions; I pretended not to notice, and arranged myself and my skirts in my chair, my legs dangling above the stool.

  “I thank you much for agreeing to meet us here,” Mr. Grant said pleasantly. “But the children did so want to see y
ou, after we saw your photograph in the paper, and I couldn’t take them on a boat, you see—you understand.”

  “Indeed,” I said coolly, as if there were no reason to take offense. Then I fell silent, as I could not begin to think what to say. I did not know them, after all. And I was not onstage, I could not break out into song. I had never been bashful in my life, but then nothing had ever prepared me for this; I had a wild impulse to shout that they were all “simply dreadful” and run out of the room. Only the thought of Colonel Wood, who must be hovering outside the door, prevented me from doing so.

  “How tall is she, Papa?” one of the boys asked, and while his parents exchanged anxious looks, I was happy to hear his question. At least I could answer that.

  “Thirty-two inches, which is how many feet, young man?” I could not help it; my teacher’s training came to the fore, and I looked at him sternly—although I had to smile when I saw his face pale and his eyes bulge.

  “I—I—I don’t know?” He looked desperately at his father, who had an amused glint in his dark eyes.

  “Two feet, eight inches,” I replied briskly. “You look old enough to know your mathematics!”

  “For sure, for sure, son Frederick is lax with his schoolwork,” Mr. Grant chortled, slapping his knee. “Well done, Miss Bump! That you should know such a thing yourself!”

  I swallowed my anger, continuing to smile politely. “Naturally I know such a thing, as I was a schoolteacher before coming west.”

  “A schoolteacher!” Mrs. Grant almost dropped her child from her knee. “How can that be?”

  “I was an excellent scholar and was asked to take over a classroom.”

  “Extraordinary! Can you imagine your teacher being smaller than you, Nellie?” Mr. Grant addressed his daughter, for whom he obviously had a great fondness; he had sat with his arm about her shoulders from the moment they took their seats. She was a pretty thing, with long blond curls.