The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (22 page)

During those weeks, I came to know Mr. Barnum’s daughters very well: sturdy, reliable Caroline, my hostess; the slightly bad-tempered Helen, also married, whose mouth was always pursed in disapproval of some perceived slight; and the charming Pauline, the only unmarried daughter, obviously her father’s favorite. These three fussed over me as if I were a pet or a doll, Pauline pronouncing every single item of my accumulating finery more cunning than the last.

I must pause here to admit to my feeling of utter bliss upon being laced, by Pauline Barnum herself, into my very first custom-made corset. She giggled at my delight; Pauline was always bubbling over with giggles, being only sixteen at the time. But, oh, how that corset felt against the silk undergarment, smooth and cool as a flower petal against my skin! It fit exquisitely, not a gap, not a wrinkle. When I was laced into it, I stood for almost a quarter of an hour before a looking glass, just gazing at myself, at my womanly figure, how my breasts were pushed up perfectly, my waist fashionably narrow, my hips rounded and utterly feminine. The corset itself, in a fine buff silk, the whalebones delicate yet sturdy, was so beautiful I truly hated to cover it up.

Not once during all the time I stayed at her daughter’s home
did I meet Mrs. Barnum. She remained, indisposed, in Connecticut. Apparently this was not new, as her daughters merely sighed and rolled their eyes at the mention of “Mother’s maladies.” And I cannot say I mourned her absence, as it enabled my friendship with her husband to blossom in these dazzling weeks with the intensity of a hothouse flower.

For I found, to my great delight, that Mr. Barnum often stayed in New York with Caroline, instead of taking the late train back to Bridgeport. Every evening I would descend the stairs eagerly, looking for his gold-tipped walking stick indicating he was back from the Museum. The two of us often dined alone, as Caroline and her husband usually had a social function to attend. Naturally, we discussed my upcoming debut, all the myriad details of which Mr. Barnum oversaw with the sensitive attention of an artist. No detail was too tiny for his interest; he discussed the placement of a rosette on one of my slippers until even I was weary of the subject!

I began to notice that whenever we were together, he made a point of sitting down. This may appear to be an insignificant detail, but it was one that I greatly appreciated. This was in such contrast with Colonel Wood, who had taken every opportunity to loom over me—he had rarely sat in my presence, never offered me cushions, was fond of standing as close to me as possible so that he could literally look down upon me.

Mr. Barnum did not do this. In fact, he and I soon fell into the habit of sitting knee-to-knee, as we had done that first day, whenever we had something important to discuss. Thus situated in front of a crackling fire, a plate of cookies or walnuts, glasses of lemonade or sometimes fine Madeira, on a table within reach, we would talk for hours and hours. Not only about my plans but about the War, the political situation, his receipts from the Museum; he was soon asking my opinion about other acts and exhibits, and I felt he always weighed my answers very carefully.

Looking back, I believe this was the most satisfying time of my life. I would soon meet public figures, millionaires and monarchs, beyond anything I could have imagined. But it was this time, this sweet, anticipatory time, that I remember most fondly.

I told him all about my life on the river, not varnishing the roughness but, under his eager, hungry gaze that was always on the lookout for an anecdote or unusual story, finding the humor in my memories, as well. I came to believe he was fueled, almost alone, by words and imagination; by a hunger for knowledge and experience that paralleled my own. Never before had I felt such a kinship with anyone, not even Sylvia. It was a meeting of the minds, first and foremost.

The night before my debut, as Mr. Barnum and I sat together in Caroline’s snug parlor, I felt a trifle melancholy. My new trunks—made of the finest leather monogrammed with my initials—were packed up in the dear little bedroom that had been my first New York home. On the morrow, I would be moving into the St. Nicholas Hotel, where I would remain while I held my series of grand receptions—invitation-only, highly sought-after, Mr. Barnum reported with glee. Already I missed the warm hospitality of Caroline’s home; already I missed these quiet, conspiratorial evenings with my new friend.

“Are you all right, Vinnie?” Mr. Barnum asked as he handed me a glass of wine.

“Yes, I am. Although I admit, I’m a little nervous about tomorrow. You’ll make sure no man picks me up or kisses me without my permission, won’t you?” This old fear of mine would not leave me. Despite my elegant new wardrobe, I worried that I would be touched and picked up and squeezed as if I were a child. Or worse.

“Mr. Bleeker will be vigilant, I assure you. He’s to be considered your bodyguard. You must trust him as you trust me.” Mr.
Barnum, a red silk dressing gown covering his shirt and trousers, nodded smartly. His cigar, ever-present, glowed mysteriously in the cozy darkness. Only the light from the fire illuminated us; he did not like to have the gaslights lit at night, for he enjoyed the shadows. He said it reminded him of his childhood, when he would walk long miles back to his home late at night from his grandfather’s store, where he first learned to sell things to people who did not know they wanted them.

“Then I am satisfied.” I tried to push those worries out of my mind, but others swiftly took their place. “And I’m to meet all the gentlemen of the Press, at once?”

“Yes, but don’t think of it that way. People will be introduced to you, one by one, just like any reception. You’ll simply stand and shake hands and chat—that’s all we need to do at first. And I trust that your charming powers of speech will not desert you.” Mr. Barnum winked at me, but behind his smile I detected a stern rejoinder: a reminder that I must not fail him. And I would not, I vowed silently. I would not let him down; the responsibility of this did not fall lightly upon me, but it did not completely bend me, either. I felt myself rising up to shoulder it without complaint.

“Might I not sing a little song?” I asked after a moment, as I tried to imagine what the morrow would be like. “That went over very well on the river.”

“I suppose.”

“I could sing ‘Home Sweet Home,’ ” I offered. “So everyone will know when to leave.”

“No.” He shook his head in a very decided way.

“Why not?”

“That was Jenny’s song. You must find another.”

I bit my lip, my stomach tightening in a curious way. I did not like the way he said “Jenny,” as if he had a right. I did not like the gleam that turned his eyes from gray to almost blue when he did
so. I did not care for the way he stared into the fire and sighed, as if entangled in a memory.

Most of all, in some soft, womanly part of my heart—a part that I had not, until now, taken the time to explore with any frequency—I did not like the fact that no one had ever said
my
name in that way, that softly proprietary way.

“Fine,” I said grudgingly. “Then I’ll sing ‘Annie of the Vale.’ I’m told I sing it exceedingly well.”

Mr. Barnum smiled at me, nodding approvingly. “Good girl. I knew you’d come up with something right away. You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Vinnie. I’ve not met many your equal.”

I smiled back, basking in the glow of his approval, content to be admired for my mind.

For now.

INTERMISSION
 

From the
New York Tribune
, December 23, 1862

Yesterday we saw a very pretty and intelligent little lady at the St. Nicholas Hotel, in this city. This woman in miniature is twenty-one years of age, weighs twenty-nine pounds, thirty-two inches in height. She moves about the drawing-room with the grace and dignity of a queen, and yet she is entirely devoid of affectation, is modest and ladylike in her deportment. Her voice is soft and sweet, and she sings excellently well.

From
The New York Times
, December 23, 1862

We attended Miss Warren’s reception yesterday at the St. Nicholas. It was a festive gathering. All were paying court to a very beautiful, an exceedingly symmetrical, a remarkably well-developed, and an absolutely choice specimen of feminine humanity, whose silken tresses beautified and adorned a head, the top of which was not quite thirty-two inches from the floor. In other words, we saw a miniature woman—aye, and the queen of them.

[ EIGHT ]
 
Or, A Star Is Born

A
ND SO IT ALL CULMINATED IN ONE GRAND, GLORIOUS
reception, successful beyond anything we could have imagined. Standing upon a small velvet-draped platform in the lovely parlor of the St. Nicholas Hotel, I softly cleared my throat, nodded to the pianist Mr. Barnum had secured for me, and began to sing.

I had shaken many hands, engaged in much conversation, discussed the myriad details of my wardrobe (at least, the details that a lady could discuss in public). I had posed for illustrators eager to sketch my likeness, I had answered questions about my family and ancestors (these, I surmised, were discreetly planted by Mr. Barnum, who was circling the edge of the crowd like a proud parent, careful not to take any attention away from me). All in all, I was an astonishing success. I knew it by the hum of approval in
the room, the admiring glances; I knew it by Mr. Barnum’s unapologetic smile of pure, boyish glee. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to sing my song.

Fixing my gaze at some spot across the room—in the sudden yellow, flickering glare of the gaslights, which seemed to have been turned up to a blaze, I could not make out anything specific. Then I began to sing. Very softly at first, for it had been a long while since I had sung in public, and my voice was a little rusty and uncertain.

“The young stars are glowing … their clear light bestowing … their radiance fills the calm clear Summer night …”

All I could see were smiles around me; smiles from these men, serious professionals, but my singing, I could tell, brought them much pleasure and delight. So I sang even louder, my eyes adjusting to the light now.

“Come … come … come love, come … come ’ere the night torches pale …”

My vision cleared so that I could make out that spot on the far wall; to my surprise, it was Mr. Barnum to whom I had chosen to sing. It was Mr. Barnum whose face I now saw, a smile upon it as broad as any I had seen. Did I also detect a tear in his eye? I was too far away, but I decided that yes, I did.

“Oh, come in thy beauty, thou marvel of duty … Dear Annie, dear Annie of the vale.”

I bowed my head after the last note and accepted the applause of the room; it was different from the applause I had heard on the river. This was respectful, from men who were cultured, men who had heard Miss Jenny Lind sing.

But there was only one man whose applause fell sweetly upon my ear, all the way from across the room. It was the one man who heard the Nightingale sing, still, in his memory.

His was the admiration I truly sought. And in that moment, when I knew that I possessed it, I allowed myself to wonder, for the very first time, how it would feel to be known simply as a woman—