The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (23 page)

And not a woman in miniature.

INTERMISSION
 

From
The New York Times
, February 26, 1863

A C
ASE OF
F
URIOUS
D
RIVING

Mrs. E. GREEN, residing at No. 22 Watts-street, while crossing Fifth-avenue, near Tenth-street, was knocked down and run over by a horse and sleigh, which was being driven at a furious rate, by LEVI L. HUFF, the colored coachman of Mr. CHARLES GOODHUE, of Madison-avenue. Mrs. GREEN, who was severely injured, was taken to her residence by a policeman. HUFF was arrested and taken before Justice KELLY, who committed him, in default of $300 bail.

From
Harper’s Weekly
, March 21, 1863

F
OREIGN
N
EWS
—E
NGLAND
—R
EVULSION OF
P
UBLIC
S
ENTIMENT

There was a great demonstration at the amphitheatre in Liverpool on the 19th ult., in support of President Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation. The
Liverpool Post
says that a more unanimous meeting was never witnessed on any question on which public opinion has been divided. Resolutions applauding the course of Mr. Lincoln on the slavery question, and an address to be provided to him through Mr. Adams were adopted. Some uproar and confusion occurred toward the conclusion of the meeting; but with this exception everything passed off very happily.

[ NINE ]
 
Or, Another Player Makes
His Long-Anticipated Entrance

M
Y SUCCESS WAS COMPLETE—TOO COMPLETE, PERHAPS
. For Mr. Barnum decided I was so popular, it would be prudent to postpone the expensive European tour. We argued, but finally he showed me the projections for the income we could expect if I appeared at his Museum right away.

I had no reply to that—other than to show him that he could add an extra two hundred dollars a week to my salary, as compensation for my understandable disappointment. He swore mildly but in the end did not appear to mind too much as he signed the check.

Indeed, I think he admired me even more.

P. T. Barnum’s American Museum! How sad to note how little it is remembered these days! Children of this time have no memory of it. They don’t even realize how very much they have missed by not growing up while it was still standing.

I first entered it, accompanied by Mr. Barnum, through a private door that the majority of the public did not even know was there. But later, I insisted upon entering it through the front, just like any member of the public that paid, without grumbling, twenty-five cents each. For nowhere else on earth had there ever been such an assemblage of novelties, animals, music, culture, science, and entertainment all in one place.

You first approached the Museum from the corner of Broadway and Ann Street in Lower Manhattan; it was surrounded by many thriving businesses, including Mr. Mathew Brady’s daguerreotype studio, which I would come to know quite well. The street at this intersection was wide enough to accommodate the throngs of people always milling about in case one of the living exhibits might appear for a stroll or a brief, tempting display of his talent. The building itself was five stories of white stone, with the name “Barnum” prominently featured in red letters above the third-floor windows. Panels depicting the various animals and exhibits, including Tom Thumb, were painted gaudily on the face of the stone. Flags flew in a line atop the roof, and the second and third stories each had a wrought-iron fenced balcony stretching their lengths. On one of these balconies, a band in brightly festooned uniforms played; they were singular for their absolutely awful musicianship. Indeed, Mr. Barnum confessed to me that he had hired them expressly for their lack of talent! He wanted the people
inside
the Museum, and if they had to endure a cacophony of out-of-tune instruments, he reasoned, they would not remain long
outside
.

After paying admission, families, immigrants, Society people, farmers in their finest, and a constant parade of newspapermen from all over the world mingled together as they took in the wonders to be seen. And such wonders! On the first floor, there were halls lined with display cases brimming with the most unusual
artifacts, exotic animal bones and skins, minerals, the world’s largest baby tooth, horrifying medical instruments all gleaming with steel and sharp edges, a part of an asteroid that had once killed a farmer’s cow, a thread of the blanket that the Baby Jesus was swaddled in, a real live flea circus, dioramas of all sorts of scenes, even miniature naval battles on real water. There were cases and cages full of preserved animals and skeletons. In one room was the famous “Happy Family,” where, in the same cage, a lion, a tiger, a lamb, and assorted birds all lived together in apparent harmony. (Although Mr. Barnum confessed that the exhibit could continue only as long as he had a fresh supply of lambs and birds!)

On the second floor was the waxworks, where mannequins of famous personalities stood milling about companionably, as if at a silent tea party. There was George Washington, Queen Victoria, the Apostles, Napoléon, Joice Heth (the original humbug herself, the old Negro slave whom Mr. Barnum had tried to pass off as George Washington’s one-hundred-and-sixty-year-old nursemaid, until she died and was discovered to be only eighty), and Jenny Lind. Naturally, Charles Stratton was represented in this hall as well. In one corner stood a tree trunk upon which Jesus Himself had once sat—or so read the inscription. On this floor too was a picture gallery of astoundingly realistic portraits, some that even appeared to pop out of their frames, so breathtakingly lifelike were they. The famous Feejee mermaid was still on display—the crudely stitched-together torso of a monkey and a fish tail that had been the second great example of Mr. Barnum’s ability to whip a gullible public up into a frenzy. This phenomenon was safely behind glass, thank heavens, for I could well imagine how it must smell by now!

And in the middle of the second floor rose the enormous saltwater tank in which a real beluga whale lolled about, alive, but
barely. I felt sorry for the poor thing, so confined, so miserable. But it was an extremely popular attraction, indeed. Rare was the person who had ever seen a whale up close, save for Captain Ahab himself!

Strategically placed at intervals were signs that promised
This Way to the Egress!
I bit my lip when I saw people eagerly going in the direction they pointed, and chided Mr. Barnum about it later. “That is an awful trick to play upon people,” I scolded him.

“I’m not saying anything deceitful at all. It’s not my fault if the educational system in this country is so appalling, no one knows that ‘egress’ is Latin for ‘exit.’ ”

“And so you sit here and take another twenty-five cents each from these poor people who find themselves locked outside, forced to enter again through the ticket booth!”

“Yes, I do. And I need every extra twenty-five cents I can get so that I can pay your heartlessly negotiated contract, cruel woman! So if there’s anyone to blame, it is yourself.”

I had to smile at him. I always smiled at him in those days.

Of course, the noise in the place was horrendous; animals and people all chattering, heavy boots and spurs being dragged across wooden floors, the constant importunate cries of the ticket sellers and the men hired to keep the crowds moving. The smell, too, could be overwhelming: so many humans and animals in close quarters, despite the fact that there were fans everywhere, ventilation holes hidden along the walls. Every part of the Museum was illuminated by the new limelight, which was different than gaslight; it shone much brighter, not nearly so yellow, and lit up the stage of the Lecture Hall brilliantly.

The enormous, elegantly appointed Lecture Hall took up almost the entire third floor of the building, its velvet-curtained balconies extending up to the fourth and fifth floors. I know that in these more modern times, it is difficult to conceive of the necessity
of calling what was really a theater a “lecture hall.” But in those Civil War days, the word “theater” was shocking—not just shocking but amoral. It was considered a sin of the highest consequence to step foot into a “theater.”

However, a “lecture hall” was another thing entirely; why, it was a place of learning, of enlightenment! Lectures were given here: scientific lectures, magic lantern shows of foreign lands. That it was also, occasionally, a place where plays were performed, operas sung, and ballets danced was merely convenient, as well as palatable, to the good, upright citizens of this Grand Republic of ours.

January 2, 1863: this was the date I made my debut in the Lecture Hall. On that enormous stage where Miss Jenny Lind had sung and bewitched her listeners, I felt as if I had completed a very long journey. I had finally arrived where I belonged, surely.

I’m certain I went dutifully through my rehearsed program that night. I sang my songs, told more stories, enacted a graceful little dance, answered planted questions from my audience. I was a professional; my body could go through its paces, even if my mind was not fully engaged. And I don’t believe it was that night. I remember only the most serene feeling, almost one of complete detachment from this elegantly attired woman standing in the middle of this famous stage, moving about so competently, watched by hundreds of avid eyes. And even as I danced and chatted and sang, I knew, somehow, that I would long remember the details of my humiliation on Colonel Wood’s boat much more intensely than I would the details of this evening’s triumph.

I wondered why that was. I wondered if this was how it always felt when all your dreams came true. Perhaps, after living with them for so long, did you simply toss them away—and begin to dream about something else?

One of the first evenings I appeared at the Museum, I was
resting in my sitting room—everything in it made to my size, down to the exquisite silver hairbrushes and mirrors on my dressing table—between levees. I had already grown to love this oasis, for I now could not stir one foot in this city without causing a sensation. I had tried to take a stroll through the footpaths of Central Park, but soon found well-meaning citizens too eager to lift me over the snow banks. The first time I entered the grand establishment of A. T. Stewart’s through the front door, simply because I wanted to look at the new bonnets, I was immediately surrounded by a crush of people who blocked my progress, some of whom earnestly tried to show me where the children’s clothing could be ordered!

And my hand, my delicate, manicured hand, throbbed so at night after shaking so many much larger hands, that I had to soak it in lavender water!

So I was enjoying my respite, intending to finally begin
Lady Audley’s Secret
, which I’d heard so much about, when there was a knock on my door.

“Yes?” I called out.

“Miss Warren, it’s me. Barnum.”

I leaped off the sofa, my book sliding to the floor; opening the door, I smiled and said, teasingly, “What is this ‘Miss Warren’ business? You’re not still angry with me about that extra two hundred a week?”