The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  “He also admitted it’s hard to tell,” Minnie continued, happily unaware of my thoughts. “Of course, Dr. Mills said the child will be tiny—as tiny as me!”

  “But, Minnie, you—” I stopped. Minnie looked so unconcerned, so happy—so well. She did not appear to recall that she herself had not been a tiny baby, and neither had I. But the doctor? Surely he knew better?

  “Yes, of course,” I told my sister, still holding her hand. I could not prevent myself from searching her, appraising her, top to bottom, as if she were a new broodmare Papa had decided to purchase; she was so very small, so delicate. As if made from wishes and dreams, not flesh and blood. Then I shut my eyes as a cold wave of terror washed over me: She must not have this child. She must not. For her, for me—giving life meant summoning death.

  But I did not tell her this now; I simply sat and listened to her talk excitedly about the baby, how happy Charles would be, as he did love children so, how we all would love this child, we would all raise her together, she would be ours forever. And my heart twisted itself about in knots as guilt, recrimination, and fear all fought for possession of it. Neither one winning, but none leaving, either—each parked itself in my heart, setting up housekeeping. I knew they would never leave; I knew I would have to carry them all around forever.

  She must not have this baby—the phrase repeated itself over and over, wearing such a sharp groove in my mind, I had to grit my teeth from the pain of it. I needed to talk to someone, I needed to figure this out, for that was what I did—I figured things out. I took action. I made plans. I kept my sister safe. I was all mind, not heart—

  And there was only one person who understood that. There was only one person I could turn to.

  AS THE TRAIN PULLED INTO BRIDGEPORT, I WONDERED HOW MANY times I had taken this journey. It was hard to keep track, for I had taken so very many journeys by now. Since returning, triumphantly and in a blaze of headlines, from our world tour in 1872, the General Tom Thumb Company had gone back out to revisit this country, telling stories of our travels; this was when Edward joined us. However, after that tour, Charles finally put his foot down; he was tired of mimicking people onstage and now wanted to mimic our Society friends by living a life of leisure.

  So he bought a yacht, and a matching captain’s jacket and hat, recommended to him by Mr. Belmont; he bought horses—fast, expensive horses—and built fine stables for them; he bought me jewels, just as his friends Mr. Vanderbilt and Mr. Astor did for their wives; he ordered the finest cigars from Mr. Barnum’s man in New York. He built us our grand house in Middleborough, just across from Mama and Papa’s old homestead, and furnished it with the most exquisite furniture and carpets and draperies, much of it built specially for us. The stair steps were not steep, the windows were lower to the ground so that we might easily see out of them; there was even a special kitchen built with sinks and a stove only two feet off the ground.

  It was all grand; it was all impressive. Middleborough twittered and preened whenever dear Caroline Astor came to visit, and even erected a sign at the town border proclaiming this the Home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Stratton, or General and Mrs. Tom Thumb.

  It was also less real to me than the flimsy scenery we carted around whenever we toured. I wasn’t the mimic that my husband was; while I could do a fair representation of a satisfied lady of the manor, I had yet to learn how to successfully impersonate a wife offstage. While my sister looked for ways to steal even more time with her husband, I made up excuses to spend less time with mine. A quick weekend up in New York, a jaunt over to Bridgeport; my blood always stirred with excitement even as my nerves relaxed in relief each time I boarded the train out of Middleborough.

  Even today; even as I still felt—physically, as if I had been clubbed repeatedly—the blow of Minnie’s news. Yet I looked forward to traveling; even more did I look forward to seeing Mr. Barnum. I reached inside my reticule and took out a piece of pink chamois, rubbing it all over my face to take the shine and dirt off, just as we pulled into the station in Bridgeport.

  As I stood on the top of the stairs, my favorite porter beamed in recognition and bustled over to lift me down to the platform. “Good morning, Mrs. General! Here to see Mr. Barnum?”

  “Yes.” I handed him a nickel.

  “I thought so—he’s outside in his carriage, waiting for you.”

  “He is?” Mr. Barnum never came to the station himself. How odd that he had done so today of all days—but then again, perhaps it wasn’t. Tears filled my eyes; I had not yet cried, so determined was I to fix Minnie’s “problem.” But the relief of being able to share this with someone who possessed sense and determination; the relief of being able to share my burden, period, with the one person I desired to share my burdens with—it was so unexpectedly sweet. I reached into my reticule again, this time removing a handkerchief; dabbing my eyes, I blinked away the rest of my tears.

  Then I followed the porter outside to the curb, where Mr. Barnum’s enclosed carriage was waiting. He was standing next to it, bundled up in a heavy coat with a white fur collar that reached to the bottom of his ears even as his white curls brushed the tops, so that his face—pink as a baby’s in the cold—stood out vividly. He was heavier now, more wrinkled, a bit round-shouldered, with a tendency to lean more decidedly upon his walking stick. But his gray eyes were just as lively, just as perceptive, as ever.

  “What’s wrong?” he barked as soon as he saw me. He threw his cigar upon the pavement, crushed it with his walking stick, and lifted me up into the carriage with such haste that I swallowed my words of greeting before they could reach my lips. And then we were inside, Mr. Barnum rapping his hand upon the outside of the carriage, signaling for the driver to go. “Take the long way,” he shouted, sticking his head out the door before he shut it quickly against the cold. We lurched away, the horses soon settling into a smooth, slow trot that caused the carriage to sway gently, the lanterns—lit in the gloom of this depressing January day—to swing to and fro, casting ominous shadows upon us.

  “It’s Minnie,” I said breathlessly, shivering, although there were heated bricks on the floor and hidden in the corners of the seat. Mr. Barnum leaned forward and tucked a buffalo robe about me; it was so heavy that I felt pinned to the seat, unable to move. But I was warm, anyway.

  “What is it? Is there trouble with her husband? I always wondered about him; he seemed too darn polite, even for an Englishman.”

  “No, not that. She’s—she’s with child.” I whispered this, feeling for the first time the indelicacy of the subject.

  “She is? Why, that’s wonderful!” A great, crooked grin pushed across his face, and he clapped his gloved hands in delight. “How happy you all must be!”

  “No!” I shouted it, frustrated that he did not immediately understand the situation. “No, it’s not wonderful. It’s terrible. Don’t you see? She’s—we must do something about it. Minnie was not—I was not—we were both normal-size babies. Mama always told us this, don’t you remember? I weighed six pounds when I was born. Do you know how much Minnie weighs now? Thirty pounds, at the most. Can you imagine—well, you were born on a farm, you must know! I remember Mama and Delia saying, long ago, how I must never—and now Minnie is, and she can’t, she can’t, it will kill her, and we must stop it!” Somehow I had flung that oppressive robe off me, kicking it to the floor, and now I was rocking back and forth, my arms clutching my shoulders. I knew I sounded wild, unhinged, but I did not care.

  Comprehension dawned upon Mr. Barnum’s face; he paled, then colored, then his eyes narrowed, as if he was squinting at some faraway point, and I took a big, crackling breath and wiped my face with the sleeve of my coat. He was thinking; the wheels in that great, perpetual-motion brain of his were turning, and I was weak with relief. I knew I could depend on him.

  “Excuse me, Vinnie, for being so forward, but we must dispense with modesty. How far along is she?”

  “She thinks almost three months, but the idiot doctor appare
ntly can’t tell. He told her the baby would be tiny, like her—I don’t know if he’s totally ignorant, or if he told her that so she wouldn’t worry. I suspect the former.”

  “Country doctors.” Mr. Barnum snorted. “I’ll find the finest New York doctor and send him to Middleborough.”

  “Yes, that would be a relief.” I nodded, hesitating—but then I decided to plunge forward, as time was of the essence. “However, would he be willing to—I know there are things you can do, if the health of the mother is in question. It’s probably past the stage of any prevention powders, but—”

  “What? Prevention powders?” Mr. Barnum stared at me, aghast; then he blushed. He actually blushed; I had never seen him do that, not even when the wild Circassian girl asked if she could dance bare-bodiced at the Museum. “What on earth do you know about such things?”

  I met his gaze levelly. “When I was on the river. A girl—a dancer—once thought I might need something of the kind. She was quite mistaken, I’m glad to say. However, it was the first time I had heard of these things, and now I’m happy that I did, for I can think clearly about Minnie’s situation.”

  “Vinnie, you never cease to amaze me,” Mr. Barnum said, grasping my hand. “You are the most remarkable woman I have ever met.”

  I smiled at him, happy to hear this; it filled my soul with gratitude and yearning and other unfamiliar emotions that I usually did not have time to miss—except when I was with him. But now was not the time to reflect upon such things.

  “We need to consider the option of doing—something—so that Minnie does not carry the child to term.”

  “But do you think there’s the possibility that the child might be tiny, as the doctor says?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is that Minnie and I were not. Nor was Charles, remember? That’s three of us who were born normal-size that I know of—and that’s enough for me. I have no idea how we’ll be able to convince her, for she is over the moon with happiness—she said she’s doing this for me, too.” And now I was face-to-face with the hard, unpleasant truth of the matter, the factor I had tried my best to ignore but which would not go away. I looked at him and took a big breath. “All that baby business, back in the sixties. It broke her heart to say goodbye to those infants. She keeps saying how glad she’ll be not to have to say goodbye to her child, how happy Charles will be, how happy I must be. She thought I mourned those children just as she did, but I did not. She says she’s so glad she can do this for me! So it’s all my fault!”

  “The one thing you cannot do is blame yourself.” Mr. Barnum shook his head. “Believe me, I know. When I lost Pauline last year, I couldn’t stop blaming myself, wondering if I could have seen the symptoms earlier.”

  “But this is different! Pauline died of fever! I have pushed Minnie into making a decision that will cost her her life.”

  “You don’t know that, Vinnie. You don’t know if she wouldn’t have done this anyway.”

  “She never would have met Edward if it wasn’t for me!”

  Mr. Barnum pressed his crooked lips together, as if trying to prevent himself from saying anything further. He did not; I think he understood that I needed to say these things. Instead, he pushed himself off his seat and lurched over to my side of the carriage; he put his arm about me and gathered me close so that I could lean my head against his broad chest. He had never touched me in this way before; always he had been proper, respectful. A kiss upon the cheek in greeting, a fond handshake when embarking upon a new venture, a pat on the back in farewell.

  But never had he held me; never had any man held me like this, so completely, as if he had a right to do so. Not even my husband, who would not have attempted to unless I first instructed him how. But I would never have done so; it was not in my nature, so accustomed was I to cringing from a man’s touch, fearing the intent behind it, fearing my own helplessness in the face of it. I had never before missed being held.

  Until now.

  I felt my limbs loosen; no longer did I feel responsible for holding them together within my skin, assembled correctly, upright and proper. At that moment, all my bones and muscles and tissue melted together, melted away, melted into someone else, someone strong and caring, someone just as capable as I. Someone who would keep my bones and muscles and tissue from draining away altogether, who would give them back to me, intact, when I needed them again.

  But I did not need them right now; I was content to give them away. I was content to simply be—with another. With Mr. Barnum.

  We sat like that for a long while, as the carriage indeed took the long way around Bridgeport, swaying rhythmically, hypnotically. The clap of the horses’ hooves against the hard, frozen streets was muffled by the sound of my own heartbeat, Mr. Barnum’s breathing, the faint tick of his pocket watch hidden beneath layers of fur, wool, and understanding. It would be all right, I thought drowsily; Minnie would be all right. I had someone to help me, someone who understood.

  Someone who didn’t need me to be strong. This was such a novel sensation, I didn’t quite know what to do with it. But given time, I thought, as I nestled farther into Mr. Barnum’s welcoming arms, I could learn.

  I WAITED OUTSIDE MINNIE’S ROOM; DR. FEINWAY WAS THROUGH examining her and had stepped out onto one of the balconies with a cigar. I had held Minnie’s hand as she bravely allowed him to measure her abdomen, her hips; as he listened to her heart, felt her pulse, put a strange tubelike contraption against her stomach, which had distended alarmingly in just the last couple of weeks, since my return from Bridgeport.

  In that short time she had changed from a slender, delicate reed to a puffy, swollen thing. Her ankles and wrists were no longer separate, defined entities but rather ugly extensions of her arms and legs. Her body was already stretching to absorb this child, and to my unpracticed yet worried eyes, it looked as if it couldn’t stretch much more.

  But she was happy, despite her obvious physical discomfort. She smiled all the time, when she wasn’t retching over a chamber pot or falling into a deep, exhausted sleep in the middle of the day.

  “Mrs. Stratton.” Dr. Feinway beckoned to me from the other end of the hall; I slid off my chair and followed him.

  Charles suddenly popped out of his room, blocking my path. He held a stick of wood in one hand, a miniature carving tool in another. “Vinnie, I’m making a spinning top for the baby, do you want to see? Your father showed me how to carve it!”

  “Later, dear.” I patted his arm. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I need to discuss something with the doctor.”

  “Oh.” His face, which had been smooth and happy with his accomplishment, clouded over just a bit, which wasn’t much. A lifetime of pleasing the public had ironed out most of the muscles necessary to frown. “Minnie is all right, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll tell you all about it later.” I gently nudged him aside and joined the doctor, leading him down the stairs and into the library, which Charles had designed in almost perfect imitation of Mr. Barnum’s own. Once the doors were closed, Dr. Feinway refused my offer of a seat; he was obviously agitated, so I could do nothing but remain standing, looking up at him with my neck at an uncomfortable angle. But he did not appear to notice how awkward this was for me.

  “Where is Mr. Newell?” he asked abruptly.

  Evading his piercing gaze, I busied myself with straightening a doily upon a table. “He is up in Boston for the day, on business.” I did not reveal that I had sent him there; I fully intended to discuss the situation with him after I had all the facts from the doctor. But Edward believed everything Minnie told him—if she had said the sky was yellow, he would have accepted it as fact; his head, not to mention his heart, was not steady enough to hear or speak plainly.

  “Well, I would have preferred to have him here. But there is no time, not even for delicacy, so forgive me, Mrs. Stratton. Your sister appears to me to be carrying a normal-size child; according to her calculations, it’s still early, but she’s already
retaining fluid, and her pulse is rapid. There is really only one reason for this. The baby is straining her system.”

  “Are you sure her—calculations—are correct?” I still could not help thinking of Minnie as that shy shadow that trailed me wherever I went, except to school; surely she had made a mistake.

  “It appears she kept a very detailed diary of her—womanly days. She was obviously planning this child, keeping track. So yes, I believe her calculations. She’s a little over four months along.”

  Minnie had been planning this? It wasn’t just one—singular—unfortunate accident? Unwanted images filled my head, of Edward and Minnie in bed night after night, clinging together, sweating, panting, loving each other as man and woman were supposed to do, but as I had never experienced, never wanted to experience—I was dizzy, nauseated, desperate to sit down so that I would not collapse. But the doctor remained standing. He was a tall, aristocratic man with impeccably shaped, buffed nails. For some reason I could not take my eyes off them; they were obviously a source of pride for him. Could a man be a good doctor and have such vanity? But obviously Mr. Barnum thought he was; I must accept him.

  “Then what are we to do?” I asked, tearing my gaze away from his hands. Finally, he appeared to notice the disparity in our heights; his eyes, behind gleaming spectacles, softened, and he looked about for a chair. I gestured to one, and he took it. I had never been so glad to sit down in all my life; once relieved of their duty, my legs began to tremble. I had to press my hands upon my thighs to keep my silk skirt from rustling like aspen leaves in the wind.

  “I think the only humane thing is to convince your sister to abort her child. There’s no question it will be a normal-size baby if it’s taxing her so early on.”