The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 4

  Instead, I felt his gaze to be more calculated, more appraising, but for what purpose I could not begin to guess.

  As Mama and he attempted to sort out their relation—I never did figure it out and later wondered if there really was such a connection—he still managed to throw glances my way, as if he was sizing me up. Whenever I ventured to speak, he listened carefully, and I could sense first his approval and then his excitement as I displayed my usual intelligence in my typical forthright way.

  Finally, he admitted he had come here with a specific purpose in mind.

  “Have you all ever heard of a fellow named Barnum?”

  “Well, yes, Cousin, of course we read the newspaper. Do you think we’re so ill informed, just because we’re farmers?” Mama answered softly, chidingly; despite our humble abode and plain living, she was very conscious of her heritage as a descendent of one of the Mayflower Compact signers.

  “Of course not, of course not,” Colonel Wood replied hastily. “Forgive me, I’ve been so long in the West that I sometimes forget how civilized we are here in New England.”

  “What does that Barnum have to do with us?” my brother Benjamin asked, regarding Colonel Wood with barely concealed hostility.

  “Well, he’s had a great deal of success, you know. First with that Tom Thumb fellow, the one that visited England and had tea with the Queen and all. Then with Miss Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale.”

  At the mention of Tom Thumb, Mama and Papa exchanged glances, careful not to look my way.

  “Can’t say as I approve of that man,” Papa grumbled. “It seems wrong, somehow.”

  “Wrong? Why, both Jenny Lind and the little man are famous! Millionaires, they say! Living it up, meeting royalty—what’s wrong with that? Sounds like a mighty fine life to me!” Colonel Wood was unable to keep up his careful nonchalance; he was now leaning forward, his dark eyes snapping.

  “I’d wager it’s that Barnum who’s getting rich,” Papa retorted. “Showing people about like they’re things, not humans. Humbugging the public, like he did with that Joice Heth, claiming she was a hundred and sixty-one years old! George Washington’s nurse, he said she was! George Washington’s nurse, my eye. Anyone could tell she was just some old slave woman.”

  “Oh, but Papa—Miss Jenny Lind is not a thing! She’s an artist! And what was the humbug there?” I couldn’t help myself; I did not like to contradict my father, but on the subject of Jenny Lind, I could not keep quiet.

  I was just a child when Jenny Lind came to America, back in 1850. I never heard her sing; she never came anywhere near Middleborough. But I followed her every move in the newspaper, drinking in every detail of the Swedish Nightingale—what she wore, how she did her hair, what her favorite foods were. And, of course, how she sang: like an angel, the newspapers said. With a voice of such incomparable beauty it made grown men weep, particularly when she ended her concerts with her signature song, “Home Sweet Home.” There were Jenny Lind waltzes performed in her honor, Jenny Lind polkas, ballads, clothes, dolls, figurines. I had a china likeness of her that Papa and Mama had given me on my tenth birthday; I kept it on the windowsill in my bedroom.

  Mr. P. T. Barnum, the famous promoter, brought her here from Europe; he arranged her concerts and made her a household name, although they parted ways in 1852 and she had since returned to Europe. He told of all this in his recent autobiography, which had caused an uproar, for in it he admitted to several humbugs he had perpetrated upon the public, including the one involving Joice Heth, as well as the one involving General Tom Thumb. Born Charles S. Stratton, the latter had been a lad of only five when Mr. Barnum had first presented him, back in 1843, as “General Tom Thumb, a marvel of miniature perfection, eleven years of age!”

  Since then, the tiny general had traveled to Europe and met with Queen Victoria herself. I admit to my curiosity being aroused by the few newspaper illustrations I had seen of him, now a young man, three years my senior. So far in my life, the only other little person I knew was my sister Minnie. The evidence that there were others incited my curiosity and made me feel slightly less alone. Knowing that General Tom Thumb had sung and danced for huge crowds and become celebrated the world over gave me a peculiar sense of pride, I must confess. Also, he was a handsome fellow in the illustrations; boasting large, mischievous eyes and a winning smile, he looked very smart in his various miniature uniforms.

  He was no Miss Jenny Lind, of course, but reading about either of them was like reading about royalty, or Presidents; their lives were special, remarkable, not at all like my own or my family’s.

  “Oh, Papa, you know how I longed to hear Jenny Lind sing! She’s the reason I practice so very much on my own music,” I reminded my father, who looked at me with a suddenly clenched jaw and narrowing eyes, as if he was trying silently to warn me not to speak further. But I did not heed his warning. “Do you know Mr. Barnum?” I asked Colonel Wood, unable to contain my excitement.

  “Why, sure, sure,” he answered smoothly, addressing me for the first time. “Naturally! We showmen all know each other.”

  “Really?” I couldn’t help but be impressed. “Did you ever see Miss Jenny Lind?”

  “Certainly! Many a time did she sing for me privately, when I was in New York working for Mr. Barnum himself. I take it you sing, Miss Lavinia?”

  “Oh, I’m a schoolteacher, but I do love to sing.” I returned Mama’s fond smile; my songs were much loved not only within the family circle but also in the schoolroom. From an early age, I had enjoyed soothing my classmates with ballads. Mr. Dunbar used to pick me up and place me atop his desk, so that all could hear.

  “A schoolteacher?” Colonel Wood seemed momentarily stunned; his face, which had been as smooth as his talk, suddenly creased in thought. “Hmmm. I didn’t know that. I thought that you were just—well, just … at home. But I guess it don’t really matter, at that.”

  “What doesn’t matter?” Mama asked anxiously. Papa remained silent, but I could feel his whole body tense, even though I wasn’t seated near him. He appeared as if he was steeling himself for bad news.

  “My boat. My floating palace of entertainment. We sail up and down the rivers out west, bringing amusement to the poor, hardworking folks who have no other kind. I have minstrels, jugglers, dancers, and some curiosities—a man who can swallow nails, a tattooed man, a giantess. But what I don’t have is a—I mean, as soon as I heard of Miss Lavinia here—and, of course, our cousinly connection—and now that I know she’s a true artist, as well—I thought she might be interested in joining me. Singing, of course—just like a certain Miss Jenny Lind? A certain General Tom Thumb?” Colonel Wood winked at me.

  You could have heard the proverbial pin drop in that parlor: Nobody moved; everyone looked stunned. Mama could not shut her mouth; had I not been as astonished as she, I would have teased her about catching flies. My three brothers likewise did not say a word. Papa’s face turned a dangerous red.

  My own heart beat fast. No, no, I couldn’t possibly do what the Colonel suggested. An entertainer? On the stage—like Miss Jenny Lind? It was shocking, it was unheard of, it was—

  Enticing.

  Never before had I imagined leaving home, but that wasn’t because of lack of desire, only lack of possibility. All those nights of yearning, of hearing my mother weep for my lonely fate! For a woman in a small town in Massachusetts, naturally, marriage was the only possible way out of anything. It was the only possible way to anything, as well; it was the only possibility, period. And I would never marry any of the men here in Middleborough; how could I? The idea seemed grotesque to me, for reasons I could not quite explain. I remembered my mother’s and sister’s horror that day I had eavesdropped, the lack of a hope chest, the relief my parents had felt when I had been offered the primary classes. This was my fate—to be a spinster schoolteacher. I knew I was supposed to be grateful for it.

  Suddenly, however, another possibility had just been revealed; a way out presented itself t
o me. I could leave; I could see the world, that great big world Mama had unknowingly tempted me with for so long. I could see the Mississippi, that Queen of Rivers! I might even see bad men and women, and I admit to an unladylike thrill as I contemplated this, for there were no bad men and women in Middleborough, except for the peddler who sometimes stole chicken eggs. My yearning, seeking heart began to swell; it was as if a hidden dam of pent-up frustration had burst inside it, flooding me with desire and action. Oh, what else might I find, that I had not even known had been missing? What else might I see, that I had never before suspected was hidden from me?

  I looked around at my family; they were beginning to regain their senses. Not one of them glanced my way; they seemed acutely embarrassed by me at that moment. Embarrassed that I had brought such a man into their home and submitted them to such dreadful talk, talk that was not fit for descendents of one of the Mayflower signers. Benjamin was already shaking his head, ready to answer for me.

  “I want to do it!” The words flew out of my mouth before I had even decided on them.

  “You most certainly do not!” my father thundered, rising in anger, his face so dark the veins on his forehead pulsed. He had never before spoken one harsh word to me; now, he seemed perilously close to an apoplectic attack.

  “Pa’s right,” Benjamin cried. “If Vinnie goes with this man, I’ll leave this house forever! I won’t be able to bear the shame!”

  “What shame?” Colonel Wood asked the company at large, his demeanor suddenly calm in the face of our collected agitation. “What shame is there in bringing joy to people? Becoming rich and famous?”

  “The shame of the theater! Of being around actors and dancers and who knows what else! The shame of being displayed before the public like a—it’s bad enough with the school, you know, the way people talk, but if she goes out like that, like that Tom Thumb freak who—” Benjamin suddenly realized what he had said and sat back down, rumpling his hair until it stood on end. “Sorry, Vinnie! I didn’t mean that, not really. But if you parade yourself about on the stage—I just don’t see how you can even think about it, the way you are. That’s all.”

  My face was burning, my breast heaving at being the center of such an uproar. I’d never seen my family in such a state; Mama was rocking back and forth in her chair, her arms crossed tight against her chest, making keening sounds as if someone had just died.

  “It’s my life, it’s my future—you needn’t be embarrassed by it any longer, Benjamin! You all may be content to stay here on the farm, that’s all well and good because you’re just like everyone else, but I’m not! I’m different, and you all know it, so why not allow me to consider a different fate? And I’m not content—I don’t think I ever have been!”

  “What do you mean?” Mama had stopped rocking; she was staring at me, her gentle brown eyes full of tears and pain. “What do you mean you never have been? Why, Vinnie, my little chick—aren’t you happy with us? Don’t we take good care of you?”

  “Oh, Mama, I didn’t mean that, but—we can’t continue this way forever! Someday you’ll—someday you and Papa won’t be able to look out for me. And what will happen then? What will happen to Minnie and me, stuck here on the farm?”

  “You’ll always have a home with one of us, Vinnie,” my brother James, who had been quiet until now, said. “We’ll always take care of you, you know that. We don’t mind.”

  “But that’s just it!” I leaped off my chair, carried away by my passion. Colonel Wood discreetly rose and left the room; the front door creaked open, and he took a seat on the porch. He had the decency to understand this was a family matter. “That’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t want to be taken care of! I don’t want to be hidden away, a burden! I want to make my own way! To have a greater purpose!”

  “But you do, you have your school,” Benjamin pointed out. Of all of them, even Papa, he was the most distressed, and I was reminded of that day when I was seven, and the teacher had threatened to shut me up in his overshoe. How ashamed Benjamin had been of me then; I knew, now, that he had never really gotten over it.

  “That’s not what I mean,” I said; I ran to him, clasped his big, rough hands in mine, and tried to get him to meet my gaze, but he would not. “Even with the school, I’ll always be one of the little Bump girls, the spinster teacher who lives at home, who can expect nothing more than to be invited to the occasional Sunday dinner by those who pity her. If I stay here, don’t you see—there’s no escaping that fate. But if I leave—why, just think! I’ll see things we can only imagine here! I’ll experience not just books but life! I’ll be remembered.”

  “Why, whatever do you mean, Vinnie?” Mama exclaimed, her face so open and honest and agonized; I hated the pain I was causing her—but hadn’t I always caused her distress, just by being? She had always worried and agonized over me. “What do you mean you’ll be remembered? How could we ever forget you?”

  I shook my head. “I mean something more, Mama. I can’t explain it, but I’ve felt, for a while now, that if I stay here, I’ll just be forgotten somehow. Or worse—never even known in the first place. If I go with Colonel Wood, I’ll meet so many people. Why, maybe I’ll even meet Miss Jenny Lind! And General Tom Thumb! Wouldn’t that be nice, meeting someone like me? Someone else, that is.” For I could not forget Minnie, even in my excitement.

  And during the lengthy emotional discussion that ensued, my father and my brothers trying desperately to change my mind, which grew more determined with every plea, while my mother wept piteously, I did not forget my sister. Minnie’s face was before me always, even as I argued passionately to be allowed to go with Colonel Wood, who remained outside, calmly puffing away on his pipe.

  Finally, Papa held his hand up, silencing us all; with a resigned shake of his head, he said, “I’ve never known what to do with you, Vinnie. I’ve never understood why God made you the way He did. I can’t pretend to know what to do with you now. I’m just a simple man, but you’re anything but. So if you’re truly set on doing this, I don’t see as how I can stop you. For all I know, it might be the very best thing for you. Just don’t bring shame to us, daughter. You have the best head on your shoulders of us all—use it.”

  Benjamin stormed out of the room. Mama burst into a renewed torrent of tears as she ran after him. But all I wanted to do was hurry upstairs and find Minnie.

  She was in the room that we shared; sitting on the low bed, made for us by Papa, she cradled her favorite doll in her lap, looking very much like a doll herself. She was so delicate, so winsome; she came up only to my shoulder. Her big dark eyes grew even bigger when she saw me; with a breathless little gasp she asked, “Is that dreadful man gone, Vinnie?”

  “No, he’s not.” I sat down upon the bed next to her; the two of us together hardly made a dent in the feather tick.

  “I wish he would go. I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t like him.”

  “You don’t like anyone.” I had to smile, remembering the other day when she had declared the man who bought Mama’s eggs and butter “Simply dreadful!”

  “No, I don’t like anyone but you. And Mama and Papa. And James and Benjamin and everyone.” Minnie looked up at me—she was the only person in my life who looked up at me—and smiled, that one dimple showing. She was so trusting, my sister. She smiled innocently at me as if she expected me to tell her a pretty story, a wonderful surprise. She always looked at me like that; my heart, which had been so light at the prospect of my adventure, began to flutter and flail about in my breast, and I had to turn away.

  Even though she was now nine, Minnie was still as timid as she had always been; she had not followed the path I had tried to blaze for her. She had no eagerness to go to school; she trembled and clutched at Mama’s skirts the first time I broached the subject, even after I assured her that I would be her teacher. So she remained at home, and I had to admit that Mama’s limited education
was more than enough to school our Minnie. She did not have the curiosity of mind and spirit that I possessed.

  School was the only place she would not follow me, however; even when I performed my chores around the farm, she clung to me, holding my skirt or my hand. I reached under the chickens for the eggs; she carried the eggs in a basket. I snipped the lavender from Mama’s garden; she tied it up in fragrant little bundles.

  Nearly eight years separated us, so that at times it almost felt as if she was my child, not my little sister, so trusting, so dependent she was upon me. When I left the farm in the morning to go to school, she took her seat on a little stool by the kitchen hearth; when I returned in the evening, she was always where I had left her. I had the oddest sensation that her very breath was suspended until I came home.

  And at night we slept in the same bed, her little arms encircled about my waist, her head resting upon my shoulder. “Rock me, Sister,” she always implored, her curls already tangled around her neck, her eyes already drooping. I would rock her gently, singing some sweet song, often one I made up; before I could finish, Minnie would be fast asleep, a contented smile on her pretty face.

  Now, as I began to wonder how she would sleep once I was gone, I realized my heart was not strong enough to withstand such questioning, and so I made myself think of something else.

  “Guess what?” I asked my sister.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to ride on a train!”

  “A train? How dreadful! Aren’t you scared? I’d be scared, even if you were with me, Vinnie!” Minnie’s eyes shone anxiously, reflecting stars that were not there.

  “No, I’m not a bit scared. And anyway, Colonel Wood will be with me.”

  “He will? But why? He’s so dreadful! Where will you go—to town? And you’ll be home by dinner?”