The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  “I am Miss Bump,” I said, crossing toward this man and extending my hand without hesitation. “And am I to believe you are the equally famous Mr. Barnum?”

  “That I am, that I am, indeed.” He took my hand solemnly, shook it, then suddenly bent down to peer directly into my face. His eyes were level with mine, so close that I could see myself reflected in them, and I had the startling, dizzy impression of a carnival, of colors and sounds and mirrors of every shape and size; of music, joyous, merry music tooted from horns and plucked by fiddles. How one man’s gaze could engage so many senses, I had no idea; I only knew his did. It nearly knocked the breath out of me; my heart did a riotous somersault as the back of my neck tickled with excitement, and I fought an undignified urge to giggle.

  However, I managed to keep my composure. I looked back at him, meeting him halfway; for a long moment our gazes held. I do not know what he saw in mine, but it appeared to satisfy him; with a businesslike nod, he straightened up, shook hands with my mother, then motioned for us to take a seat. One chair had a footstool placed strategically in front of it; I knew it had been placed there for me.

  Once we were all seated, Mr. Barnum rang a silver bell; another maid appeared, and he asked for lemonade and cookies to be served. I felt Mama approved of this, as she smiled in genuine pleasure and relaxed a fraction, just enough so that I did not fear she might break into brittle little pieces if she moved too quickly.

  “Did you have a pleasant journey?” Mr. Barnum asked my father.

  “Well, I guess. Nothing bad happened, anyway. But I’m not looking forward to the return home.” Papa picked up the dropped cigar and held it, once again, at arm’s length. I knew he did not approve of cigars, only pipes.

  “This was my parents’ first train journey,” I explained to Mr. Barnum, who nodded in sympathy.

  “Oh, I remember my first trip! Like to have scared the daylights out of me, all the noise and steam and speed. Nothing beats the old horse and buggy, does it, Mr. Bump?”

  “No, sirree, not by a long shot!” My father smiled for the first time since we left Middleborough; relaxing, he dropped the cigar in a cut-glass ashtray and left it there.

  “But now, why—can’t get along without it! I couldn’t keep up with my business if I didn’t take the train into New York every day!”

  “Every day? You take the train every day?” Papa looked at him in horror.

  “Can’t deny it! Every weekday morning, just about, ol’ William—that’s the coachman—takes me to the station, and I take the train into New York, then I walk to my museum. I take the train home at night, and William drives me back here. Very efficient—and I don’t have to live in the city anymore. I can’t imagine living anyplace but Bridgeport now—my wife’s health, you know, requires rest and sea air.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Mama murmured automatically, but Mr. Barnum merely waved his hand.

  “ ’Tis nothing new to me; Charity has long been prone to sickness. I tire her out, that’s the thing; it takes a lot out of a woman to keep up with me!” And Mr. Barnum laughed, as if it were truly nothing, but behind his eyes that little light wavered a bit.

  The maid brought in a tray with tall frosty glasses of lemonade and plates of delicate sugar cookies; she served them all around, then left the tray and silently retired.

  “Now, let’s get to the point of this. I understand you don’t think very highly of me.” Mr. Barnum spoke to my father, although I felt as if he was really addressing my mother. He turned to Papa, but his eyes looked at her.

  “Oh, my, well, I never intended to be rude!” Mama was very flustered—but she was the one who answered, as Papa chose that moment to conveniently stuff a cookie into his mouth.

  “Not rude, just prudent,” Mr. Barnum replied cheerfully, with an understanding nod. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest—an attitude I would soon grow to know very well. It was an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone to give him the answer that he sought. Rarely was he left waiting for long.

  “Yes, prudent, of course!” Mama nodded vigorously. “You see, Vinnie—Lavinia—is our eldest daughter left at home, and naturally we worry about her. We are quite an old family, you know—the Warrens from Massachusetts; five of my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.” Mama smiled in that prim way she had whenever she spoke of her ancestry.

  “You don’t say?” Mr. Barnum’s eyebrows raised and his eyes narrowed intently. He appeared to be filing this information away, for what purpose my mother of course could not suspect—but I did, and I smiled to myself, nibbling daintily at a cookie.

  “So naturally we have concerns about her future,” Mama continued. “We want only what is proper and dignified for Lavinia and for our family.”

  “Naturally.” Mr. Barnum sat for a second, apparently deep in thought. The room was silent, save for the sound of my father nervously clearing his throat. “Yet you had no qualms about letting her travel about the Mississippi on a rowboat?”

  Mama gasped, and Papa, who had been uneasily silent until now, said, “See here!”

  Mr. Barnum merely smiled, turning to me for the first time in this conversation. And then he sat back, his arms still folded across his chest, and waited.

  “It was not a rowboat,” I replied, struggling not to smile, for I knew he was but toying with us. “It was a floating palace of curiosities, and a very popular one at that.”

  “Run by a cousin of yours, I understand?”

  “Yes, Colonel Wood, a cousin of mine. That was the only reason we let Lavinia go with him,” Mama interjected, her forehead wrinkling in concern and puzzlement.

  “Cousin.” Mr. Barnum snorted dismissively. “Be that as it may, I assure you that what I am offering Miss Bump is much more than a lazy ride up the Mississippi in some rickety boat. But, of course, I’m no cousin. Just a humble farmer’s son from Connecticut—no descendent of the Mayflower.”

  “Well, now, I’m a farmer myself.” Papa stirred uncomfortably. “I can’t fault a man for being that!”

  “No, of course not, that’s not at all what I meant.” Mama, more flustered than I’d ever seen her, frowned down at her hands.

  “My poor father died when I was but a lad, and I had to care for my mother and sisters, so I was not able to have the kind of education I’m sure the Warrens of Massachusetts were able to provide for their sons,” Mr. Barnum continued, his face so serious but his eyes so close to merry. I was the only one who saw them, however; my parents were too ashamed to meet his gaze.

  “Well, it’s not as if we were able to send our boys to Harvard, either,” Papa said agreeably. “They’re farmers, too, the ones who aren’t off fighting.”

  “Fighting for our grand Union?” Mr. Barnum’s voice now filled with musical emotion—fifes and drums and “Yankee Doodle.” Sitting up straight, he placed his hand over his heart—and I had to look away, biting the inside of my cheek so as not to burst into laughter. He rose and laid his other hand gently upon Mama’s arm. “Madam, I cannot begin to convey my gratitude to you, a mother of such brave boys. Your noble sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

  Mama, her face covered in mortification, simply nodded, still unable to look Mr. Barnum in the eye. He returned to his seat with a loud, dramatic sniff—then turned to give me a brazen wink, which made me gasp out loud.

  Mama and Papa looked at me, but I simply shook my head and dabbed my eye, as if contemplating my brothers’ courage.

  “I do understand your concerns,” Mr. Barnum said, his voice still choked with emotion. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your noble family. I’m a father myself, you know—I have three lovely daughters living, and one angel taken from us far too soon.”

  “Oh, no!” Mama exclaimed.

  “So you see, I have no desire to do anything but keep Miss Bump virtuous and safe from harm, while naturally allowing her the opportunity to see a bit of the world in the manner deserving of such a fine lady, from such a fine family.
I know I’m merely a farmer’s son, a patriot, a father of daughters—but I vow, with all my heart, to protect your daughter. I’d die myself before I would bring shame upon your good name.”

  During this speech, Mr. Barnum had leaned forward toward my parents in a beseeching attitude, his hands outstretched, his face open and earnest. Mama and Papa listened intently, transfixed.

  I leaned forward as well; I did so want my parents’ blessing. I could not imagine continuing to live in Middleborough, where I would never fit in, not only because of my size but now because of my reputation. I could imagine no future for me there that did not consist of staying at home with Mama and Papa and Minnie, growing smaller and older with each tick of the kitchen mantel clock, which Mama faithfully wound every day—until I disappeared completely.

  I had known Mr. Barnum only a quarter of an hour, but already I felt my wits quicken with every word he spoke, every move he made, as if he were the sharpening stone and I the edge of the knife. It was as if I had at last found someone with a personality, with dreams, as big as my own.

  “What I can’t understand is how you heard of Lavinia in the first place.” Mama shook her head. “She’s been back home for almost two years now. I thought that she’d gotten this whole thing out of her system.”

  “Why, I—” Mr. Barnum happened to turn my way; he caught me shaking my head and he clamped his mouth shut—after first giving me a small, admiring nod. “That is, your daughter’s reputation reached my ears from other performers who spoke highly of her; her beauty and grace are known far beyond the Mississippi.”

  “They are?” Papa looked at me, then scratched his head, as if trying to see these attributes and failing. I smiled fondly; I knew I was just his daughter, just his Vinnie, and I loved him for that. Even though he had never known precisely what to do with me, he had always loved me for no special reason at all, which satisfied my heart more than I could ever tell him.

  “Yes, they are. This is quite a daughter you have here.” And they all three beamed upon me as if I were an unopened Christmas present.

  “We just don’t want any deception perpetuated in her name,” Mama announced, in an almost apologetic tone. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “Madam, I assure you. Anything I say in public will be only with Miss Bump’s knowledge and approval.” Mr. Barnum turned to me, and once again I saw that sparkle flickering behind his gaze.

  “Now, Mama, Papa, I would very much like to talk to Mr. Barnum alone,” I said decisively. This was my future, after all, and I had sat by, discussed to no end, for long enough. I wanted to talk to the man plainly; I had no desire to bind myself to anyone like Colonel Wood ever again. Even though he was the Great Barnum, I was determined not to let my vanity cloud my judgment this time.

  “Really? Do you think that’s wise?” Mama asked Papa, as if I wasn’t there.

  “Yes, I do,” I answered for him. Papa looked at me in that odd way again. I nodded gently at him and then waited as he and Mama withdrew outside, at Mr. Barnum’s suggestion, to stroll about the grounds and see the stables.

  “Now,” he said, pulling his chair over to mine and slouching so that we sat, knee to knee, eye to eye. “Let’s have it. I perceive you are a most remarkable woman, Miss Bump.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Barnum?”

  “You sent me that letter, didn’t you? The one with all your clippings—but you didn’t tell your parents?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “And why is that? I have to say, it’s very unusual for me to hear from a performer directly in this way; I was surprised to find you weren’t already under contract with someone.”

  I hesitated for only a moment before replying, “Well, I’m not. And I desire only the best for my career, which prompted me to write to you.”

  “And about that career.” Mr. Barnum leaned back a little and lit a cigar, puffing it for a few moments before continuing. “Tell me about it. I know those showboats. I know the West. I know it’s a wild and woolly place. How did you survive it?”

  Again, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “I got out just in time, because the War came. I won’t deceive you; it was not easy. I was not pleased with the vulgar manner in which—in which my cousin decided to exhibit me. For that matter, I would like to know your plans before I agree to anything. I think you should know, right off, I have no intention of being a female Tom Thumb.”

  “You don’t?” He raised a bushy eyebrow, and I had a sense of the steely flint that gave that merry light its spark.

  “No, I don’t, sir. I will not be paraded around in costumes and uniforms; I will not do imitations; I will not be your performing puppet. I think it’s not fitting for a woman, and it’s certainly not fitting for me.”

  “You think Charlie Stratton’s my puppet? Why, you know nothing of it,” Mr. Barnum growled, reminding me of a grumpy bulldog with his round face, round nose, crooked mouth. “He’s my good friend, and he bailed me out of a real jam recently, agreeing to go on tour again because I needed the money. He was just a child when he dressed up in those costumes; it worked for him then. Now he’s a man—as you’re obviously a woman.”

  “That’s precisely my point. I am a woman, not a puppet. I desire respectability in all things. And protection, too, from—from—well, protection that any lady would require from those who would take advantage of her—vulnerability.” My voice did falter, as I could not prevent myself from thinking of Colonel Wood’s plans for me in New Orleans.

  Mr. Barnum fixed me with a bright, hard gaze, searching for the truth I was so obviously unwilling to speak. He found it; I’m sure he did, as he suddenly paled, then growled, the tip of his nose and his ears turning a dangerous red. He squashed his cigar down in the ashtray beside him with a violence I did not expect, then muttered something under his breath.

  I hung my head, my face suffused with warmth; at that moment I could not meet his gaze. Yet when he finally spoke, it was with a voice so gentle, so careful, it reminded me of a child cradling a kitten. “Miss Bump, I’m sorry. I appreciate your delicacy in conveying this to me. When I spoke of the showboats being wild, I assure you—I had no idea of something of this nature, particularly happening to one so fine, so ladylike, as you. You have my word that nothing like that will ever happen, as long as you’re employed by me. You asked me how I intend to exhibit you—would you like to hear my plans?”

  I nodded, still unable to look at him.

  “As a lady. As a model lady, a lady of deportment, a lady deserving of every consideration, every finery. Do you remember Miss Jenny Lind?”

  “Oh, yes!” I raised my face eagerly. “I do!”

  “She was a model of womanhood.” He gestured to a painting I hadn’t noticed before; it hung on the opposite wall of the fireplace, and it was illuminated by a discreetly placed gaslight. It was of the Swedish Nightingale herself; a glorious portrait of a woman with softly waving brown hair, luminous eyes, in a virginal white dress. Mr. Barnum followed my gaze; I thought I saw a softer light in his eyes as they fell upon this portrait. I wondered at their relationship, and was surprised to feel a small prick of jealousy. I wanted, suddenly, someday, for someone to look at me in that reverent, adoring way.

  “Miss Lind was—is—a model of womanhood, and that is how I displayed her—her voice, of course, was without parallel. That was always understood. But there are other fine singers, most of whom you’ve never heard, Miss Bump. Why is that? Because I decided to play up her modesty, her gentility, her virtue. No singer had ever been promoted in that way. I have something of the same in mind for you. That your size makes you different is not in question; why call attention to it only? But your manner, your intelligence, your family heritage—that makes you just as socially acceptable as Mrs. Astor or Mrs. Belmont. That is how I intend to present you to the public—as a perfect little lady, a gentlewoman, a Society woman. This is what people will remember about you.”

  Tears stung my eyes as I listened to him; he had p
ut into words what I myself had desired for so long. Yes, my height would be the first thing people noticed about me, but it would not be the last. Colonel Wood had never understood this very fine point; he had been such a rough, despicable man. I hoped never to have to utter his name again.

  “Then I agree to work with you,” I told Mr. Barnum, holding my hand out to seal the bargain. He leaned forward and shook my hand heartily—not timidly, as most men did—and began to laugh.

  “Of course,” I interrupted him coolly. “I will require a salary commensurate to a lady of my fine breeding. And a percentage of all souvenirs and cartes de visites sold.”

  Mr. Barnum stopped laughing. He squinted at me with that bright, hard gaze. Then he laughed again, but not joyfully; just one short, rueful bark.

  “Five percent is all I’ll give.”

  “Ten.”

  “Seven.”

  “Eight, and I want to go to Europe first, to see the Queen, before I perform here. First-class passage, naturally.”

  “Eight. And I’ll consider Europe. It worked for Charlie, back in the day. Our good patriotic citizens never fail to be impressed by a Royal stamp of approval, for some reason.”

  “Deal,” I said, extending my hand once more.

  “Deal.” Once more, he shook it. Then he leaned even closer to me, suddenly deadly serious. “But there’s something we need to settle right away, Miss Bump.”

  “What is that?” My thoughts raced wildly; did he suspect about Colonel Wood’s contract?

  “It’s the one thing that could doom this whole enterprise.” He gazed at me, not blinking; I gazed right back, holding my breath. I waited for him to speak, for a terrifyingly long time; I heard every creak and movement in the house, a muffled door slam, a silvery tinkle of china, so many clocks ticking out of sync. Still, he stared at me, until I was about to blurt out Colonel Wood’s name—then, finally, he grinned.

  “Now, what are we going to do about your last name? Bump will never do.”