The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb

by Melanie Benjamin

  From The Popular Science Monthly, April 1878

  ON EDISON’S TALKING-MACHINE, BY ALFRED M. MAYER

  Mr. Thomas A. Edison has recently invented an instrument which is undoubtedly the acoustic marvel of the century. It is called the “Speaking Phonograph,” or, adopting the Indian idiom, one may call it “The Sound-Writer who talks.”

  [ SIXTEEN ]

  The Curtain Falls, Between Acts

  AT FIRST, I DID NOT KNOW HOW I COULD GO ON WITHOUT her.

  When Minnie died, part of me died with her. For I had lost not only the sister whom I loved more than anyone else in the world; I also lost the one person in my life who had ever looked up to me. She and I had shared things that no one else could imagine; for so much of our lives, we had shared a chair at table, shared a bed, shared a train seat, shared clothing, even. How often had Mama cut up one of her old dresses and made it over into two smaller ones, just for Minnie and me? There was so much in this world that was too big for one of us alone, but that, together, we could just about fill. Except for hearts, that is; Minnie, alone, was big enough to fill up the hearts of everyone she met. And now my own heart was so empty I decided to put it away for good. There was only one other person who might have had some use for it, but I was no longer speaking to him.

  Eventually, however, I did go on, in a fashion, without my sister. For the alternative was to stay home, alone, with my husband.

  Edward moved away to New York, although I did not urge him to. Witnessing his grief upon seeing his wife and child lying together in their tiny coffin thoroughly changed my attitude toward him. Perhaps I could not have taken care of Minnie’s child, but I found myself softening toward her husband, allowing that he had truly loved her in a way no sister ever could. I was as in awe of his love as I had been of Minnie’s.

  I was also envious, just as Mr. Barnum had so infuriatingly observed. For now that it was just the two of us, I could not help but look at my own husband through skeptical, disappointed eyes.

  Oh, Charles was kindness itself, tiptoeing around me as I fiercely gathered the black veils of that first grief and wrapped myself within them. I would not allow anyone to tell me that I must carry on, that I must be strong, that I must remember that Minnie and her daughter would be waiting for me in Heaven. “I don’t care!” I shouted in response. “I want her here! Now!”

  Charles did not say such things to me, but it was only because they were not in his repertoire. He had not been taught by Mr. Barnum how to behave with a grieving wife. So he did not recite platitudes and proverbs, and at first I was grateful for that. He was the one person who spoke honestly and plainly about his feelings; possessing none of the stoicism that ran through the male line of my family, he wept along with me. Many nights he crept into my room, climbed into my bed, and slipped his hand in mine as he cried softly into my pillow; I cried into his shoulder. I thought, then, that perhaps we had at last achieved the emotional intimacy of a married couple; perhaps I even allowed myself to wonder if we could achieve physical intimacy, as well.

  But my sister’s death—the blood, the suffering—was too fresh, too horrible, for me to reach out to my husband in that way. And Charles, ever the devoted pupil, trained first by Mr. Barnum and then by me, had long stopped reaching out to me. My husband fell asleep on my pillow but not in my arms.

  Soon, however, I began to be irritated by his tears; it was almost as if he was imitating my grief, although not in a malicious way. I finally acknowledged that my husband had no personality of his own; he was merely an imprint of everyone around him. As soon as I stopped crying, he did; the only time I ever saw him read a book was when I had one in my hands; the only time he went for a stroll was when I proposed one. He went to bed at the same time that I did every night; his favorite foods were mine. The only things he did that I did not were smoke cigars and drink an occasional glass of brandy—the two vices Mr. Barnum enjoyed.

  He was so very good at imitation, at mimicry, that I suspected he did have a quick mind. But by now—he was forty—it was rusted over, for the most part unused.

  He was also very portly. New clothes were required constantly, and he came to me one day with a tailor’s bill in his hand and a worried shadow crossing his usually cloudless eyes.

  “Vinnie, dear, do you remember that necklace of yours, the one with the sapphires and diamonds that you hardly ever wear?”

  “Yes.” I was kneeling next to a trunk, folding some of Minnie’s dresses away into it. I hugged one particularly dear white frock to me, remembering how sweet she had looked in it, just like a painting I had seen in France of a little girl carrying flowers in her apron.

  “Where is it?”

  “The necklace? With the rest of my jewels, in the safe, of course. Why?” I turned my best schoolteacher’s gaze upon my husband; he reddened and hung his head, just like a naughty student.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t mind selling some of them? It seems that we’re a little out of money, at least this month.”

  “ ‘A little out of money’?” I rose, shaking out my skirts. “Be more specific, please.”

  “Well, the yacht, you know … and then the interest on the cottage’s mortgage increased, and some of my buildings in Bridgeport are no longer quite as desirable as they once were, and of course I do need some new clothes, you yourself said so the other day.”

  “You wouldn’t need new clothes if you pushed yourself away from the table now and then,” I scolded. “I wouldn’t mind selling some of my jewels, I suppose—I have so many. But, Charles, you can’t let this happen again.”

  “I know, I won’t!” He smiled, so grateful to be let off the hook; he ran back down the hallway to his study, and I went back to my packing. Two weeks later, when the clothes arrived, he showed off the two new top hats he couldn’t help himself from adding to the order, and made me a present of a silver fox muff, “to take the place of the jewels!”

  Mollified, I did not inquire further into our finances. But I did suggest we consider touring again, not only to bring in more money but because I simply could not bear to be in this house, so empty without Minnie and Edward. I couldn’t bear to remain in Middleborough, with all the memories. And I could not bear to be alone with him any longer.

  To get back out on the road, with Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker in their old familiar roles, with trains to catch and performances to make, new people to meet, distance to cover every single day—I almost wept at the thought of it! Then I gathered up my train schedules and hotel listings and repaired to my room.

  “What about Phineas?” Charles asked me one evening, as I pored over my maps. How easy it was, these days, to plan a tour! So many train routes were now connected, and there were books that listed hotels by city—imagine! I could telegram reservations ahead of time, not take my chance on a letter getting lost or delayed. There were even rumors and rumblings about a new “standardized time” that would organize the country by geographical region; no longer would each individual village or town set its own clock by the sun. How much easier it would be, then, to arrange train schedules!

  “What about Mr. Barnum?” I asked, bewildered. I licked the tip of my pencil and raised my arm, hovering over the map before me, ready to draw out a route. “He’s no longer our partner—heavens, Charles, don’t you remember? He resigned his partnership ages ago, after the world tour.”

  “I know. I just thought that he could come for a visit and help us plan things. You know how much he enjoys that.”

  “I’m quite capable of planning it myself. He’s very busy with his circus, you know, and that new Madison Square Garden, where he puts on those ridiculous shows. He has no time to visit.”

  “But he does! He says so in his latest letter!” And Charles’s face lit up as he produced this letter; he had obviously been carrying it around in his pocket for all of five minutes. The paper was hardly creased.

  “I don’t need to read it,” I murmured, looking down at my map, wondering if it was up to date. So man
y new states had joined the Union lately! So many new cities were still sprouting up, cities that had never before greeted General and Mrs. Tom Thumb.

  “Vinnie, but he says to tell you, especially, that he could do with a good chat in front of the fire, just like old times.”

  “How nice for him.”

  “He said you’d say that! He wrote it, see here? He calls you Mrs. Stratton—why is that, Vinnie? He never did before! But he writes, ‘And if Mrs. Stratton says something along the lines of “how interesting” or “how pleasant,” tell her that her old friend’—and he underlined that, Vinnie; why, do you think?—‘says, “Hogwash,” and that she needs to forgive some people, starting with herself.’ ” Charles looked up from his letter, flush with the success of his reading. “What does he mean by all that, Vinnie?”

  “It’s nonsense. He doesn’t know what he means,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and pleasant, returning to my maps as if I wasn’t seething on the inside. Seething and longing, both—how dare he put Charles in the middle of our quarrel! Yet my fingers also itched to tear the letter away from Charles, pick up my pen, and answer it immediately, restoring our friendship, speaking my mind. Perhaps even locating my heart, if I could recall where I had placed it—probably in the trunk with all of Minnie’s things.

  Minnie. Oh, how could I even think of going back to him, to the way things were before? Minnie might still be here if it wasn’t for him, and I knew that were I to be alone with him for just two minutes, he would make me forget that. He would sell me a new memory, for that was what he did. With P. T. Barnum, memories and dreams were available for only a quarter—unless you were smart enough to find your way to the Egress.

  I must not have succeeded in hiding my turmoil, for Charles dropped the letter, wringing his hands in worry. “Oh, why are you two quarreling? I don’t understand! No one tells me anything, not you, not him! I miss him, Vinnie. Let’s go up to Bridgeport tonight and surprise him!”

  “You can if you wish, dear.” Frowning, I drew a big circle around Middleborough; then I began to trace the rail lines leading away from it. “I’m busy.”

  “You know I can’t go without you,” Charles said, pouting. “I don’t want to go without you!”

  I sighed, dropping my pencil upon my desk; I would get nothing done as long as he was standing here. “Do you want me to read to you, then? You’re getting agitated. See what Mr. Barnum does to you? That man!”

  “Oh, would you read to me?” And just as quickly as a summer storm moving across the countryside, my husband forgot about any quarrel. Together, we walked to one of the small library tables in the study, where he happily echoed the titles that I suggested to him—Black Beauty, The Water Babies, Through the Looking Glass. In the end, we settled on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, recently published.

  It was such a charming book. It reminded me so much of my days upon the river, when I could wake up every day to a new town. And I was quite fond of the character of Tom, who was such a smooth talker, able to get all the children to whitewash the fence for him—even eavesdropping at his own funeral! I felt I knew him intimately, even if he was just a character in a novel.

  MORE JEWELS WERE SOLD, ALONG WITH THE YACHT AND THE cabin, as we told friends that we simply didn’t have the time to put them to good use. Yet when we were in New York, we stayed at the finest hotels and dined with our dear friends the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and the Fisks, although sometimes it took them several days to realize we were in town. The newspapers did not always trumpet our appearances as they once did, so often I had to drop a note informing them of our presence.

  The younger generation, the children of dear Caroline and dear Julia and dear Mittie, were no longer the admiring little boys and girls who shyly hid from their parents so that they might steal a peek at us. They were now young men and ladies swept up in a new frenzy of balls and parties and dinners, all part of what Mr. Twain had named the Gilded Age. Charles and I were not part of this crowd; rather, I sensed these young people viewed us as relics, odd pets of their parents, leftovers from a simpler, less smart time.

  Once I overheard Mrs. Astor’s youngest daughter, also called Caroline, whisper to her dinner partner about how “amusing it was when I was a child, when Mother used to dress little Mrs. Stratton up like a miniature Mrs. Astor. She even had her hairdresser give her the same hairstyle! Imagine—how we all laughed!”

  I did not let on that I had heard; instead, I smiled brightly at my dining companions and told the story of how Queen Victoria had invited us to tea at Windsor and given us a beautiful grand piano, which we still displayed in our library.

  But I remembered that remark; I remembered also that Mr. Belmont had once presented Charles with a nautical jacket and cap identical to his own. Charles had been so pleased, so proud; he had worn it every time the Belmonts invited us onto their yacht.

  Finally, I remembered that Mr. Barnum had not liked that jacket; nor had he ever accepted any of our invitations to go sailing with the Belmonts.

  I did not drop a note to dear Caroline the next time we came to town.

  Naturally, we could not avoid Mr. Barnum altogether. We encountered him at occasional dinner parties, where he and Charles always greeted each other so fondly, I did feel guilty for keeping them apart. I sometimes caught Mr. Barnum looking wistfully at me from across the table, leaning forward, as if he could scarcely contain some thought or idea and was eager to share it. And it wasn’t only my grief and loyalty to Minnie that kept me from returning his gaze. I had bared my soul, shared my dark secret and even darker emotions with him—and now I was afraid of who I would see reflected back to me in those glittery, knowing eyes.

  And so he would subside, hunching over his cigar. I would stir uncomfortably, and suggest to Charles, far too soon, that we think about going home.

  Only when we took our leave would I allow myself to look at him; his shoulders were more stooped with every passing year, and at times I noticed his hands trembled when he lit his cigar. But his mind was as sharp as ever. He was filled with plans for this circus of his, talking boisterously of combining it with others, making it “the greatest show on earth,” he told all who would listen, and in fact I was not surprised the day I saw it advertised so in the newspaper.

  I was surprised, however, to receive an invitation to join it in 1881. Our finances were at their lowest point; we were discussing letting out the house and moving in with James and his wife. I couldn’t exactly say what had happened; we toured, but our audiences were smaller than they once were. We were popular but no longer made headlines. Charles invested but saw little return. Yet we had to keep spending—new wardrobes as the fashions changed, new ponies as the old ones died. Without Mr. Barnum investing in our tours, we had to front the money ourselves, which wasn’t always easy.

  So it was in desperation that I tore open the letter, the envelope embossed with the seal of “The Barnum and London Circus Company.” And I nearly fainted with relief at the amount he was proposing to give us for a season’s work; it would more than cover the stack of second notices piling up, alarmingly, on Charles’s desk. I telegrammed our acceptance right away; then I dashed off a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker, asking if they could accompany us.

  Then, and only then, did I remember to discuss it with my husband.

  INTERMISSION

  From The New York Times, November 5, 1880

  MRS. ASTOR ENTERTAINS GEN. GRANT

  Mrs. John Jacob Astor entertained Gen. Grant last evening at her residence, No. 388 Fifth avenue. A dinner was given, and the company, consisting of both ladies and gentlemen, was very select. The occasion was purely a social one. Gen. Grant remained until about 11 o’clock. He was in the best of spirits, and, while making no speech, engaged freely in conversation with those who approached him.

  From The Manufacturer and Builder, May 1881

  ELECTRIC ILLUMINATION

  It is daily becoming more and more evident that the near future will decide the
question of the practicability of illumination with electricity in competition with coal gas. Never was there such widespread public opinion manifested in the subject as at the present time.… The indefatigable Edison has announced that he has at length solved all the practical difficulties that had hitherto threatened the success of his electric lamps for the household, and has taken the field in person to superintend the work of introducing his system.

  [ SEVENTEEN ]

  Ladies and Gentlemen, in the Center Ring …

  AFTER THE SECOND AMERICAN MUSEUM BURNED DOWN IN 1868, Mr. Barnum effectively retired from the show business, aside from his partnership in our around-the-world tour and the occasional discovery, such as Admiral Dot. He claimed he chose to concentrate on traveling, politics, and philanthropy. But in 1871 he bought a small circus; then he bought another—and then another. And soon the whole thing had exploded into what he called “P. T. Barnum’s Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan & Hippodrome.” Now, instead of having the public come to him, Mr. Barnum was back to his roots, when he had first traveled the New England countryside with Joice Heth forty years ago. He was bringing the world of P. T. Barnum to the public.

  But true to form, he reinvented what was an already established tradition. He was the first to move his circus by railroad, on his own train—an endless stream of cars all emblazoned on the side with his name, just like the old American Museum. While other circuses had to rely upon unpaved roads and unpredictable ferry crossings, Mr. Barnum’s circus chugged steadily along all the new streamlined tracks that linked the country together. In the winter, he parked the show in Bridgeport; in the spring, he launched the new season in New York, in the giant Hippodrome at the Madison Square Garden, which seated thousands.

  In 1881, when we joined his circus, he had partnered with so many other circus owners, consolidating everything into one grand show, that I had difficulty keeping them all straight—there was a Mr. Bailey, a Mr. Hutchinson, a Mr. Sanger; the show now was called the Barnum and London Circus. We arrived at the cavernous, roofless Madison Square Garden—formerly a train station until the new Grand Central Station was built, when it became an outdoor arena for spectacles—in the spring. The colossal tents were going up, over the three immense rings of the circus; the place was a madhouse of sawdust and people upon wires and animals forever being exercised and trained. Awed, and not a little intimidated, by the enormity of the operation, Charles and I were overjoyed to see Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker once more; their friendship and familiarity were more welcome than the practical assistance they would provide in helping us navigate the usual difficulties of travel—getting on and off trains, managing luggage, reaching hotel beds, opening windows, etc.