The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 5

  “No, not to town.” I stifled a smile; in Minnie’s experience, there was nowhere else to go but to town. That big world that beckoned so brightly to me did not even exist for my sister.

  “Then where?”

  “To a boat, an enormous boat. On a very famous river. I’m going to take a holiday of sorts, and see some sights, and I promise I’ll write to you every day and tell you all about them!” I tried to make it sound like a lark, but my voice did catch in my throat.

  “You mean, away? From here—from home?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ll be back by dinner?” She frowned, struggling to understand; one of her curls escaped its pins and hung down upon her forehead in a perfect question mark, as if to underscore her confusion. In Minnie’s entire life, never had I not been home by dinner.

  “No, Pumpkin, not by dinner. I will be gone for a long time—I don’t exactly know how long, but many months. It’s a difficult journey, and I won’t be able to come home very often.”

  “I don’t understand, Vinnie! Why do you want to go away?” Tears filled her eyes as she flung her arms about me. The bodice of my dress was soon wet with my sister’s tears, and I had a moment of regret and panic; what on earth was I doing? How could I leave her? How selfish was I?

  But then I looked around our room, with its gentle, sloping ceiling, and I realized that everything here was gentle, everything here was peaceful and safe and designed to protect me and Minnie from—what, exactly? From life; that’s what I believed at that moment. My family wanted to protect me from life. But it was life that I wanted to experience: a rich, full life, one I could call my own. And there was no possibility I would ever find it on the farm or in Middleborough, with its handful of streets, two general stores, and the occasional wayward peddler.

  Maybe the world was too big for me; I expected that I would soon find out. But I also knew with certainty that if I remained in Middleborough, I would grow even smaller than I already was … until one day, like my name overgrown with weeds, I would cease to exist altogether.

  “Minnie, darling, shhh. Look,” I whispered to my little sister, still sobbing on my breast. With a gentle nudge, I pushed her away so that I could cross the room to retrieve something from the windowsill—my beloved figurine of Jenny Lind in a pink dress, with her hands crossed upon her breast, her mouth open in glorious song. I returned to the bed and presented the precious object to Minnie, who had often admired it.

  “Here. You keep this for me—you know how much it means to me, don’t you?”

  Tears still streaming down her face, Minnie took it and nodded anxiously.

  “You keep it for me, Pumpkin, until I come back. Because I promise I will—and then I’ll take you with me, so you can see the things that I do. I won’t leave you all alone here forever. I promise.”

  “You do?” Sniffling, she turned her wet little heart-shaped face up to me. “You promise, Vinnie?”

  “I promise!” And I vowed at that very moment to keep my promise; to do so was the only way I could tell Minnie goodbye. I would not be there to rock her to sleep, but she could, at least, comfort herself at night with the warmth of her sister’s promise.

  “Then I will take very good care of Miss Jenny Lind until you come back. You can count on me, Vinnie!”

  She looked so earnest, her eyes suddenly dry even though her eyelashes were still dewy, her previously trembling mouth set in a firm little line. This was the first thing I had ever asked of her, and she startled me with her eagerness, her readiness to comply. I hugged her to me once more, and smiled as she tried to conceal one last sniff with a very forced hiccup.

  That evening passed in a frenzy of packing and organizing; Papa had to sell a milk cow to a neighbor in order to provide me with traveling money. At dawn the next morning, after I had eagerly signed a contract stipulating my employment with Colonel Wood and his exclusive right to exhibit me for three years in exchange for providing me with twenty dollars a week—a fortune!—my family gathered around his wagon. Benjamin was not there; he was too furious to say goodbye. My other brothers heaved my borrowed trunk into the back, and I embraced Mama, who looked suddenly older to me; her forehead was checkered with lines that must have appeared overnight, and her hair was more gray than brown. How long had it been this way? I felt a pang of guilt for not having noticed before, and for the first time I realized she was not the young woman I assumed her to always be.

  “Vinnie, my little chick, don’t forget us all!” Mama knelt down to my level, her skirt sopping up mud, but she did not notice. “Pray every night and trust in God, and don’t talk to bad people if you can help it. Colonel Wood has promised to care for you with a cousinly concern and affection, but, oh! This is still hard!” With a sob, she covered her face with a handkerchief.

  Minnie was already crying, her surprising resolve of the night before chased away by the sight of my trunk in the back of the wagon. She was holding on to my hand so tightly I could feel her nails through my gloves. “Vinnie, Vinnie, oh, why must you leave? Why?”

  She was nine, but with her tear-stained face and her uncomprehending eyes, I thought she more closely resembled a child of five. My sister, my poor little sister! But I had to go; by now I had convinced myself that the only way I could make a good life for her was by making one first for myself. Then, I could come back and shower her with riches and show her the world, release her from her lonely cell, hidden away by well-meaning family.

  This was what I told myself as finally I pried her small hand from mine and let Papa lift me up on the seat next to Colonel Wood. The Colonel was obviously impatient to start; we were traveling to his parents’ home in Weedsport, New York—he had a note of welcome from his mother, which he showed Mama and Papa when I signed the contract, helping to ease their minds significantly. There, we would outfit me with an appropriate wardrobe before journeying on to Cincinnati, where his boat had wintered.

  Papa settled me in, tucking a bearskin all about me even though it was not cold. But I let him fuss, knowing this was his way of saying goodbye, and that he would sorely miss me.

  “Got your money hidden away?” he asked, suddenly very concerned with one corner of the skin that would not stay put.

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Keep it in case of an emergency. You never know what might come up.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Don’t let strangers pay for anything, you understand? That’s the way to ruin; you pay your own way, if Colonel Wood can’t.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “And don’t forget to write. Your mother will surely look forward to a letter now and then.”

  “I won’t forget, Papa, oh, I won’t!” And I could not help but throw my arms around his rough and weathered neck; I heard him sniff just once, then he patted my arm and gently pushed me away, muttering something about checking the back wheel of the wagon, as it didn’t look “put on right.”

  Of course it was put on right; Colonel Wood abruptly slapped the reins, and the horses started forward. I twisted around and waved at my family, memorizing their faces, until we rounded the bend in the road and I could see them no longer.

  “Not going to cry, are you?” Colonel Wood asked just as I reached for my handkerchief. “I can’t stand sniveling females.”

  “No, not a bit!” I replied, blinking furiously.

  “Good. Now, let me tell you about my boat.” And he began to spin a yarn of assorted colors and shapes, of minstrel singers and gamblers and cotton bales stacked up at southern docks by slaves dark as night; about the high bluffs of Minnesota, where eagles soared above the river, card games got up after midnight shows, the huge calliope that sang out merry tunes at every port of call; even a man who could spin two dozen plates at once without dropping a one!

  And my heart, which had felt as heavy as a roof smothered in January snow, began to thaw, began to soar like the sun that was just beginning to peek through the trees. I felt as big as the sun; no, as big as the
sky! The sky was a vast, endless sea in which the sun was just a small orb, the size of a coin. I held my thumb up to it; I blocked it neatly out.

  So it was true; the sun was no larger than the tip of my thumb. The notion tickled me, tickled my rib cage until I had to laugh out loud.

  I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, was bigger than the sun.

  INTERMISSION

  “RIDING ON A RAIL” (1853)

  Sung with Unbounded Applause by Ossian’s Bards.

  (Words—anonymous.) Music by Charlie Crozat Converse.

  CHORUS (sung after each verse)

  Singing thro’ the mountain,

  Buzzing o’er the vale,

  Bless me, this is pleasant,

  A riding on a rail.

  Singing thro’ the mountain,

  Buzzing o’er the vale,

  Bless me, this is pleasant,

  A riding on a rail.

  VERSE

  Men of different stations,

  In the eye of fame,

  Here are very quickly

  Coming to the same;

  High and lowly people,

  Birds of every feather,

  On a common level,

  A travelling together.

  From the Abbeville, South Carolina, Banner, November 23, 1854

  Ranaway from the owner James SMITH, in Anderson District, a negro boy Bob, about 30 years of age, about 5 feet 10 inches high, black complexion, medium size, weight about 160 pounds. The said negro left on Sunday evening the 14th inst. The owner is now on his way to Texas. Any information concerning said boy will be communicated to Robert SMITH residing near Cokesbury in Abbeville district who will pay charges and take him into custody.

  [ THREE ]

  Life on the Mississippi, or

  My Education Truly Begins

  YOU LOOK AS PRETTY AS A CHINA DOLL,” SYLVIA PRONOUNCED with an approving smile; it broke slowly as usual across her rough, bony face with its cheekbones the size of large apples, deep hollows, the crooked nose that looked as if it had once been broken. Her smile brought her no beauty, but it did soften her face considerably.

  “Do I?” I pretended not to know, but deep down I did; I was pretty. As pretty as a china doll.

  The gown that Mrs. Wood had made for me was of the shiniest material we could find: a gossamer blue satin that reflected every light in every direction. While I was assured it would look brilliant behind the footlights, it was also of the highest fashion for the present year, 1858; Mrs. Wood had fastened hoops for me that allowed my skirts to sway and swing so that they did not touch my legs at all. She had not been able to send away for a custom corset, however, so she had done what Mama had done: cut down the smallest one she could find. It still gapped uncomfortably at my bosom, and did not cinch my waist as tightly as I naturally desired.

  Still, admiring the lace and silk flower festoons that adorned my hem, my pretty new white satin slippers, the silk flowers in my glistening hair, I was happy with my appearance. My brown eyes sparkled almost as vibrantly as Minnie’s, and for once I did not fret about my high, wide forehead; Sylvia had arranged my hair in a way that detracted from it.

  “Now remember,” Sylvia intoned in her considered, deep voice. “Whatever happens, I’ll be right there.”

  “ ‘Whatever happens’?” I smoothed the bodice of my dress anxiously. “What do you mean? What usually happens?”

  “You never know. It’s a rough crowd, so you just never know. But you’ll be fine, Vinnie; no one would ever want to harm you, as tiny as you are.”

  “Harm?” I recalled all I had read about Miss Jenny Lind; no newspaper had ever mentioned any kind of harm coming to her, except the threat of being crushed by adoring fans.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sylvia repeated as hastily as she possibly could. Rising from two chairs put together, for she could not fit comfortably on one, she had to duck her head in order to clear the ceiling of the private stateroom set aside for performers.

  I had been surprised to learn that there were two boats that made up my new home. The one I first boarded, and where my room with Sylvia was located, was a tugboat that towed the larger, flat-bottomed boat when necessary. Both were powered by steam belowdecks, from a great hissing, churning apparatus that gleamed hellishly red at night, and which frightened me more than I was willing to admit. All the living quarters—staterooms, kitchen, and dining room—were on the smaller boat, while the theater, taking up almost the entire length, was on the larger boat. But there were private staterooms for the performers on the large boat, which was where Sylvia and I were, primping for our appearances. Or rather—I primped. Sylvia could hardly be induced to run a comb through her dull hair, and her gown, consisting of so many yards of rough, plain fabric, was not held up by hoops; if it had been, there would have been no space in the stateroom for me.

  “Why won’t you at least put a flower in your hair?” I asked her.

  “Why? They’d never notice it.”

  “How do you know that? People notice performers’ costumes; it’s why they go to the theater!”

  “ ‘Theater’?” Sylvia chuckled, so low and throaty that the vibration tickled my ears. “Where do you think we are? Who do you think comes aboard? Why do you think—” But she broke off, and complimented me on my dress again.

  After two weeks, I was growing used to the vagaries of life upon a river. While there was something quite soothing about going to bed at night rocked to sleep by the movement of the water, the days were a frenzy of chaos and activity, of men casting off ropes, ramps pulled and lowered, scenery hammered, wood thrown into the boiler. All this activity was very exciting to me, so used to the stultifying sameness of life in Middleborough. While I was in constant peril of being stepped upon or swept overboard by deckhands and performers who had never before encountered anyone my size, I soon learned to shout out my presence whenever I turned a corner or entered a room. There was little privacy and even less decorum, but I enjoyed the easy camaraderie among the company, the way people moved in and out of one another’s rooms without knocking, the impromptu “hen parties” that the ladies held late at night while we pinned up our hair and stitched up our stockings, paying no heed to the clinking of glasses just down the hall in one of the gentlemen’s rooms. Some of the men even drank spirits on Sunday! I found this awfully thrilling, although I did not mention that particular detail in my letters home.

  Thrilling as it was, my new life was perhaps not as glamorous as I had imagined. Colonel Wood did not consider things like clean linens and regularly scrubbed chamber pots necessities but rather luxuries, and, as he was fond of reminding me, he was not contractually obligated to provide me with any of those. And the dampness that I had first noticed soon revealed itself to be all-pervasive, as my clothes never felt completely dry and my hair developed a frizz it had never before exhibited.

  Some wayward curls had escaped, I saw, as I took one last glimpse of myself in the cracked hand mirror Sylvia held up for me (a full-length mirror proving to be one of those luxuries Colonel Wood did not feel obligated to provide). But there was nothing to do but pat my curls, as Colonel Wood stuck his head inside the door and bellowed, “The ramp is down, the crowd’s a comin’; get your asses down to the stage, for I think we can get in three shows today, at least!”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes at him but did not take offense at his language, as I very much did.

  “I cannot believe how differently he acts now, compared to when he visited me at home! If he had ever dared talk like that in front of my parents—why, I can’t imagine!”

  “We’ve all been wondering why someone like you agreed to come along with the likes of him,” Sylvia said with a shake of her head. “That explains it some.”

  “He was very proper at home.” I tried to ignore the growing gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that had presented itself ever since we’d arrived on the Banjo. Once he’d crossed the gangplank, Colonel Wood had shown a different—coarser—side to his persona
lity. It was almost as if he were two different people on and off the water.

  “Now, Vinnie, don’t be nervous,” Sylvia reminded me once more as we left the stateroom, which opened to the exterior of the boat. Even as slowly as she walked along the slippery deck, I had to hurry to catch up with her, taking at least five steps to her every one. My head barely reached past her knees, and her skirt was so massive that I was in constant fear of being swept off my feet by it. By now, however, everyone was quite used to the sight of the two of us. As we passed by members of the company—most of whom were either hanging over the railing spitting into the river (the chief occupation of many of the men on the boat) or practicing their acts—none remarked upon the disparity in our heights the way that Colonel Wood still did. “Here come the elephant and the mouse,” he often said, snickering, whenever we approached.

  “Knock ’em dead, Vinnie,” Solomon Taylor, the plate spinner, said with a gallant bow, a stack of plates balanced precariously on one hand.

  “Yeah, knock ’em dead,” echoed one of the specialty dancers, a thin woman with legs so long they reached past the top of her head when she kicked them. Her smile was desperately gay, but it only deepened the spiderweb of lines around her eyes; she was obviously trying to look younger than her years. Her hair was dyed a vivid yellow not found in nature, and her cheeks were painted bright red. Oh, if Mama could only see her! I had to giggle at the notion. My poor mother would have fainted dead away.

  Of course, I had not painted my face, although I did allow Mrs. Billy Birch, the wife of one of the minstrels, to rub a soft chamois cloth over my face “to take the shine off.” Despite my excitement and my eagerness to begin my new career, I admit to a few opening-night (or rather, day, as it was only two o’clock in the afternoon) nerves. Singing in front of my schoolmates was one thing; performing in front of a mob of strangers on a floating stage docked in Madison, Indiana, was quite another. Would my voice even carry the length of the boat? Placing my hand upon my diaphragm, I took several deep breaths and reminded myself not to strain on the higher notes.