Jenny and Barnum (23 page)

“Minelli is a lunatic anyway—quite insane,” Otto commented cheerfully, letting her know that the arrangements were not upsetting his emotional equilibrium. And Jenny could see that, because he was so seasick, Minelli would be unhappy under any circumstances.

She was not worried about receiving only one side of the story, either. Otto was too civilized for that, a gentle man who naturally kept himself a bit removed from the squabbling and hurt feelings attending all human activities. He had a quiet humor, and was capable of the kind of offhand quiet remark, deflating a pompous ass, for instance, that would leave its hearers helpless with laughter. Jenny liked Otto very much. He was patient with her and understood her need to think for herself and make her own decisions. She was sick of men who claimed undying love for her and then insisted on taking over her life. Minelli was almost one of those, but what was amusing about him was that he wept—of course, not all the time; but on more than one occasion as he told her he loved her, tears had started streaming down his cheeks. Once he had had to excuse himself—God only knew the reason why. He was very passionate, very passionate. More than once, she had had to twist his ear to make him behave. He loved it, loved everything she dared try with him. He was a baby, but the way he kissed and touched her made her shiver with delight. Very few men seemed able to draw out her feelings when she let them kiss her. Little Tom Thumb had been as helpless as the baby he seemed to be—she had felt very naughty, enjoying herself with him like that. She knew she was colder than most women in that regard—otherwise, she had deduced, she would have married long ago and already delivered a half a dozen babies by now. As it stood, if she had children at all, it would not be as many as she had thought at one time necessary to fill her life.

Otto Goldschmidt was gentle enough for her, but his natural reserve left her only wishing she was responding to him. She was holding herself back—but given their predicament, it was only natural: Otto was a Jew. He said he did not care as much about religion as he cared about music, and that was enough self-understanding, he thought, to suggest that he was probably better off not pursuing what he called “theological questions.”

It was his tendency toward objectivity, that very coldness, that put her off. She liked and admired and respected him, but she did not love him. She wanted to tell him why, but it was not a question of a character flaw, for this was actually his character, all-of-a-piece, and he was a happy man.

She had no right to interfere with him so intimately. She knew what falling in love was. She had been in love with her English officer—she had almost lost control with him. If he had been more forceful at critical moments, she would have had no choice, but in his case the passage of time—and not very much of it, either—had shown the weakness and immaturity of his character, not the reverse as with Otto.

She had fallen in love with her Englishman because he was far and away the most handsome man she had ever seen, and
he
had fallen in love with
her
. Later, Felix Mendelssohn told her that the experience had been good for her, had added to her confidence in a way more important than her own character would allow her to accept. That some people thought she was not beautiful was because she herself did not believe it, Mendelssohn told her. She was still not willing to believe him on that score, but she knew now that men fell in love with her, and that it really wasn't very difficult for her to make any man pay attention to her.

The episode after the party on Sunday evening had been a disaster for her, but Otto had been in jaunty good humor for days afterward. During the storm at sea they worked on the program for her first performance. He was a gentleman and knew his place, and when she wanted to work he did not move from the piano bench. But this was a holiday until they reached New York, and they did not have to work very hard. She liked to be kissed. It was too bad Giorgio was sick. He wept and took liberties, but he was a passionate Italian and sometimes he made her gasp.

On Sunday Captain MacDonald ordered all leisure activities halted in honor of the Sabbath, and on deck the ship's minister tried to give a sermon about Jonah, but the wind carried his words away. All afternoon there was hymn singing on the afterdeck, with passengers from steerage coming up to join the more fortunate. A heartbreakingly beautiful Christian spirit developed as their voices lifted in wonderful song. At the end of the day Captain MacDonald uttered the opinion that there was no more beautiful sound than that of a woman singing, which was his way of revealing a surprise for the ship's entire company. He had arranged with Miss Jenny Lind for her to sing for all aboard in the Grand Saloon next Saturday night, two nights before the
Great Western's
arrival in New York. It was, he said, a fitting conclusion to the voyage, and many understood. Some of the immigrant women wept. They had thought they would never hear Jenny Lind sing. Now, on the eve of their last contact with the Old World, she proposed to sing for them free. She was a saint, some of them said.

The sun went down at the edge of a smooth, pink-and-green sea, the clouds above edged with cold fire. A wonderful Sunday and the end of the first five arduous days at sea.

The Barnum troupe could do no less than offer a performance of its own, Tom Thumb realized when he heard the news, and after consultation with some of the others, he went to the captain and made the offer, which was accepted promptly. Tom Thumb didn't bother to talk with Lavinia and Gallagher. He hadn't seen them, and didn't want to. Gallagher had moved in with her, it seemed—at least, he was nowhere to be found.

Happily, the weather stayed clear for three straight smooth days. But no wind, and the
Great Western
demonstrated what the fuss over steam was all about, for in still air over fifty-four hours it still managed to travel 675 nautical miles, the navigator reported—better than 11 knots!

Chang and Eng were able to come up on deck, causing a stir, and Anna Swan got as far as the Grand Saloon, where the curved glass canopy was opened to give her a breath of the fresh salt air.

The troupe put on its show on Thursday afternoon, without incident. Tom Thumb got out of the Grand Saloon when Gallagher was performing. Lavinia was nervous at the start of the duet, but when she saw that Tom Thumb was apparently more interested in his performance than in her, she decided to be put off—and showed some of it to the audience. Tom Thumb had already figured that he would have to tell Barnum to get rid of both of them, but if she was going to ruin performances with displays of bad character, then the problem would show itself to Barnum without a word from anybody. None of it was going to matter to Tom Thumb now. His life was going to be the same as it had been before he had met her—he wouldn't even have to get used to something new.

On Thursday night the
Great Western
sailed into a pack of icebergs, clearly visible under a moon beginning to wane. The ship's company was up on deck to watch the wonder of steam as Captain MacDonald moved the ship through the ice one step at a time, ordering half speed, dead slow, quarter speed, right paddle, left paddle, the ship threading through the floes like a nimble waiter in a crowded dining room. Icebergs had been the death of sailing ships for thousands of years, and now, as everyone could plainly see, steam had consigned their danger safely to the past. As the last berg floated past the starboard quarter the passengers let out a cheer, and caps flew into the air, some arcing over the side and into the water.

It had been a good voyage so far, and encountering the icebergs completed the sense of having survived an adventure. Tom Thumb thought that if Barnum had been aboard, he would have asked the captain if it could be arranged for icebergs to be kept at the ready, so the steamship company could guarantee their appearance during every crossing and thus raise the price of passage.

The dining room and the Grand Saloon were crowded that night, and the air belowdecks was filled with the odors of good food freshly cooked and the sound of violins thinly carrying over the roar of conversation. Every table was crowded. Jenny Lind found Tom Thumb in the Grand Saloon, trying to avoid being stepped on by hurrying stewards.

“Come sit with Otto and me,” she said.

“If it's no imposition,” the little man said.

“I thought you weren't well, we'd seen so little of you. I think you've just been avoiding us.”

Goldschmidt stood up as they approached and signaled a waiter.

“Just get me a couple of cushions,” Tom Thumb told the waiter. “And a little whiskey and water.” He stood on the chair while he waited for the cushions. “Thank you for asking me to join you. Sometimes it gets pretty dangerous out there for a fellow my size.”

“A charming performance this afternoon, General,” Otto Goldschmidt said in his mild way. He raised a glass of wine in a toast. “I would love to see you as Puck in
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
”

A busboy arrived with the cushions, the waiter right behind him with the drink. Tom Thumb sat on the table while the cushions were put in place. “We thought of that,” he told Goldschmidt, “but I haven't got the stamina to do it the real way, night after night. It wouldn't work unless we could show that it was more than just a stunt.”

“You're much the best of the troupe,” Goldschmidt said. “Please don't misunderstand, but the others are performers because of their situation. You're a professional entertainer—more than that, one of the best I've ever seen.”

“Well, of course, the others didn't get the opportunity I had, being brought up in it by Barnum. He made me tell people I was older than I was, for the sake of the effect, and the result was I had to
act
it. I was always acting in those days, even if I didn't know it. Most people don't understand, but performing—doing it
right
—takes something extra. If it isn't talent, it has to be something, the result of a lot of effort and practice. You can always see it.” He stopped, because Lavinia and Gallagher were passing by, on their way into the dining room. Lavinia glared at Jenny, then let her eyes sweep past Tom Thumb as if he weren't there. Tom Thumb didn't want to see Jenny's reaction, but with so much at stake, he felt that it was his duty to make sure that she was not overly disturbed. Her face was red—from suppressed laughter. Goldschmidt looked nonplused. Jenny waited until Gallagher and Lavinia were out of earshot, then leaned close to Tom Thumb.

“You mustn't concern yourself about that woman,” she said. “For some reason she's taken a dislike to me. I don't think she's terribly bright.”

“It's a long story,” Tom Thumb said. “Try to pay no attention to her until we get to New York. After that, I'll see that she doesn't bother you.”

“She doesn't bother me,” Jenny Lind said. “She's trying to upset
you
. What gives me no pleasure is seeing how you're struggling with the problem.”

“As I said, it's a long story.”

Goldschmidt finished his wine and bade them good night, kissing Jenny's cheek when she offered it. Whatever she thought of Lavinia, she was another woman who had things just the way she wanted. Tom Thumb knew he was in a foul mood now because of Lavinia and that he had to be careful here. Fortunately, Jenny was interested in making small talk about her concert Saturday night. Nothing was going to be asked of Signore Minelli, for instance. He had been seen up and about for the past several days, but his condition was apparently too delicate for him to assume any responsibility Saturday night. Tonight he had been too frightened of the icebergs to venture out of his stateroom. Tom Thumb finished his drink and ordered another. Minelli and Goldschmidt were her playthings, one content with a kiss on the cheek and the other being kept carelessly in reserve. Now she said she wanted to eat. Tom Thumb wanted to wait until Gallagher and Lavinia were out of the dining room, but he did not want to say that to Jenny. She saw it in his eyes, however.

“I don't need to eat this minute,” she said. “I can wait until you're more comfortable.”

“No, no. I'm just getting drunk here.”

She giggled. “We were very drunk that first afternoon. Is that what is upsetting your friend? She wanted you to see her, but I monopolized your time.”

“She's not upset,” he replied diffidently. “She wants to pretend she's upset so she doesn't have to face how upset
I
am.” Talking about it made his anger rise. He stared at Jenny Lind. “She's a dope. She just threw away the only chance she'll ever have for a wonderful life. That other guy is just a bum—an alcoholic, lying bum.”

“Surely it can't be as serious as that—”

“She left the door unlocked,” Tom Thumb sneered.

Jenny's eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon?”

He realized what he was doing, but he didn't want to stop, as stupid and dangerous as it was. “She left the door open. This was after we took the tour of the ship. Maybe she didn't want me to see what she was doing, but I find that hard to believe—”

“Disgusting. Not another word, I beg you. It makes my head spin.”

He was alarmed. “I'm very sorry.”

“It's not your fault. It's a wonder you've been able to keep your sanity. Well, at least I know why we haven't seen so much of you.” She shook her head. She said one more word, so softly that Tom Thumb was not sure he heard it correctly. He thought the word was, “Brazen.”

He did not last until Lavinia and Gallagher emerged from the dining room. He ordered a third drink, thinking again that he was drinking too much. He might have even said it, or tried to say it, to Jenny Lind. He talked constantly, holding her rapt attention, knowing he was getting terribly drunk, and then suddenly he was incoherent, staring at the woman, wondering what he was trying to tell her in the first place.