“What do I have to do?”
“Well, this is going to cost us both, Vinnie, as both our reputations are at stake. Look, I’m willing to pay the man what he asks. But it’s a very pretty sum, I don’t mind telling you. It’s going to take me a while to make it back. This is where you can help.”
“How? I’ll do anything—absolutely anything, I promise. I give you my word.”
“I’m glad to hear that, very glad to hear that. For I want you to convince Minnie to sign with me.”
“No.” I shook my head violently. I repeated it just in case he didn’t understand, as he wasn’t used to being contradicted. “No.”
“Vinnie, consider the facts. I believe Minnie had a very good time at your wedding, didn’t she?”
I didn’t reply. Yes, my shy little sister did have a good time at our wedding, much to my surprise. While she had clutched at my hand with every step, she had never been completely overwhelmed; indeed, she accepted it all with an equanimity that surprised me. And at night, she had even stayed up late to talk everything over; that was when her excitement truly could not be contained. During the day she was a model of bashful maidenhood; at night, she bubbled over as she tried to process all the lovely things she was experiencing. And as happy as she was to board the train back home, her letters since had betrayed a thirst for news they never had before. No more were they tear-stained pleas for me to come home; now she asked, in a clear hand, how Charles was, how her good friend Mr. Barnum was, did I have any new gowns made up yet, did I think she might be able to come visit again soon?
But I had promised myself—and more important, I had promised Mama, from whom I still felt somewhat estranged—that I would keep my sister safe. And that did not mean dragging her up onstage with me; indeed, the thought of Minnie onstage was so foreign that I could not comprehend it. What on earth would she do? Hold my hand and clutch her doll?
“No!” My tongue was almost tired of saying the word; would he not listen to me? “I told you before, this is not the life for her. If you want Nutt to join Charles and me, that’s fine, as long as he behaves like a gentleman. But no, Minnie must not. She’s much too young.”
“She’s no younger than Nutt; she’s not much younger than you were when you first left home.”
“That’s entirely different. Minnie is not me. She’s not as strong; she’s not as—”
“What?” He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “She’s not as bright as you? As capable of understanding the world? I don’t know if that’s true or not, but what you must acknowledge is that she’ll have you with her the entire time. You’re in a very different position now, and I’m no Colonel Wood. You’ll never be in the kind of danger you were then, and you’re a married woman, anyhow. You won’t be attracting the kind of people who prey on maidens.”
“Perhaps not, but—”
“And the four of you, together—now, you must know you will cause a sensation the likes of which this country has never seen. You will be the most famous quartet in America, I’ll bet my hat on it. Think of the audience you will reach; think of how many people will see how proper, how intelligent you all are—what joy you will bring! And you miss your sister, I know it. Charles is a good soul, but—I can see that you are lonely, at times.”
“Yes, maybe.” I was reluctant to admit it, but I was. “But that’s not the point. And anyway, I don’t believe Mama and Papa would allow it.” And I hoped that they wouldn’t, but I knew, deep down in my sinking soul, that they would. They were both anxious to repair our breach, and entrusting me with Minnie’s care would do that.
“You can talk them into it, I know.”
“I can’t refuse this, can I?” I was suddenly weary; I had a long evening ahead of me. The Vanderbilts’ dinner would run well past midnight.
“I don’t know why you would want to. Think of the possibilities for us all—and especially for Minnie. Think of the things she will see now! Think of how delighted she will be to join you!”
“I suppose so.” She would be happy to be with me; that was the one bright hope I clung to, defeated and deflated as I was—also ashamed, for it was my own actions, after all, that had brought about this situation. “Is there anything else you require of me? Does this repay my debt to you?”
“Now, don’t talk like that. There are no debts between friends, are there?”
“No, but between business partners, there often are.”
He pursed those crooked lips and looked away; his bushy brows gathered threateningly over his eyes. “Very well. Consider your debt fifty percent repaid. We’ll talk about the other fifty percent later.”
“I warn you, I do not have any other siblings to offer up as collateral.”
“I understand.”
“Fine.” I rose, and was about to leave when I felt compelled to turn around; I did not like leaving him this way. “I do apologize for not telling you about Colonel Wood. I simply wanted, so much, for you to like me and sign me. I was afraid to bring anything up that might prevent that.”
“Vinnie, I liked you from the instant I saw you. I would have done anything to keep you from going off—I would do anything, still, to prevent that. Friends?”
He looked so kindly, so earnest—it always surprised me to see how open and honest his face was. One would expect the Great Barnum to have the best poker face in the world, but he did not. His genius lay not in concealing but in sharing—his enthusiasms, his opinions, his disappointments, even. That he did not always reveal all the facts of the matter was really a small quibble; the great thing about him was that he, himself, believed everything he ever said.
So he believed we were friends—and so did I. He believed he had extracted a reasonable price from me—and for a time, I did, as well. So we shook hands and parted cordially, peace restored.
I would remember that handshake later. And recognize it as the moment that I gave away my sister, as well as my soul.
INTERMISSION
From Harper’s Weekly, December 24, 1864
SHERMAN
How often, as the alarm of Sherman’s march has rung into some neighborhood in Georgia which had before only heard the war afar off, it must have bitterly recalled to mind of some thoughtful Georgian the prophecy of Alexander Stephens four years ago. He foretold ravage and destruction.… And now at last, after four years, the prophecy is fulfilled where it was uttered.
From The American Woman’s Home,
by Catharine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe
In the Divine Word it is written, “The wise woman buildeth her house.” To be “wise” is to “choose the best means for accomplishing the best end.” It has been shown that the best end for a woman to seek is the training of God’s children for their eternal home, by guiding them to intelligence, virtue, and true happiness.
[ THIRTEEN ]
And Baby Makes Three
DO YOU THINK WE’LL LIKE THE NEW BABY?” MINNIE ASKED anxiously as she sat upon a stool, watching the stewardess unpack her trunk. We were in our stateroom on the S.S. City of Washington; finally, I was on my way to see Europe!
It was October 1864, and we were now a corporation—officially known as the General Tom Thumb Company, in partnership with Mr. Barnum. Newly incorporated, we had toured New England and Canada starting in the fall of 1863, presenting a “marvelous, miniature quartet of the most perfectly formed men and women ever seen,” just as Mr. Barnum had imagined. Charles performed his most famous impersonations (unfortunately, he could no longer fit into the body stocking required for him to imitate Hercules, so that was dropped), I sang songs, we both danced, Commodore Nutt performed some sketches, and Minnie recited a simple poem as Mr. Bleeker invited the smallest child in the audience to stand next to her, for effect.
Each performance ended with a reenactment of our wedding, all four of us wearing our original clothes—a touching tableau suggested by Mr. Barnum, who soon got wind of an odd phenomenon sweeping our nation: a phenomenon known as the “Tom Thumb wedding.”
Newspaper reports began to appear, describing children being dressed up in wedding finery and arranged in pretend weddings, complete with cake and roses and infant minister. It was the nuptial ceremony in miniature, reenacted in our honor. There were hundreds of “Tom Thumb wedding” parties; “Tom Thumb wedding” fundraisers; “Tom Thumb wedding” pageants at schools.
Was I supposed to be touched by this, viewing it as a tribute to our love? Or was I supposed to be offended, seeing it as a mockery, a joke? I never could decide. After all, my own married life still seemed to be pretend. So much of it took place under the microscope of the public eye. At the end of a long day of performing—of waltzing together, singing together, presenting the perfect little married couple, capped by reciting the marriage vows themselves—Charles and I had nothing to talk about, and no house to keep. We took our meals at our hotel in silence and went to our separate bedrooms, exhausted.
I shared my bed with Minnie, just as we had when we were young; I rocked her to sleep every night. Charles did not seem to mind, for he was so very fond of her. In my sister, he’d found the playmate he had been looking for all his life, a partner in mischief and fun. I often came upon the two of them playing a game of marbles upon their knees, or whispering plans to tie Mr. Bleeker’s shoelaces together while he and I sat discussing business.
Minnie, now fifteen and maturing into a very pretty young woman, had settled in with the troupe remarkably well. Her serious nature was now lightened by flashes of humor, and while she was quite shy onstage, offstage she was invariably eager to explore her new surroundings—enjoying museums, taking strolls in hidden parks, and trying on bonnets in millinery stores. I promised Mama and Papa that I would see that she ate well, never walked alone without an escort, and went to church every Sunday. Above all, I promised myself that I would keep her sweet, innocent nature just the way it was. And to that end, I kept her close by me at all times. Much closer than I did my husband.
Our inaugural tour was so immensely successful that Mr. Bleeker felt compelled to write to Mr. Barnum proposing the postponement of our European tour for a year. “Leaving now,” he cautioned, “would be throwing away the cream.”
To no one’s surprise, Mr. Barnum wrote back, “My dear Bleeker, Go on; save the cream. Your returns show it to be cream and not skim milk. Yours, P. T. Barnum.” So we continued our travels in the United States, this time heading south. We even crossed enemy lines for one brief, confused moment when Mr. Bleeker couldn’t read a map, although to my disappointment, the enemy did not appear to notice. We soon got our bearings and turned around, crossing back into the safety of Kentucky.
It was there, in Louisville, where I saw my old friend General Grant, who was on his way to take command of the Army of the Potomac. The tide of war was turning, ever so slightly; after New York was torn apart by the Draft Riots of 1863 (we were on the last train out, heading north to Canada, before rioters tore up the train tracks leading to and from the city!), the Union was amassing more and more victories. Chattanooga, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor—these battles had drained the Confederacy of more men than it could afford to lose. And General Sherman was at that time planning his assault on Atlanta.
It was also in Louisville that I exchanged photographs with a handsome young actor staying in our hotel; he introduced himself by reminding us his brother had attended our wedding.
A year later, I tore that photograph up in horror; John Wilkes Booth had just shot the President.
And now, at last, we were turning our sights to Europe. Our company remained the same, including Mr. Bleeker as manager, and his dear wife, Julia, who mothered Minnie and me in the best possible way, proving to be a boon companion and loyal friend as well as an experienced seamstress. We also employed Mr. Kellogg as treasurer (the poor man developed a nervous tic; as there were so few banks in those days, he practically slept with our proceeds under his pillow at night, forever fearful of robbers!); Mr. Davis, who assisted Mr. Bleeker; Mr. Richardson, our pianist; Rodney Nutt, George’s brother, who served as footman and groom for our small Shetland ponies; and Mr. Keeler, who did everything else that needed to be done.
There was one member, however, whom we had to leave behind, and whose replacement we would not meet until after we crossed the Atlantic. It was the very smallest person in a troupe of very small people, and it was the person whom Minnie was so eager to meet, as the City of Washington steamed its way down the Hudson toward open sea.
“Do you, Vinnie? Do you think we’ll like the new baby?” Minnie asked again, as the stewardess left our stateroom with a curtsy and a wish, in a strong Irish brogue, that we “have safe travels, wee that ye are, mind that you don’t get swept overboard!”
“I imagine we’ll like it. We liked the other one well enough.” I shrugged; I had not gotten too attached to the previous infant, regarding it as simply another prop I had to use onstage. However, both Charles and Minnie had become alarmingly attached, and I had warned Mr. Barnum that this would happen.
This, then, was the last thing I owed him, the last price—or so I thought at the time—that I had to pay for my carelessness regarding Colonel Wood: I had to agree to participate in one colossal humbug, the biggest one of them all.
I had to pretend that I was the mother of an infant daughter. I had to allow Mr. Barnum to fill the papers with the news that General Tom Thumb and his wife, Mrs. Stratton, were the proud parents of an infant daughter, as yet unnamed. I had to accept the mountains of cards and letters of congratulations, the acres of miniature blankets and nightgowns that would not cover a chipmunk, let alone an infant, but the public, naturally, assumed our child was of fairylike proportions. Mrs. Astor sent an exquisite miniature cradle; Mrs. Vanderbilt, a tiny christening gown.
We borrowed a baby. How callous that sounds now! But Mr. Barnum persuaded me to pose with a foundling—a very small one—that he had personally selected from a charity hospital. In Mr. Mathew Brady’s studio, just across the street from the Museum, I sat holding that infant, who was beribboned and beruffled in borrowed baby finery (for the things given to us were much too small), smiling at Mr. Brady’s camera.
The child, I must say, was well behaved, although rather heavy for me; by the time we were done, the crook of my arm ached.
In our last few appearances at the Museum, in preparation for our European tour, we had introduced our “child” to the public. “Miss General Tom Thumb,” she was called, as I paraded her about the stage; no one thought to christen her with a first name. Although I suppose this made it easier to return her to the hospital, as if she were a pair of shoes that did not fit, on the eve of our sailing.
Easier for me, at any rate; not for Minnie, and not for Charles, either. They both grew quite fond of the child, who was cared for by a hired nurse when we weren’t performing. Charles had so enjoyed playing with her; he dangled his watch chain above her until she gurgled and cooed; he tickled her; he sang her songs.
And Minnie, who loved all children, who still traveled with a doll although she no longer played with it, well—she had cried and cried when we had to give the baby back, kissing the infant until I was alarmed that she might smother her.
She had tears in her eyes now, as she thought of it. “She was such a little thing. I hope someone good takes care of her. It seems so sad to give her up like that.”
“I know, but it’s much easier to get a new child when we land. Traveling on a boat would not be fun for an infant—and besides, Mr. Barnum felt that that baby was getting too big. Babies will grow, of course.”
“But Vinnie, don’t you miss her? Don’t you want a baby of your own? One you’ll never have to give back?”
I stopped in the middle of arranging some flowers that had been sent to our room by General Winfield Scott, conveying his best wishes for a safe voyage. The boat was starting to rock a bit, as we must have been heading out through the Narrows. And although I was a very good sailor, my stomach lurched at that moment, as I contemplated the noti
on of ever having a baby. It was still the one thing that could make me have nightmares. Always, it was a dream of blood and pain and cries and finally—nothing.
I wanted to cry out, “No! No, I never want a child, and neither do you!” But I knew it would hurt Minnie, who loved children so; I didn’t want her to think I was as coldhearted as I really was. So instead I answered, “Of course, Minnie. But wanting a baby isn’t the same as actually having one. And you know—I’ve told you, darling, remember?—that I can’t.”
“But Charles wants a baby, I know he does. He told me. Oh, poor Charles!”
“Poor Charles will be just fine. And in the meantime, we can all play with the new baby, and care for it, and I imagine it will be a very nice one, at that. Perhaps, since we’re getting it in France, it will even cry with an accent!” I smiled, coaxingly, at my sister. She looked so pretty in her new traveling dress, nearly identical to mine, which was black satin while hers was brown. We both had such lovely wardrobes for this trip, smart cloaks and fur caps and muffs, so many pairs of gloves I couldn’t imagine ever running out, but of course knew that I would. I always ran out of gloves, at an appalling rate; I simply shook far too many hands. My husband might kiss every lady he met—and he did, much to my annoyance—but I shook the hands of them all, plus their husbands. And my supply of gloves could not keep up.
Minnie’s dark eyes twinkled at the thought of a baby crying in French, even as tears still rolled down her cheeks. She laughed, just as I’d hoped she would, her little dimple showing. And I relaxed—for the moment, anyway—and proposed that we dress for dinner.
I have fond memories of that first journey across the ocean. The weather was fine much of the time, and, dragging my steps with me wherever I went, I was able to look over the railing, marveling at the whitecaps, the seagulls that followed us like a noisy white cloud, the occasional whale surfacing perilously close to the boat, so much more thrilling to see than the poor whale in his tub back at the Museum!
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 22