The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  I turned away. I detested this whole charade. But I could see no way of ending it without exposing it—and Mr. Barnum, not to mention myself. I left the room with a bitter taste in my mouth and a bitterer stain on my soul, knowing that Minnie felt, in her sweet, susceptible heart, that what she had said was true; she could never love another baby as much as she loved Cosette.

  I also knew that she would say the same thing again, in a few weeks, when we went to England. Only instead of Cosette, it would be Isabel. Or Alice, or Beatrice—or whatever she decided to name the next one. My sister’s heart was endlessly elastic, but I had to wonder, even then, how long she could go on mourning baby after baby after baby.

  I also had to wonder why I, the mother in this particular play written by Mr. P. T. Barnum, never did. I never shed one tear over any of those infants—not until much, much later in my life.

  INTERMISSION

  From The New York Times, December 26, 1865

  GENERAL NEWS

  The Commissioner of Agriculture has received from the American Legation at Jeddo, Japan, several hundred varieties of fruit and flower seeds indigenous to that country, many of which, the consul believes, may be cultivated to advantage in this country.

  One thousand four hundred men are now employed on the Reno, Oil Creek and Pit Hole Railroad. In about two weeks the railroad will be open.

  Quite a number of plantations near Augusta, Ga., have changed hands; lately the purchasers are mostly from the North.

  Frederick Douglass has written a letter accepting the position of delegate in Washington of the colored men of New York.

  From The Blairsville Press, Blairsville, Pennsylvania, April 19, 1869

  General Sheridan received a few days since the following report from Maj. General Schofield, at Ft. Leavenworth: “General Custer reports from the headwaters of the Washita, March 21st, the successful termination of his expedition. He has rescued the captive white women, Mrs. Morgan and Miss White; made the Indians submit to the Government, and holds three Cheyenne chiefs as security for the fulfillment of his promise. The troops are in good health.”

  [ FOURTEEN ]

  Thrills and Chills Guaranteed to Tingle the Spine!

  (or, Trains, Indians, Runaway Wagons, and Mormons)

  OUR DAUGHTER DIED IN SEPTEMBER 1866. MR. BARNUM put out the press release: “The Infant Daughter of General and Mrs. Tom Thumb Dead of Brain Inflammation.” Even in death, she remained nameless.

  I killed her; I demanded her death. But I did not mourn her; that was Minnie’s duty, one that she begged to be allowed to perform.

  “Let me reply to these letters, Sister. It will give me some pleasure.”

  “Oh, Minnie, no, darling. You don’t have to do that—Mr. Barnum’s secretaries will send out a card.”

  “No, let me, Vinnie. It’s odd, but I feel as if I owe that to her—to all the babies entrusted to us these past few years. It will soothe me to do so—and the people are so nice to write like this.” Minnie held up a letter for me to read.

  Dear Mrs. General Tom Thumb, I am very sorry to here of the loss of your Fairy Angel who will surely be in Heaven now waiting for you. We lost a Daughter ourselves to the fever and I trust that they are both in a better place.

  I returned the letter with a shaking hand and shakier conscience; I could not bear to keep reading. As relieved as I was to end this charade, I did not enjoy knowing that we had played so upon the emotions of those to whom we had previously given only joy. But I could not continue the practice of snatching babies and returning them as they grew too big; too big to complete the happy tableau that Mr. Barnum was determined to present of perfectly formed miniature father, mother, and child. So I demanded that we end it; we had made enough money on the European tour that Mr. Barnum had no choice but to agree with me.

  Unfortunately, the only possible way to end the charade was to “kill” the child that had never really existed, except in the public’s mind. And so I was a murderer now.

  But the deed was done; the letters and cards would soon subside. We would never have to speak of babies again—or so I thought.

  “All right, you answer them. But, Minnie, promise me, if it gets too hard for you, you must stop. I know you—I know your tender heart.”

  Minnie nodded, picked up her pen, and began to write; her sweet eyes were full of tears, but she answered every one in my name, writing as tenderly as if it had been her own child who died.

  This was late September of 1866; we were back from Europe, resting up in Middleborough—enjoying a nation now at peace.

  Mama and Papa were growing older, but they were content, now that all their children were back home. Safely returned from combat, Benjamin and James had begun families of their own; indeed, all of Mama and Papa’s children were married, with the exception of Minnie. And of course no one ever expected her to wed; she was fully part of my household, as Charles was quite as devoted to her as I was. We made our own little family. Whatever fears I had in taking her away from home and exposing her to the bigger world were forgotten as I relied upon her, more and more, for companionship. With Minnie always with me, I never had to spend much time alone with Charles.

  Mama and Papa, however, had come to view my marriage most favorably. Papa especially doted upon Charles. He made him a complete set of miniature hand tools, such as any industrious Middleborough man would need. They were beautiful, hand-carved, and he made an equally handsome miniature toolbox in which to store them.

  As disturbed as Mama was by the baby business, she never blamed Charles for it. She took to referring to Mr. Barnum as “that Barnum” once more, and sent back every present he ever gave her until finally he got the message. It bothered him, for he respected my mother immensely, often saying she was of “good, reliable New England stock.” But Mama could not forgive him—even if she could not help herself from loving me in spite of my own guilt, and trying, over and over, to find an excuse for my behavior.

  “I suppose that man left you no choice,” she said one day soon after we returned from Europe. We were in the kitchen, knitting companionably. I was wearing a simple country gown without hoops, and my hair was parted plainly and loosely in the middle, gathered in a knot at the base of my neck. My feet were clad in those flat child’s slippers I used to find so tiresome but which now brought me sweet relief. It was such a blessing not to have to dress fashionably, mindful of hoops and trains; not to have my hair done up elaborately, anchored with heavy jeweled combs that caused my head to ache; not to have to converse nonstop with total strangers. Rocking with my mother in her cozy kitchen full of freshly preserved vegetables and fruits, jugs full of orange bittersweet branches with their red berries, the scent of apples in the brisk New England autumn air—it was utter bliss.

  “I suppose he just put up handbills declaring it a fact, and you could do nothing but go along with him,” my mother said with a sniff.

  “Mama, it wasn’t exactly that way.”

  “Do you know how many people here in Middleborough wanted to see your daughter after they read about her in the newspapers? Do you know how many times I have had to make excuses to my own neighbors? Vinnie, that Barnum simply doesn’t consider other people in anything he does. I don’t know why you admire him so.”

  “There are more sides to this story than you know” was all I could tell my dear mother. But I refused to continue this line of talk about Mr. Barnum; the man had sorrows of his own to bear. For he was still feeling, keenly, the loss of the American Museum in a horrific fire that occurred in 1865.

  Oh, to think of that grand building and all that was in it, going up in flames! To imagine the horror, the spectacle, the heartbreaking screams of the animals panicking and running into the street only to be shot by police, fearful for the public’s safety; the sickening stench of burning flesh and feathers; the heat of the conflagration as it spread greedily from floor to floor. Mr. Barnum was not present at the time, thank Providence! But many a brave employee endeavored to s
ave what they could; miraculously, none lost his life.

  Mr. Barnum soon opened another museum, farther uptown, but I never thought his heart was fully in it; so much of his own history—as well as mine—had gone up in flames on Ann Street.

  “Mr. Barnum has suffered such terrible losses,” I reminded my mother. “And his wife is no helpmeet for him.”

  “Have you ever met her?”

  “Once, in Bridgeport, while we were visiting Charles’s parents.”

  “What is she like?”

  I laid my knitting down for a moment and frowned, remembering. “She was as I had pictured her—thin, sallow, with graying hair, sunken eyes. A sour set to her mouth. She carried smelling salts with her everywhere she went, and retired at least four times a day to her room to nap. Poor Mr. Barnum!”

  “ ‘Poor Mr. Barnum’?” Mama snorted. “It sounds as if he got the kind of woman he deserves. I’m sure he’s dragged her to the devil and back many times, that man!”

  “Oh, Mama, no. You don’t know him, not like I do. You don’t—” But I broke off.

  Mama did not reply, but she did look at me with a sudden sharpness. I had seen her look at my brothers and sisters like this, as if she could see right through to their hearts—and all the secrets they thought they carried within them. But she had never before looked at me in this piercing, knowing way, as I had always confounded her so.

  I attacked my knitting with such dedication, sparks must have flown from my needles; at least I assumed that was what made my face burn with such surprising heat. No more was spoken of Mr. Barnum that day.

  Not long after that, however, I was ready to pack my trunk again. Left too long to my own devices, to muse and ponder and dream, left to be truly a wife to my husband in the dull, flickering glow of lantern light instead of footlights, I felt as if I was suffocating. Over and over, I returned to that tree trunk in Papa’s cow pasture to pull up the weeds that continued to grow over my name.

  What did I fear so, in the warm bosom of those who only loved me? I could not say, as at the time I did not recognize it for the fear it was. I simply felt driven to see, to experience—to give of myself to those whose approval should have meant less than my own husband’s but instead meant so much more. I simply knew that I could relax and sleep only on a rocking train or a bobbing boat. I simply realized I needed the warmth of an audience like a plant needs sun.

  And I simply understood that the most satisfying moments in my life were spent poring over maps and train routes, discovering new towns that were popping up all over this great country of ours. I could not bear to think that there was somewhere I had never been, someone who might not know my name.

  So in late autumn of 1866—after remaining in Middleborough for a suitable period of mourning for our “child”—Mr. Barnum and I decided that the Tom Thumb Company should once again set out, this time to the Deep South, where we had not been able to go during the four bloody years of the War Between the States.

  “It will be lonely without a baby,” Minnie said softly as we settled into the train for our first leg of the trip. Eastern trains were becoming much more commodious for the traveler; some, like this one, even had upholstered seats if you paid extra to travel in what was called the “first class” section. There were also separate, private water closets for ladies and gentlemen! The modern world was astounding!

  Commodore Nutt was once again with us, completing the perfect miniature foursome; across the aisle, he and Charles soon had a lively game of cards going with Mr. Bleeker and the other men of our troupe. While I did not approve of cards, at least the game kept Nutt out of more serious trouble. How a man could have such an appealing, impish presence onstage and be so completely unpleasant off, I could not fathom! Perhaps it was because of our earlier history, or perhaps it was because he sensed my disapproval now—either way, he kept as far away from me as possible. Although Charles, of course, held no grudge; Charles would not recognize a grudge if it came up and bit him on his pug little nose.

  “It won’t be lonely, dear—think of how many people we will meet!” I patted Minnie’s arm excitedly; I had a pleasant, bubbly feeling in my stomach, as if I had swallowed a giggle. I always felt this way at the beginning of a journey.

  “But we always have to say goodbye to them.” My sister sighed, leaning her curly head against my shoulder. “And that’s dreadful.”

  I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Remember how you used to call everyone ‘dreadful’?”

  “Did I?” She laughed, shaking her head so that her hair tickled my chin. “I don’t remember.”

  “You did. You even thought Mr. Barnum was dreadful at first.”

  “How silly of me! I was so little then! I don’t think anyone is dreadful now.”

  “You don’t? Not anyone?” I couldn’t help myself; I inclined my head toward Nutt, who was slapping down a card and laughing boisterously, causing all the other passengers in the car to look his way.

  Minnie followed my gaze. “Oh! Well, yes, I suppose I do think he is rather dreadful, at that. I’m so bored by his everlasting sonnets!” Then she closed her eyes and yawned, nestling her body even closer to mine.

  I was glad to hear her say this. For I had feared lately that that horrid man had become quite smitten with her. He followed her around and attempted to sit next to her at mealtimes, reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets to her—which, kind as she was, she always applauded, complimenting him upon his memory. Several news articles had hinted at a romance or even assumed a marriage between these two—and Mr. Barnum, I knew, would not be displeased if there was.

  But I would, for I wanted to keep Minnie to myself. She was the one person in my life whom I could love without guilt or shame or pretense. I was also selfish enough to think that I could fulfill that same role for her, and that she would be content with that. She always had been, after all; there was no reason to believe that we couldn’t continue on in this way.

  And so, as the train began its comforting sway, back and forth, back and forth, along the rickety railroad ties, I rocked my sister to sleep. Just as I always had, just as I always would. It was a comforting, pleasant thought with which to begin our latest journey together.

  IF EASTERN TRAINS WERE BECOMING MORE COMFORTABLE, THEN southern trains were still mired in the past—if they existed at all. For it soon was evident that the only thing left of the South, now that the War was over, was poverty. The scenery that we passed was a smoky nightmare of burnt-out plantations, scorched cotton fields, wrecked locomotives piled up next to railroad tracks. Our travel through these states was disjointed and unpredictable, as so many of the train routes had been broken up by the Union: tracks pulled up, bridges destroyed so that the Rebels could not move their troops easily from one point to the next. And there simply wasn’t enough money to rebuild them—so we often had to travel by stage or omnibus, hiring wagons to cart our miniature carriages, in which we always drove about town before our first show.

  It was such a pleasure to see the joy on the faces of those poor, noble citizens of the Old South whenever they spied our polished little blue carriage, or Commodore Nutt’s walnut-shaped one. Shouts of “Tom Thumb! Ol’ Tom Thumb! Mrs. General! Minnie Warren!” would follow us to our hotel, where we would disembark and greet the crowd that had gathered to laugh and applaud. After the hardships they had endured, it was clear they needed entertainment, and we were happy to provide it as we continued the same program we had performed throughout England and France—without the baby, of course.

  Charles and I barely glanced at each other while we danced “The Tom Thumb Polka”; watched by so many other eyes, we had no need to look into each other’s. Our true intimacy was with the audience. Never did we talk so animatedly as we did with our visitors after the performance, in the little informal levees that we held, where we signed our cartes de visites. Charles happily bestowed his kiss upon every female who wanted one, and even those who didn’t, and while I still could not approve of such indiscreet
behavior, I enjoyed shaking hands with my many admirers. I often thought about how frightened, how ashamed, I had been in my early days upon the river; those dangerous times were like a dream to me. For I was Mrs. General Tom Thumb, beloved and admired, and no one would want to harm me now.

  I always made it a point to wave to my new friends as they left clutching my photograph; I turned and greeted the next in line just as I heard the clink of coins rattling in the money box.

  While none of our many admirers would ever have harmed us, we did face dangers on the road. We had, by necessity, to travel with great sums of money, Mr. Kellogg’s constant nightmare. There was always the danger of being robbed, particularly as our travel arrangements were often detailed in the Press.

  One night we stopped at a very desolate hotel in Opelika, Alabama; the stairs leading up from the “lobby”—really just one large, stained spittoon—were merely rough boards loosely nailed to the rail. Our rooms were on the second floor, which was a blessing, as the third floor was reachable only by ladder!

  The few inhabitants we had seen on the first floor were of such rough, dissipated appearance that our entire company was happy to gather in one room for the night, especially as Commodore Nutt was feeling poorly, suffering from the quinsy. We passed an uneasy few minutes until we heard a sudden scratching at the door, followed by retreating footsteps.

  “Look here,” Charles suddenly said, as we all rushed to open the door; on it was freshly chalked the message 11:35.

  “Whatever can it mean?” I wondered, and Rodney Nutt piped up, “It must be a message from the Ku Klux! It must mean someone is going to die at precisely eleven-thirty-five tonight!”