The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (21 page)

“Minnie, darling, you don’t understand, even though you’re thirteen now—imagine! Trains are wonderful things—you’ll see, someday. But you have to know that this time, it’s going to be so different—I’m going to be so grand!”

“As grand as Jenny Lind?” Minnie looked over at the figurine, back in its place on my bureau; almost the very minute I returned home, she had handed it over to me solemnly, with the assurance that she had dusted it every single day.

“Even grander!” I promised. “And I will bring home beautiful presents for you—dolls and gowns and necklaces, and we’ll put them on and have balls right here at home, right in the parlor, just the two of us!” I dropped the frock I was folding and began to waltz my little sister around the floor; she giggled and followed my lead surprisingly well, her tangle of black curls tumbling down over her face.

But when that fateful day arrived and my family drove me to
the station, she sobbed as uncontrollably as she had the first time I left. I, however, had no tears. I bowed regally to some of my fellow townspeople who just
happened
to be at the station that day; to Mrs. Putnam, the minister’s wife, I gave a special farewell. I extended my hand to her and said that I hoped that God would be with her and that I wouldn’t stop praying for her, not even all the way in New York City, and then Europe. Why, I might even enlist the Queen in my efforts!

She sputtered in horror, but Papa was already lifting me up on the train before she could think of something to retort. Then I was waving to my family, but only for a moment; soon enough I turned around and looked ahead, at the familiar, peaceful buildings and houses and farms that soon fell away as I sped west, toward New York.

The scenery changed, from farmland to coastland; we passed cranberry bogs and fishing villages, and then we found ourselves back in rolling farmland again. Eventually the houses and buildings grew closer and closer together as we went south. Even with the train windows shut tightly, I soon detected a noise, a pulse, I’d never heard before, and I knew we were in New York City. Automatically I clutched my reticule to my bosom, my mother’s lastminute warnings still in my ear, but I also couldn’t refrain from kneeling up on the seat to see more easily. The train was chugging past what seemed to be a maze of buildings, all perilously close to the track, right on the same level; there were so many people on the sidewalks that I was quite fearful someone would step right into the path of the onrushing train and be killed.

To my great relief, no one did. We continued to chug, slowing down by increments, until we reached a yard full of tracks branching out in every direction. The train stopped, and I waited for everyone else to disembark before I finally ventured forth, looking for a porter to lift me down.

“Where is the station house?” I inquired, after finding myself on the ground, in the middle of all those tracks.

“Are you lost, little girl?” He squinted down at me.

I sighed but decided not to correct him. “No, I’m not lost, I simply want to get to the station, where I’m being met.”

“Over there.” The porter pointed, across several tracks, to a large wooden building.

“How do I get there?”

“You walk. Across the tracks. Can you do that? I must say, you’re a mite of a thing, traveling all alone.”

“I’m not—that is—would you mind carrying me?” For despite my eagerness to correct his impression, I heard trains approaching from other directions and I had a momentary fear of being caught on one of the tracks, unable to scramble out of the way in time.

“Sure thing, little lady.” And so I found myself being carried across the tracks, much like a sack of potatoes, and deposited unceremoniously upon the station platform. Hastily, I brushed off my skirt and smoothed my shawl. Perhaps it was not the most dignified way to make my entrance into this great metropolis, but it was certainly the safest.

“You must be Miss Warren?” A tall man with a drooping gray mustache and beard approached me.

“No, I’m—Oh, yes! That is, yes, I’m Miss Warren.” So flustered was I, I had quite forgotten my new name. Mr. Barnum and I had disposed, once and for all, of the ugly “Bump,” and settled on Mama’s family name.

“I’m Mr. Bleeker. Mr. Barnum sent me to greet you and get you out of here right away. I’m to take you straight to his daughter’s house—do you have any luggage?”

“Yes, a trunk and some wooden steps.”

“Give me the ticket, and I’ll fetch them. Come—I hate to ask
you after your long trip, but do you mind hurrying up a bit? We don’t want to cause a stir.” Indeed, people were beginning to gather and point at me; I was so accustomed to this that I scarcely noticed it. But this tall man did, and it appeared to cause him great concern; he put his hand upon my head and gave me a little push, even as he apologized for doing so.

It was his kind concern that made me trust him immediately. He was so very solicitous, even as he was obviously anxious to get me to the carriage. So I followed this stranger, so gaunt that his clothes practically hung off him, as if I trusted him with my life. Little did I know that one day, he would repay this trust, abundantly, many times over. But he was no saint, no mythological creature. For in the end, there was one life he would not be able to spare: the life dearest to him, above all others.

At that moment, of course, I could not suspect any of this; I only followed Mr. Bleeker because I had no alternative, and because I trusted Mr. Barnum implicitly. Soon I found myself in a carriage—not as fine as the one back in Bridgeport; this one was coated in dirt, which I immediately discovered was one thing everyone in New York, no matter the class, gender, or heritage, had in common. Dirt. It was the great equalizer.

Dirt covered everything; my white satin slippers were soon coated in it, even before I stepped into the carriage. Dirt covered the buildings, so tall I couldn’t see the tops of some of them—four and five stories tall, imagine! Dirt covered the cobblestoned streets, which were also filled with animal filth, garbage, rats, and humans—who were also covered in dirt. Newsboys, lugging great armfuls of papers, their faces streaked with grime and newsprint; men in black coats and top hats, carrying walking sticks, their white gloves sooty gray; women wrapped in shawls and long aprons, pulling along sickly-looking children spattered with mud; vendors pushing carts filled with things I’d never seen before,
fruits and vegetables of unknown names, pickles, fish in jars, trinkets—all coated in dirt.

I’d never seen such a kaleidoscope of people, of things, all of so many different colors yet muted with the same grimy gray.

And high above the buildings, in patches, I could glimpse blue sky. And the occasional oasis of green, pastures for horses and even cows and sheep, so oddly out of place in the shadows of the tall buildings.

I was speechless, content to keep looking out the window, again up on my knees, although I knew it was not dignified. Mr. Bleeker simply grinned, saying, “It sure is good to see this place through someone else’s eyes.”

“I don’t see how you could ever get used to it! It looks as if it’s always changing!” Just then, a man with long black curls on either side of his head, wearing a funny hat and coat, emerged from a building. He carried an impressive-looking scroll under one arm, a huge fish wrapped in newspaper under the other. I was enthralled.

Mr. Bleeker didn’t reply; he seemed to be a man content with silence, much like my father. I liked him already. Although he did say, after I hung my head out the carriage window to get a better look at a man roasting chestnuts in a tin bucket over coals and selling them in paper cones, “Miss Warren, I do wish you’d shut the window, for Mr. Barnum will have my hide if anyone sees you.”

I shut the window, not unwillingly; one other aspect of New York—the stinking, rotting smell of human and animal refuse ripening in the sun and stagnant water—had immediately made my eyes water. I sat back down and turned to Mr. Bleeker.

“Why is that? Why does he want no one to see me?”

“Because that’s the way he works. He needs to build you up himself, present you in the proper way. And if some newspaper
writes about a little lady wandering about town, he won’t be able to control the Press. You’ll see—Mr. Barnum is a genius.” Mr. Bleeker’s long face, which had a tendency to look immensely sad when he wasn’t talking, lit up considerably as he spoke about his employer.

“Do you like Mr. Barnum very much?”

“Yes, yes, I do.”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“Oh, years and years now. Got my start working at the Museum, and now I do pretty much what Mr. Barnum tells me to. I manage some of the acts, did a tour with the General last time he went to Europe—that kind of thing.” This lengthy speech appeared to surprise Mr. Bleeker, for he slumped back against his seat and swiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

I left him to his silence and continued to stare out the window, up at the tops of the passing buildings, the only things I could see while seated. At one point we drove by a very long expanse of trees, which Mr. Bleeker kindly pointed out as “the new Central Park; they’re always working on it, but it’s just as nice as Hyde Park or Versailles.”

“Oh.” I was very impressed, not only by the park but by the offhand way Mr. Bleeker said “Hyde Park” and “Versailles,” as if he was very familiar with them. And I supposed he must be, if he had accompanied General Tom Thumb to Europe. I smiled and shivered in delicious anticipation; soon
I
would be visiting Europe’s grand capitals! First Europe, then the American Museum, just as Mr. Barnum had promised. I could hardly wait.

Finally the carriage rumbled to a halt; it had been a rough ride over the cobblestones. Mr. Bleeker unspooled himself from the carriage—he was a very tall man indeed, although not nearly as tall as Sylvia!—and swung me down. Then he helped me up some imposing marble stairs to the front door of a narrow home,
which was part of a row of similar homes, all joined together, constructed of a muddy-colored brown stone. I’d never seen so many houses so close together, no grass or trees between them.

“Miss Warren!” A robust-looking young woman greeted us as a maid let us inside. She was obviously Mr. Barnum’s daughter, for she shared his same round nose and chin, and curly black hair. “I’m Mrs. Thompson, Mr. Barnum’s daughter, but please, call me Caroline. Come, let me show you to your room, for you must be exhausted.”

I followed her gratefully up a narrow set of stairs, which were not as shallow as the ones at home, so it took me some effort and time. This was one of the inconveniences I had to put up with as I aged; when I was a child, I had simply scampered up stairs using my hands to propel me. Now, as a proper young lady in a corset, I could not do that. And there were so
many
stairs in this house! We went up two flights until finally Caroline opened a door and showed me to my room; I gathered this was to be my home for the next few weeks.

I thanked Caroline, who discreetly left me alone to freshen up. The bed was tall but not taller than my wooden steps, which were soon deposited in my room along with my trunk. A very pretty Irish maid unpacked that with alarming efficiency, pausing only now and then to exclaim over the diminutive nature of my clothing.

When she was done, I pulled my steps over to the window and looked out; my view was of another row of houses exactly like this one, all in that same dull stone. The street was very narrow, but I saw a procession of nurses with infants in tow strolling along the sidewalks, and the only carriages that turned down it were beautifully maintained. Mr. Barnum’s daughter obviously lived in Society.

Beyond the houses, I could not see. But out there was the
great city of New York! I itched to explore every nook of it, the rich parts and the poor parts, both. I wanted to see the immigrants in the Five Points; I wanted to attend a musical performance at the famous Academy of Music, where all the Society people gathered.

Even through the windows, I could hear the rhythm of New York; it was in the constant, staccato punctuation of steel carriage wheels upon cobblestone, a sound that I would soon discover never abated, no matter the time of day or night. Already it was ringing in my ears—I knew I would sleep well tonight; none of that awful, nerve-jangling
quiet
of home!

Most of all, I was eager to see the American Museum, where Miss Jenny Lind had sung, where Charles Stratton, as General Tom Thumb, had performed. Soon, Miss Lavinia Warren would grace the very same stage. Oh! I could scarcely believe it; I had to hug myself, pinch myself, to know it was all real. I was here! It was truly happening! I was going to be famous; my photograph would be sold along with those of Queens and Kings.

For the first time, I really and truly allowed myself to believe that I would not be forgotten after all. No weeds would cover my name; it would be known in every household in the land.

And with this reassuring thought to sing me to sleep, I prepared for bed. I did so want to be refreshed and ready for Mr. Barnum, on the morrow.

T
HE WEEKS BETWEEN MY ARRIVAL AND MY DEBUT PASSED IN A
frenzy of fittings and finery; I was Cinderella, and Mr. Barnum was a most unusual fairy godmother. I would not have been surprised to find out that he could turn a pumpkin into a coach!

Standing patiently, hour after hour, while being fitted for a custom-designed wardrobe was hard work, I soon discovered. Naturally, my proportions gave the designer some difficulty;
Madame Demorest did not have a dressmaker’s dummy in anything near the right size, so everything had to be pinned directly upon my person!

In addition to the fittings for my wardrobe, I had numerous appointments with Mr. Charles Tiffany and Messrs. Ball and Black for my jewels; there were endless trips to A. T. Stewart’s store for gloves and accessories, most of which had to be custom-ordered. All conducted, per Mr. Barnum’s orders, in the utmost secrecy, under cover of night. I did not enter a single building through the front door during the first three weeks I was in New York; I felt rather like a Confederate spy!