However, from the moment we boarded the vast circus train, after the last performance in New York, I thought we had made a mistake. While our accommodations were, by far, superior to everyone else’s, they were far from luxurious. Charles and I did not have a private car, only half a car, to ourselves. An entire circus company is gargantuan; I was reminded of that canvas city of soldiers we had visited just after our marriage. There were stagehands and construction workers and animal handlers; publicity men, ticket takers, popcorn sellers; wardrobe girls, prop men, barkers; an army of men responsible for raising and lowering the tents and packing them up; cooks, laundresses, boys whose jobs were just to take care of the animal waste; wagon drivers. And that’s not even counting the performers! Trapeze artists, specialty riding acts, jugglers, dancers, a woman who gyrated upon a pyramid of chairs, gymnasts, wrestlers, high-wire acts, Japanese acrobats who balanced upon their fingertips—not to mention all the animals!
Even though I had grown up on a farm, the overwhelming odor of all those captive creatures made my nostrils close up and my eyes water; I couldn’t bear to walk past the animal cars after a long night’s trip. Mr. Barnum had to have special cars built for the giraffes, elephants, lions, and tigers; all the rest, the zebras, peacocks, goats, sheep, all the many horses and ponies—some of the most magnificent trained creatures mixed up with dull draft horses that pulled the wagons—managed with regular animal cars. The dogs used in specialty acts traveled with their owners.
Similar acts traveled together. Those in the center ring were closest to the front of the train (the first cars were reserved for the advance men—publicity people, managers in charge of erecting everything); then the other rings were parceled out in cars farther and farther down, with the sideshow acts coming after all the other performers. They were then followed by the band members, then the workers, like the roustabouts and seamstresses and cooks, and then finally the animals and their handlers.
Charles and I, and the Bleekers, were given the best car, right behind the advance men. We had to share it with two European bareback riders, ladies both; they spoke no English, so we communicated with smiles and grunts. I could not complain about our accommodations on the train; we had seats that turned into bunks, and our own washroom, and the walls were freshly painted, the gaslights gleaming. We could retreat there and be somewhat private, apart.
Why did I not enjoy this life? I was on a train again, traveling once more through the night so that I awoke every morning in a new town. Compared to the primitive conditions under which we crossed the continent thirteen years earlier, we were traveling in the most modern manner. No Indians to worry about; no hair-raising wagon rides on treacherous mountain roads; no journeys across a scorching desert, fearful that we might sink into the sand. Not once did we ever have to get out and travel on foot.
But when we were introduced as “General and Mrs. Tom Thumb, those beloved Lilliputians!” we were not alone; this was not our show. In the circus parade that began every new engagement (we would hurry off the train each morning at dawn, drive in wagons to the site where the tents were being pitched, then dress in costume and assemble for the parade through town), our miniature carriage, while given a prime spot, was just one in a never-ending line of colorful wagons and rolling calliopes. And at the beginning of each performance, while we were featured in the center ring, we were merely the first of a very long procession of other entertainers who marched around, waving at the audience. We had to be exceedingly careful not to step in animal droppings.
Then we were ushered out of the big top, to a noisy line of tents and booths that made up the sideshows: the acts that were too intimate to be viewed in the vast expanse of the rings. These included many of the kinds of acts I had first encountered on the river—sword swallowers, tattooed ladies, specialty dancers. While our tent was very tastefully decorated, and we performed the kind of dignified entertainment we had given for Presidents, Kings, and Queens, there was no ignoring the somewhat low quality of our surroundings. Just outside, the barkers were always shouting out a patter, the cheap music—usually just a banjo or a trumpet—from the other tents nearby produced a cacophony, and the puppet shows across the way were always eliciting shouts of childish laughter.
Upon our temporary stage, in a tent full of townspeople whose excited eyes, reflecting all the color and sights still to be sampled, could scarcely be induced to linger long upon him, Charles stood, top hat and cane in hand, and began to sing, as he had for years—
“I should like to marry, if only I could find
Any pretty lady, suited to my mind,
I should like her handsome, I should like her good,
With a little money—yes, indeed I should.
Oh! Then I would marry, if I could but find
Any pretty lady, suited to my mind.”
I then twirled out to meet him in my beautiful gown, my last few jewels blazing under the oil lamps and torches, which was all the illumination possible in these tents. I curtsied, he bowed, and we began to dance about the rickety stage as our pianist segued into the “Tom Thumb Polka.”
But no Kings and Queens smiled and asked us to tea; no natives gaped in awe at the sight of us, so elegantly clad. The audience murmured a bit, clapped politely, and soon hurried on to one of the other attractions. It was an endless, rolling sensation, watching them move in and out of our tent, eagerly but dutifully. There was so much for them to see. They didn’t want to waste any time.
One day I left our tent, looking for Charles. He had taken to disappearing between performances, but I knew where he went—the Punch and Judy show, about five tents down from ours. My husband never tired of watching the antics; he laughed heartily whenever the crooked-nosed Punch, in his red jester’s cap, hit one of his foes with a stick and a cry of “That’s the way to do it!” Charles was also attracted by the children; he watched them wistfully as they held tightly to their parents with one hand, sticks of rock candy in the other.
“Vinnie? Vinnie Bump?” a voice called out behind me. “I thought it was you! See, I told you I knew her!”
Turning around, I saw a stout woman standing before me, her hands upon her hips. Next to her were two small women, about my height. But they were not like me—not at all. I glanced uneasily at them, then looked up at the woman who had spoken.
“Excuse me? Are we acquainted?”
“ ‘Are we acquainted?’ ” the woman mimicked me, then gave a low, admiring whistle. “You haven’t changed one bit, except for all the fine clothes! Don’t you remember me?”
“I’m sorry …” I began to apologize, automatically; I’d met so many people in all my travels. This happened quite often; someone who had shaken my hand on one tour would appear on the next, asking if I remembered him. Usually, I nodded and said I had, and that sufficed. But I did not think it would with this woman, who stood there, smiling so strangely down at me, her bright yellow hair so badly dyed that a line of gray arched above her forehead, like a sad crown.
“Carlotta?” The words flew out of my mouth before my brain had finished identifying her. “Is it you?”
“It sure is! Oh, Vinnie, Vinnie, it’s so good to see you!” And she dropped to her knees, holding out her arms; with a smile, I walked into them. I hugged her tightly; it was good to see her!
“I can’t believe it’s you! Did you ever marry your young man on the river?” I stepped back so that I could get a better look; her hair, of course, was the same, a riot of yellow piled atop her head in blowsy curls, but her face was no longer so desperately made up. In fact, she wore no paint at all; with her soft, malleable features, a few missing teeth, and wobbly chin, she looked like any country woman. She was wearing a plain beige dress, homespun but not patched; it was clean and pressed.
“Oh, no. No, he was killed at Chickamauga.” Her pale blue eyes blinked, but there were no tears.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!”
“That’s all right, it was a long time ago. Lawd, I ain’t the only wom
an who lost her man in the War. So I’m still in the business, same as you!”
“You are?”
“I’m traveling with the company as a seamstress. I always was good with a needle! It’s been a spell since I could kick the way I used to—oh, remember, Vinnie? How high I could kick! But I still can’t stay in one place, I guess. Same as you!”
“Well, yes, I suppose—did you know I’m married now?”
“Married? For God’s sake, do you think I live under a rock? Of course I know all about you and your little General! I been reading about you in the newspapers for years! Look at you, little Vinnie, all dressed up, a married woman! And all them places you’ve seen! Oh, I’m sorry about your little angel, though. And your sister.”
“Thank you.” My voice wobbled a little; how ironic that Carlotta, of all people, was offering her condolences for my “child” and my sister. After all, she was the one who had spoken so plainly to me about the dangers of relations with men; I remembered those awful gray “prevention powders” she tried to give me. How long ago it was now!
“Curious, isn’t it?” Carlotta mused, pulling me back into the present. She still remained on her knees before me; those eerie women hung back behind her, eyeing me suspiciously. The eager, pushing circus crowd bustled about in both directions, undeterred—ignoring the four of us as if we were ghosts.
“What is?”
“We all thought you were going to be famous, Vinnie, and you are! Do you ever talk to any of the old company?”
“No, not really—I write to Sylvia; she’s in Maine. She gives spiritual readings, and seems quite happy. But that’s all.”
“Me either. Billy’s still performing around with his minstrels; I hear of them now and again. Colonel Wood, remember him? What a mean man! I always worried about you and him, Vinnie. I never liked the way he looked at you.”
“Yes, well, he was an awful man.” And still haunting me, in so many ways, I didn’t add. “I need to fetch my husband, Carlotta, as we have a performance. You should come by our car one night, and I’ll introduce you to him.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Vinnie! I will!” Carlotta—I had such a difficult time reconciling the name with this matronly, staid-looking woman—rose to her knees with some difficulty. “But before you go, I wanted to introduce you to these two. They didn’t believe me when I said I knew you, but see?” She turned to them, a triumphant smile creasing her leathery face. “I do! I told you!”
“Oh.” I stared at the two women, uncertain how to react to them. For I had seen them before—and done my best to avoid them.
They were part of a troupe of other small people that performed with the clowns. Almost from the first day we joined the circus, I had seen them hanging about wherever we went, trailing Charles and me like shadows, whispering and pointing. But they weren’t like us. They had large heads on small, barrel-chested bodies, oddly proportioned arms and legs. They truly looked like the pictures of dwarves in fairy tales—like Rumpelstiltskin, like jesters. They were tossed around by the larger clowns, mute and wild-eyed. They looked simple, in their heads.
They made me uneasy; they made me ashamed, for how the audience howled with laughter whenever they jumped up and down, flapping their grotesque arms, rolling their bulging eyes! I did not wish to make their acquaintance.
“This one here is Miss Humphries, and the other one is Miss Mary,” Carlotta told me, nudging them. They each curtsied, still staring at me with round eyes, taking in my silk dress, tightly drawn up over a bustle, in the latest fashion. Both were clad in rough homespun shifts that dropped straight to the ground. Then Miss Humphries extended her hand.
It was odd, ugly, disfigured, with short stumps for fingers and a very fleshy palm. I placed my own delicate, perfectly formed hand—my nails buffed a pretty pink—in hers.
“How—how very nice to make your acquaintance,” I said with a smile that I hoped hid my shudder.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Miss Humphries said, and stepped back behind Carlotta.
“Have you been with the circus long?”
“All my life, me and my sister both,” she said.
“Oh, you’re sisters?” They did look alike, upon closer examination. “How nice. I have—I used to travel with my sister, too.”
“We know,” the younger one piped up. “We’ve read all about you.”
“Oh? Well, isn’t that nice! You’ve read about me, you say? Isn’t that wonderful!”
“Yes.” The older one scowled at me. “We can read.”
“Of course, of course, I didn’t mean—well, naturally!”
“I thought you all might get along.” Carlotta beamed down at us, lumping me with those two—two—oddities, to my horror. Did she not see how wrong she was? Did she not see that I was nothing like these two?
And nothing like the others, the other grotesque, misshapen little people who found themselves all under the same sweeping circus tent. I had done my best to ignore their existence. Dressed up like pygmies, some were used in the flame thrower’s act; others were dressed up like ugly babies and rolled around in rickety prams as part of another clown routine. They all traveled together in a car far, far down the line from ours. There was no need for me to ever utter one word to any of them, and I hadn’t. Until now.
“I really need to find Mr. Stratton,” I repeated to Carlotta, desperately; the challenging, slightly resentful yet also envious way the two lumpen girls kept staring at me filled me with unease. “I’m sorry to be rude—”
“Of course, now, you go on and fetch your little husband. But isn’t it interesting, Vinnie?”
“What is?”
“Just that—you and I ended up in the same place, after all this time! It just beats all, don’t it?” She chuckled, shaking her head, gesturing to the other two. “Here we are, all together, in Mr. P. T. Barnum’s circus!”
“Yes, isn’t that interesting? Good day, ladies.” Pressing my lips tightly together, I turned and hurried off—doing my best not to run, so very much did I want to get away. I pushed along the crowded passageway, hemmed in on all sides by booths and tents and dancers and giants and men in black vests and red-and-white striped pants yelling out, “Come see the bearded lady, freshly shaved just yesterday but already with a beard two feet long!”
And other men in black vests and red-and-white striped pants countered back with “Come see the world-famous General and Mrs. Tom Thumb, those diminutive darlings of royalty, those wee world travelers—intimate friends of Mr. P. T. Barnum himself!”
“We really are!” I wanted to cry out to the crowd, some of whom were pointing to me and smiling—laughing, even—others of whom were simply ignoring me, having already seen their share of oddities—Isaac the Living Skeleton, George the Armless Wonder. I’m sure there was a two-headed kitten around somewhere as well. “We really are world-famous! We really do know Queen Victoria! Mrs. Astor came to our wedding! We’re not like the rest of these—”
But I didn’t know what to call them. Because I didn’t know what to call myself. Dwarf? Tiny? Perfect woman in miniature? None of them, all of them; had I ever been simply Lavinia Warren Stratton? To anyone—even myself?
Oh, good heavens—I was late! We were going to be late—and where was Charles? I pushed my way through the crowds until I spied him. Clad in his top hat and frock coat, Charles was nevertheless upon his knees in front of the Punch and Judy show, playing marbles with a pack of dirty children. I hauled him up by his arm and dragged him back to our tent, brushing the dust off his clothing and scolding him. Five minutes later, we were back onstage; he was singing, I was twirling, we were dancing in front of the restless crowd as the pianist played the “Tom Thumb Polka.”
Once, I remembered, closing my eyes as if I could wish myself back in time, this very tune had been played in our honor at Royal Albert Hall. We were the guests of the Prince and Princess of Wales. We rode in the Royal carriage, accompanied by a regiment of palace guards, the Princess of Wales and Minnie both
too shy to wave to the crowds.
It really had happened, I whispered to myself fiercely. It wasn’t just a dream.
“What isn’t just a dream, Vinnie?” Charles whispered back. I shook my head and allowed him to lift me up by my waist in time to the music. Someone in the audience clapped; someone else tittered.
When the season was over in November, I wrote a short letter to Mr. Barnum informing him that we would not be returning in the spring.
For once, he did not try to change my mind.
INTERMISSION
From the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, May 2, 1882
William Godfrey Krueger, the inventor of a flying machine, and who had spent many years of thought and restless toil over it committed suicide yesterday at his boarding house, No. 186 Forsyth Street, New York. He was out of money and was in daily expectation of getting the first installment of a pension due him from the Government. It came yesterday morning after he had killed himself. Krueger was a native of Prussia, and had been in this country twenty-three years. For fifteen years he has been entirely absorbed in studying out the great problem of his flying machine, and did little more than to write an occasional article for the newspapers. The secret of the flying machine died with him.
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 33