The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  I sighed. I should have realized that of course Mr. Jones would make it his business to see where my letter was going; of course he would end up telling my parents or my brothers or my married sister or whichever member of my annoyingly large family he might encounter. Which he was sure to do.

  “No, of course not,” I said with a sniff, as if to indicate I was insulted he might suggest such a thing. “This is about some unfinished business of mine, from out west.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Jones pulled on his chin, lengthening his already sorrowfully long New England face—sharp nose, suspicious eyes, permanently ruddy complexion. “Yes, that business out west of yours. Well, we’re glad to have you back here safe and sound. I reckon you’re glad to be back, too. Don’t like to think of a little lady like you out there consorting with those types of people.”

  I simply smiled and watched as he took my letter and placed it in the leather mail pouch. Then I asked after his children (who had been students of mine), thanked him, and asked him to open the door for me.

  I began my walk back to the farm, after first stopping to purchase a stick of peppermint candy for Minnie, who would be anxious for my return. So would Papa and Mama. They would welcome me home with loving eyes, kind hearts, open—yet stifling—arms.

  My thoughts returned to the letter I had just posted. I wished that I could give it wings.

  INTERMISSION

  From Harper’s Weekly, March 22, 1862

  The crisis which the war has reached imparts fresh interest to the war-pictures which are appearing in every number of Harper’s Weekly. We have now regular Artist Correspondents, to wit:

  Mr. A. R. WAUD, with the army of the Potomac; MR. ALEXANDER SIMPLOT, with Gen. Grant’s Army; MR. HENRY MOSLER, with Gen. Buell’s army; MR. THEO. R. DAVIS, with Gen. Sherman’s army; MR. ANGELO WISER, with Gen. Burnside’s army; besides a large number of occasional and volunteer correspondents in the Army and Navy at various points. These gentlemen will furnish us faithful sketches of every battle which takes place, and every other event of interest, which will be reproduced in our pages in the best style. People who do not see Harper’s Weekly will have but a limited comprehension of the momentous events which are occurring.

  From The Defiance Democrat, Defiance County, Ohio, May 31, 1862

  THE NEW MORMON COMPLICATION

  Brigham Young has been inaugurated as the Governor of the New State of Desert, and Mr. Ashley’s bill for the punishment of polygamy has passed the House of Representatives. Here is a conflict at our doors at once. The Mormons have organized their state government with polygamy as “the corner-stone” just as slavery is the corner-stone of the Confederates.… Brigham’s wants, like his wives, are many.

  [ SIX ]

  At Last I Meet the Great Man Himself

  OH, GOODNESS!” MAMA EXCLAIMED AS SHE OPENED HER reticule and removed a clean yellow handkerchief, which seemed to turn to a sooty gray before our eyes. “The dirt! Vinnie, my chick, however did you manage on those trains out west with all this dirt?”

  “I didn’t,” I admitted, bouncing about on the uncomfortable wooden seat, barely able to see out the window to my right, but it didn’t matter; it was smeared with the same sooty gray as Mama’s handkerchief. “I was filthy when I got to the boat.”

  “These contraptions are no place for a lady,” Mama muttered, pressing the handkerchief to the inner corner of her eye, trying to remove some minuscule piece of dirt, although it wouldn’t make a difference; her cheeks had smudges on them, as well.

  Papa sat next to me with his eyes squeezed shut; the moment the train had pulled out of the station in Middleborough, he had paled. Upon my suggestion that he look at the scenery, beginning to pass by ever faster, he turned decidedly green. From that moment on, he had refused to open his eyes or move his head; he sat as straight and stiff as a corpse against the hard back of his seat. I patted his hand in sympathy; his occasional squeeze was the sole indication I had that he had not passed on to the Great Beyond.

  I was sorry for him, but even that could not dampen my excitement, excitement that had been building ever since that fateful afternoon a month ago when a Mr. Fuller had sent word—by telegram! We had never seen such a thing!—that, acting on behalf of Mr. Phineas Taylor Barnum, he, Mr. Fuller, would very much like to meet me.

  Oh, the stir this simple message caused! Mama began cleaning right away, even as she and Papa argued with me about the obvious intent of the coming visit. Did I have any idea what I might be getting myself into? Why couldn’t I just stay home like the rest of their children? (Although when I pointed out that two of their sons were soldiers, they pretended not to hear.) Did I have no heart in me? Had I so enjoyed being surrounded by morally depraved show people that I was eager to escape the bosom of a Christian home to take up with them again? And that Barnum? That master of humbug! What might he do, in my name, in the good name of this good family, to dupe the public once more?

  And most frequently asked of all the questions my parents hurtled at me, when they weren’t tidying and scrubbing and consoling Minnie, who flew into tears at the thought of another stranger coming to take me away—

  How? How on earth had he heard of me? It had been almost two years since I had made my escape from the clutches of Colonel Wood (they made it sound so dramatic, I wondered if they pictured me running barefoot through a swamp just like Eliza in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, pursued by alligators, show folk, and Rebel soldiers) and come back, safe and sound, so they didn’t have to worry about me any longer. How had that Barnum (for this was how they began to refer to him, “that Barnum,” as if he had no other Christian name) heard of me in that time?

  Naturally, I declined to join in this last speculation. For of course I knew: I was the one who had told him. That letter I mailed back in December—that had been my ticket out into the world, I dearly hoped.

  And so it would seem to have proved. Mr. Fuller duly arrived; we chatted in the parlor (where I tried very hard to push away the memory of Colonel Wood’s fateful visit). I showed him my press clippings, the letters written to me by many a fine citizen of the West. I saved the most distinguished letter for last; in this late summer of 1862, any mention of Mr. Grant, with whom I had passed such a charming hour in Galena, was extremely impressive, indeed. After the Battle of Fort Donelson, when he had demanded “unconditional and immediate surrender” of the Rebel troops, Major General Ulysses S. Grant had become a household name. I could see that Mr. Fuller was very taken by my account of that visit and the letter of thanks, in Mrs. Grant’s hand, that had reached me on the boat.

  Mr. Fuller departed with no indication of what he felt about me and my clippings, which worried me, even as it enabled Mama and Papa to cease their fretting. But Mr. Fuller must have made a favorable report to Mr. Barnum, for the former was soon back again, armed this time with a contract. At this point Mama and Papa began to protest even more forcibly. In the most polite language—and while simultaneously serving Mr. Fuller some of her most delicate shortbread cookies and tea—Mama made it known that she did not trust Mr. Barnum’s reputation for telling lies to the public, as she saw it.

  “Perhaps we should meet Mr. Barnum himself,” I finally suggested, in desperation. “For I believe only he can put my parents’ minds at ease.”

  Mr. Fuller grumbled and departed again, contract unsigned but still in my possession; days later we received an invitation from Mr. Barnum to visit him in his home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Thus it was that we three were on the train going west.

  There was one more obstacle in the way, one more potentially dire than my parents’ objections, and one that I kept to myself: I was still technically under contract to Colonel Wood. After he had crept away in Louisville, I tried to assure myself that I would see him no more. Yet I couldn’t trust him, even though, for all I knew, the Colonel might be in the army, or a prisoner of war, or even dead, as thousands were, more and more every day. Although I disliked imagining that evil man clad in the glory of Yanke
e blue, just like my brothers.

  “Do you think that Barnum will meet us at the station?” Mama fretted, patting her graying bun that peeked out of the back of her bonnet, so tightly wound and secured that no amount of train travel could disturb it.

  “Mama, please, I beg of you, try to refrain from calling him ‘that Barnum.’ ”

  “Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, you know that I will address him in the most polite manner! Who do you think I am? Is this why you’re so eager to leave home again? Are you so ashamed of us?” Mama’s eyes began to water and tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving an oily trail of grime.

  I sighed and handed her my unspoiled handkerchief. “No, Mama, of course not. I’m sorry—I’m just a trifle nervous, you see. I do so want to make a good impression.”

  “You have no need to be nervous about that,” Mama replied with a sniff. “He’s the one who should be worried about making a good impression on us. He’s just a showman. You’re a descendent of one of the Mayflower Company!”

  “Yes, Mama.” I had to smile; my mother’s righteous anger at the idea of a man such as that Barnum having to impress the Bump family was so powerful that it dried her tears and caused her to sit up so straight, her spine was a good six inches away from the back of the seat.

  We passed the rest of the journey mostly in silence, after changing trains in Providence. It was late afternoon before we pulled into the Bridgeport station.

  As we disembarked—Papa, his color returning to his usual ruddy hue, gently lifting me off the train onto the platform—a liveried coachman approached. He was clad in a dusky red driving jacket and a tall silk hat; when he reached us, he bowed smartly.

  “Miss Bump?” He looked down at me, yet his face betrayed no surprise or amusement at my size.

  “Yes?”

  “With Mr. Barnum’s regards, Miss, I’m to take you and your family to Lindencroft in the carriage. Please come this way.” And he turned; we followed him through the crowded station to a waiting open carriage. It was black, polished to a gleam so high that we could see our reflections in it, with brass handles and hinges, a fine pair of chestnut horses, their harnesses also polished and gleaming in the sun. Papa handed me up into the carriage and we all settled in. The coachman climbed atop his perch and coaxed the horses into motion.

  “What do you think so far, Mama?” I couldn’t help myself, but Mama had been so quiet ever since the coachman had greeted us. I knew she was impressed.

  “I think Mr. Barnum affords a lovely carriage” was all she would allow.

  Papa nodded, passing his hand over the seat next to him. “Real leather,” he said in tones usually reserved for church. “And them horses—a matched pair!”

  I smiled and turned my attention to the streets of Bridgeport. We quickly passed through the business section and soon found ourselves on wide streets lined with gracious homes, bigger than any we had back in Middleborough. These were newer, in the more modern architectural style featuring ornately scrolled embellishments, cupolas, wide porches, two and even three stories high, all set back from the street on enormous, beautifully tended lawns. I glimpsed large carriage houses—some larger than our farmhouse!—set far back from the street. Occasionally we passed land set aside as parks, with well-tended gardens, gazebos, and benches.

  As we passed so many houses, each one seemingly grander than the one before, I sensed that the coachman was taking us down the most picturesque streets. Mama’s constant exclamations of “Oh, my,” and Papa’s involuntary utterances of “Will you look at that?” were growing wearisome to me; as impressed as I was by the beautiful homes and streets of Bridgeport, they were not the reason I had come.

  “That house there, to the right, is the home of Mr. Charles Stratton himself. Or as you may know him, Tom Thumb,” the coachman called over his shoulder, slowing the horses down to a stately walk. As this was the one time he had pointed out a home’s ownership, I was suddenly very sure that he had driven this way deliberately.

  Papa and Mama both twisted in their seats to get a better look. I remained where I was for a moment, impatience to reach our destination rooting me to my seat. But finally I, too, turned to look.

  It was a fine home. That was all I would say for it at the moment. It was three stories with a cupola, a wide lawn, an inviting porch. It was very grand, very big, and if I was meant to be impressed by it and by the implication that if I signed with Mr. Barnum I, too, might one day live on such an estate, I suppose I was.

  But I was also annoyed by this transparent sales technique. I felt it in poor taste. Turning back around, I instructed the driver, curtly, to please continue to Mr. Barnum’s home.

  “Yes, Miss,” he said apologetically. Then he flicked the reins and we trotted off again. Ten minutes later we pulled into a gated circular drive, the coachman saying, with unmistakable pride in his tone, “Welcome to Lindencroft.”

  We had driven up to a set of granite stepping-stones so tall, I could exit the carriage without assistance. Once I alighted, I shook my skirts out—dust flying everywhere, fine grains captured in the sunlight—and surveyed my surroundings. The lawn was manicured, with a circular pool embellished with a statue of Poseidon in the middle. The house itself was grand but not ostentatious; I’d certainly seen larger, more elaborate homes on the drive over.

  It was built of buff-colored stone, three stories high, with ornately carved cornices. A deep porch was framed by columns, and wide marble steps led up to the imposing front door.

  Mama and Papa didn’t say a word; none of us had ever been to a house this fine before, but somehow I felt they looked to me to take the lead. Both hung back just a little; I felt their country shyness acutely, and resolved to ease their minds.

  “This way,” I said with determination. And I walked up the porch steps—rather steep for me, but I would not falter—and motioned for Papa to tug the velvet rope hanging to the right of the door; when he did, a deep gong sounded.

  “Well, I never!” He stepped back in alarm, dropping the rope as if it had scorched his hands.

  “It’s only a bell to summon the maid,” I told my father, although I did not know how I knew that. I simply did.

  Sure enough, an aproned and capped young woman opened the door; I gave her our names, and she ushered us inside to the cool interior. We blinked at the sudden change in light; inside the house, all was dark: darkly paneled walls, polished wooden floors, shutters and drapes keeping out the summer heat.

  “I’ll show you to a room where you can freshen up,” the maid whispered to Mama and me; Mama clutched my arm gratefully, for I knew she was worried about her disheveled appearance. After showing Papa into one of the rooms opening up to the main hall, the maid led us up a grand staircase, kindly slowing her steps to accommodate mine; she ushered us into a bedroom where pitchers of water, basins, and the finest of linen towels and cloths were waiting on a shining dressing table arrayed with pins, hairbrushes, and a clothes brush. She withdrew, and Mama and I fell upon the water as if we’d just been rescued from the desert, washing our faces, our hands, tidying up our hair, brushing each other’s dresses off. Mama pointed to a stool that had been placed strategically in front of the dressing table so that I could reach everything myself.

  “How thoughtful!” she whispered, as if afraid someone might overhear. I tried not to smile at her nervousness, which had the effect of making my own disappear. “Should we tidy the room up?” she asked when we had finished our toilettes. She glanced nervously at the towels, which were no longer snowy white; the water in the basin was now a soupy gray.

  “No,” I said; once again, I did not know how I knew that. But I did. Ever since we’d stepped foot in that magnificent carriage, I had instinctively known how to behave among such riches. My parents, however, did not; never had I seen them so unsure of themselves. I could not imagine either of them happily living in a mansion; Mama would wear herself out scrubbing all those marble floors, for she would never trust anyone else to clean them!
>
  That did not mean, however, that I could not imagine living in a mansion myself. As we left the room, refreshed and presentable, the maid led us back down the wide carpeted staircase. With each step I felt my spine straighten, my head lift itself upon my neck until my chin was almost pointed straight up to the ceiling. I imagined myself in a Parisian ball gown—in a properly fitting corset!—descending a staircase like this to greet my guests. Despite the huge proportions of this house—the ceilings enormously tall, the woodwork deep, the windowpanes more expansive than any I’d ever seen—I did not feel overwhelmed. Rather, I felt every inch a great lady, expanding to match the generosity of her surroundings.

  We were ushered into a library, where Papa was already seated next to a fireplace flanked by bookshelves; the polished grate was empty save for an enormous Oriental fan. He had a cigar in his hand, which he handled as gingerly as if it might suddenly turn into a snake and bite him. As soon as he saw Mama and me, he dropped it—fortunately, it was not lit—and shot from his chair.

  “Vinnie!” he cried out in obvious relief; he said my name as if he had given up hope of ever saying it again.

  “So this is the famously contrary Miss Bump, who would not sign her contract until she met me herself.” Another voice rang out; it was a wry, humorous voice. I heard laughter lurking behind it, kept just barely at bay.

  From the depths of a high-backed wing chair, a man rose. He was a tall man; taller than Papa, who was not short. He had large hands, a fleshy nose, high forehead with luxurious graying curls, and bushy eyebrows. His lips were rather thin, held together in a crooked line that gave him a very whimsical look. His eyes, beneath those eyebrows, were piercing gray and alert, the most watchful eyes I’d ever seen. They were kindly, however: observant, wary, yet kindly. I sensed a light behind them, a twinkle that—like the laughter in his voice—was never far from the surface yet held firmly in check.