The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 6

  When we reached the cluttered area in the back of the stage, Billy Birch and his minstrels were in the midst of performing a lively number. I couldn’t see them, as they were in front of the curtain, but I heard the banjos strumming gaily, felt the whole stage shudder beneath the stomping of their feet.

  Oh! I just come afore you,

  To sing a little song;

  I plays it on de Banjo,

  And dey calls it Lucy Long.

  “You ready, Sylvia?” Mr. Lawson, the stage manager, asked my friend. Sylvia nodded, and as soon as the minstrels were done—I heard some scattered applause, a few shouts from the audience, and something hit the stage with a loud thump—Sylvia turned to me.

  “Vinnie, I think I should lift you up somewhere. It’s awfully dark back here, and you might get hurt.”

  I looked around; it was quite dark, the only light wafting through rips in the red-velvet stage curtain or spilling in when someone opened the door to the outside. Scattered about were tangled nests of ropes, musical instruments, and heavy pieces of scenery stacked, not very solidly, on top of one another. Stagehands and performers moved frantically to and fro while the entire floor undulated ever so slightly upon the water. Mama had never seen the backstage of a floating theater, but if she had, she would certainly have added it to her list of things to fear on my behalf.

  “I suppose so. How about that trunk?”

  Sylvia nodded and carefully picked me up and placed me on top of the trunk. Then she bent down—I still was no higher than her waist—to speak to me. “Now, stay here, and I’ll come back for you when I’m done, just like we practiced.”

  “Sylvia!” I had a sudden panicked thought.

  “What?”

  “Do you think I should sing the ballad first, instead of ‘The Soldier’s Wedding’? Which do you think would go over best? I do want to make a good first impression.”

  “Vinnie, it doesn’t matter what you—Whatever you think, dear. Whatever one you like the best.”

  “I suppose the ballad, then.” I smiled up at her, but she only peered at me quizzically, an expression I could not interpret in her sad blue eyes. Then she straightened up, sighed, and moved slowly toward the curtain, as if she were on her way to her own execution. I couldn’t understand her reluctance. Why, we were in the show business!

  Billy Birch, his face covered in burnt cork (although the back of his neck and his ears remained defiantly pink), winked at me as he made his way offstage, he and his fellow minstrels resplendent in green-and-yellow checked waistcoats and orange pants. “You ain’t afraid, are you, Vinnie?”

  “No!” I was weary of people asking me this. “Why should I be?”

  “No need,” piped up the tenor minstrel, his voice high and reedy. “And if anything does happen, we’ll all be here watching, so don’t worry. We’ll get you out in a jiffy.”

  “What might happen?” My heart was beginning to pound, but Billy only grinned. Frowning, I turned my attention back to Sylvia as she moved through the red-velvet curtain, allowing a sudden sliver of light to pierce the backstage gloom. Without a musical flourish or any introduction, she simply grabbed the curtain and stepped forward. I found this odd, but then again, Sylvia seemed perversely devoted to shattering every notion I’d ever had about life upon the stage. Earlier, when I’d asked to see her notices, she’d stared at me and shrugged, remarking that she’d never thought to keep them.

  There was a startled, collective gasp from the audience the moment she pushed her way through the curtain. The gasp was quickly followed by silence, which was soon replaced by whispers that grew louder and louder. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen; the silence onstage seemed ominous.

  Finally someone spoke, but it wasn’t Sylvia; it was a voice from what I had to assume was the audience. “How tall is she?”

  “Seven feet, I wager,” someone else replied. And then suddenly Colonel Wood, in his role as master of ceremonies, began to speak in a smooth, practiced patter—yet another side of his personality I’d never before witnessed.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, come this way! Come stand next to Miss Sylvia Hardy, the Maine Giantess, eight feet tall if she’s an inch! Why, Miss Sylvia here used to be the finest nursemaid in all of Wilton, Maine—she could carry an infant quite easily in the palm of her hand!”

  I heard gasps; I couldn’t contain my curiosity, so I jumped nimbly off the trunk and hurried around to the side of the stage, pushing my way through boxes and crates and furniture. When I got to the edge of the curtain, I peeked around it, safely hidden; onstage, Sylvia was extending her large, meaty hand toward the audience. There was no doubt that a baby could fit within it.

  “But what does she do?” I whispered to Billy, who was suddenly kneeling by my side. “What’s her act?”

  “ ‘Do’?”

  “Yes—what does she do? Doesn’t she sing? Recite?”

  “Sylvia doesn’t have to do anything. All she has to do is stand. She’s not a performer, Vinnie.”

  “Not like us, you mean?” I didn’t look at him; my eyes were still trained on Sylvia, who was now standing with her arms extended horizontally; beneath them, two men stood, with room to spare.

  “Well—that is—no.” Billy patted me on the shoulder gingerly; most of the members of the company still seemed afraid to touch me, as if I were made of glass. Sylvia, ironically, was the only one who did not display this tendency. “No, not like us. You sure do take the cake, Vinnie, I’ll tell you that!”

  “So why does she do it, then, if she doesn’t want to perform? She looks miserable.” And indeed, Sylvia’s face reminded me of an illustration of Joan of Arc that I’d once seen in a schoolbook: stoic, unflinching, with upturned eyes that were overflowing with the pain the rest of her homely face could not express.

  “Somehow that Barnum fellow found her up in Maine; she didn’t have any family living. She’s been alone most of her life, they say. I guess that Barnum can persuade a mouse to go after a cat, so he somehow persuaded Sylvia, of all people, to appear at his American Museum. Don’t think it went over too well, though. Doesn’t seem to have lasted very long, and anyway, she wouldn’t be here if it had, would she?”

  “Barnum? Sylvia was at the American Museum? Does Colonel Wood know that? I imagine he does, being they’re such good friends.”

  “Wood and Barnum? Friends? Whoever told you that?”

  “Why, Colonel Wood did, of course.” I turned around and frowned up at Billy; he had an amused look in his light blue eyes, pale against the streaky black of the burnt cork smeared on his face.

  “Barnum never heard of our dear Colonel, I’d bet my a—, er, hat on it.”

  “No, that’s not what he told me; he said he’d worked with him in New York!”

  “Maybe he swept the street behind the Museum.” Billy grunted. “But Wood never worked with Barnum. He must have told you that to make sure you’d sign.”

  My heart sank; I turned and looked at the stage. Suddenly I saw that the red-velvet curtain, which had looked so glamorous, was patched, the scalloped shades of the footlights were cracked, and the floorboards on the stage itself were warped. Colonel Wood was standing to the side in a bright green jacket with a checkered vest, his curls now as blackened as his mustache, but under the glare of the chipped gaslights, both were beginning to run, inky black streaks appearing on his forehead and around his mouth.

  What a fool I was! I’d heard only what I’d wanted to hear and ignored everything else. Why, I knew now he’d never even heard Miss Jenny Lind sing, let alone been given a private performance. At that moment, I had no idea what on earth I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump of the Massachusetts Warrens, was doing on this shabby boat, in this shabby dress that had seemed so glamorous, but now I saw that the fabric was as thin and gaudy as cheap wrapping paper.

  I had no idea what Sylvia was doing here, either, if it was true she’d once performed at the American Museum. The American Museum! Even in two short weeks on the river, I
’d learned that everyone on this boat aspired to appear at the American Museum someday. How odd that Sylvia had never once mentioned she already had!

  I tried to look at my friend through different eyes, she who had been nothing but kindness itself. She had comforted me that first awful night, had listened to my weepy recitation of my family’s wonderful qualities, had suffered much to make room for me in our cramped stateroom, her giant body perpetually folded up like a retracted telescope. Every morning she helped lace up my corset, which was not easy with her thick, fumbling fingers. And I spent half an hour each evening brushing out her long brown hair, which seemed to soothe her, for she was always in pain; her joints and bones constantly ached, and her feet suffered excruciatingly from carrying about her mammoth weight. All this contributed to her perpetual air of discomfort and sadness.

  I loved my new friend dearly. But try as I might, I could not imagine her passive, lugubrious form on the same stage that dainty Miss Jenny Lind and nimble General Tom Thumb had graced.

  Sylvia’s shoulders slumped as if she was endeavoring to disappear within that ungainly body. She was now concealing an entire newspaper behind her gigantic hands, to oohs and aahs from the crowd. Colonel Wood was standing onstage, pointing to her and reciting her particulars—height, weight, the color of her eyes—as if she were a slave to be auctioned off.

  “Why on earth doesn’t she do something, so that he doesn’t have to resort to such a display?” I whispered to Billy as irritation stirred in my veins, irritation at both myself and Sylvia. Myself for believing Colonel Wood; Sylvia for letting him poke and prod her with his walking stick while she merely stood, obviously humiliated.

  A brisk slap of applause startled me; Sylvia was now lurching offstage, pushing through the shabby curtain. My stomach fluttered as I rushed to meet her.

  “Are you ready, Vinnie?” A fond smile pushed away the anguish on Sylvia’s face.

  “Of course.” I nodded calmly, as if I wasn’t suddenly unable to hear over the roaring in my ears. Then we were walking through the curtain together, and Colonel Wood was introducing me as “a new sensation, a miniature chanteuse, a living doll—Miss Lavinia Warren Bump!”

  He was only a lime green blur in the corner of my eye; the footlights in front and the gaslights along the sides of the stage were so brilliant and hot that they blinded me. I relied on Sylvia to nudge me with her knee toward what must be the piano, and then she was lifting me up, up, up, until I felt the solid walnut vibrating beneath my feet as the pianist continued to play a flourish.

  Blinking, safely above the glare of the flickering footlights, I tried to make out the scene before me. The upper seats, which I’d been told were for the Negroes, I could not distinguish; all was a dusky blur. But I could discern a few faces in the audience, seated on long, hard benches on the main floor. It was mostly made up of men, I realized: a few women, some children, but mostly men, dressed in rough farm clothes. The women at least had hats on, and Sunday cloaks, but the men did not appear to have donned special clothing for the occasion.

  This, alone, caused my heart to slow down, the roaring in my ears to fade; I had no fear of these kinds of people, for they were just like my own folks. Even rougher and less schooled, I imagined from the dirt and the faded quality of some of the clothing, the stained spittoons at the end of every row.

  Now I could hear the gasps and whispers, the creaking of the benches as people shifted and stood to get a better look at me. Colonel Wood had stopped speaking and was twirling his walking stick as he gestured to me. With a small nod, I turned to the accompanist, Mr. James, and whispered, “I’ll start with the ballad.”

  He smiled and started playing the introduction. I cleared my throat, and the first tremulous notes pushed themselves out of my mouth. “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair,” I warbled, and knew that my pitch was off, my tone wobbly. But the audience didn’t seem to mind; I could hear sounds of “Shh, shhh,” and one “Gol’ darn it, shut the hell up!” as I sensed the individuals lean forward as one, one great, giant ocean wave rushing toward me.

  I didn’t recoil from it. Instead, I held my hand up, silencing everyone, including Mr. James.

  “Excuse me, I’d like to start again,” I said. And nodded, as Mr. James played the introduction over.

  “I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair.” The words were clearer now, my tone steady, and I felt my throat relax so that every note wasn’t pinched. With assurance, I lifted my head so that my voice could carry farther, even as Mr. James softened his accompaniment.

  “I see her tripping where the bright streams play.” The audience seemed transfixed by my voice; the creaking had stopped now, as no one moved a muscle. In the first row, there was more than one gentleman whose mouth was hanging open, perfectly enraptured.

  “Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.” This was the most difficult part of the song, and I strained a bit to hit the high notes; Mr. Jones, who wore a pained expression as we began that section, relaxed and smiled at me when it was over.

  “Oh! I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.” I slowed the last notes, caressing them so they would linger. As the last note trailed off, I took a big breath and bowed my head.

  There was a long silence, long enough that I almost looked up to see what was the matter—and then rapturous, thunderous applause! It fell over me like a warm embrace, tingling my skin; it was with some difficulty that I restrained myself from jumping up and down and clapping myself. I was a hit! An immediate success! Just as Miss Jenny Lind had been when Mr. Barnum first brought her to America. Perhaps, after all, I hadn’t been mistaken about Colonel Wood.

  Then I started to hear the murmurs—

  “She can’t be real!”

  “She’s a doll! A windup toy!”

  “I never saw such a thing in my life!”

  “Hey, mister, how’d you teach a little baby to sing?”

  A few people were standing now, making their way toward the stage. Naturally, I recoiled but realized that I was well and truly stuck up on the piano; it was only then that I remembered Billy Birch and Sylvia were backstage, ready in case “something happened.” Now I understood what that “something” was.

  “It’s a doll, one of them puppets, ain’t it?” A decidedly rough-looking young man, with a crimson face and boils on his neck, was now at the very foot of the stage, his hands upon it, ready to haul himself up. “Open your mouth, doll baby, and sing me another purty song!”

  I was frozen with fear and disgust. I could not move or utter a word. But it didn’t matter, as Colonel Wood now swung into his patter and began to talk for me—just as he had done for Sylvia.

  “I assure you, Miss Lavinia Warren Bump is not a doll! She’s a perfectly formed woman! A marvel of Lilliputian splendor!”

  There was a gasp, then someone shouted, “My Myrtle’s taller than that, and she’s four years old! Go on up! Put her down on the floor so my Myrtle can stand next to her!”

  “Yeah—put her down on the floor!”

  “Make her walk! Make her sing!”

  “Make her talk!”

  To my horror, Colonel Wood was walking toward me with outstretched arms; he was about to pick me up and lift me down off the piano, as if I were indeed a doll. I realized, with a sickening twist of my stomach, that he was not going to ask my leave; his eyes simply swept over me as if he was trying to calculate how heavy I was. My fear and disgust melted away to anger as he placed his unwelcome, violating hands about my waist and I slapped him, hard, across the cheek.

  “You may not touch me!” I cried, which had the instant effect of silencing the crowd just as Colonel Wood stepped back in surprise.

  “Excuse me?” He rubbed his cheek, eyes darkening.

  “I said you may not touch me! How dare you, picking me up as if I was a child! I am a lady, and I will not allow such behavior!”

  As Colonel Wood’s color deepened to a
dangerous red, the audience tittered; someone called out, “Hey, Colonel, guess you’d better play nice with your dolly!”

  “She ain’t a doll!”

  “Sure she is!”

  “If you ever slap me again, I’ll throw you across the stage,” Colonel Wood hissed out the corner of his mouth as he faced the voluble audience with a broad smile, raising his hands to calm them. “Don’t just stand there, say something to ’em! I could have found me another dwarf who’d be dumb as a rock, just like that dumb giant, but as soon as you said you were a schoolteacher I thought maybe I had something special. Thought maybe I’d found me a meal ticket just like that Tom Thumb. Thought maybe you were one of them special dwarfs.”

  Stunned, I could only stand there as hurt tears filled my eyes and my stomach churned with disgust. Dwarf? I had never before been called that word, not by any misbehaving schoolchild or exasperated teacher; certainly not by my own loving family, whom I missed more than I thought I could bear. Dwarf? I had read of dwarfs, ancient accounts of comical pets of royalty or grotesque creatures from fairy tales, like Rumpelstiltskin. The word was repulsive and had nothing to do with who I was.

  Was that how he had seen me all along? I resolved to take the next train home, back to my family, who had only tried to protect me from people like him. Contract or no contract, I would—

  Don’t shame us, my father had said; the full weight of his words fell upon my shoulders like a cross to be born.

  My body felt icy, separate from my brain. Colonel Wood was openly sneering as he moved again toward me. There were only two things I could do. I could stand there like Sylvia, a thing—a dwarf—and let him lift me off the piano—I could almost feel his huge, grasping hands about my waist, my legs dangling helplessly in the air. Or I could take control of the situation and not shame my family.

  I will not let my size define me, I had told myself back in my school days. I will define it.