The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (26 page)

“I needed to hear that,” I admitted, returning the compliment of honesty. “I needed to be reminded of that. You have my word, I’ll be kindness itself. I cannot promise to love him. But I can promise to care for him. I do have that capacity, although I’m not entirely sure you believe me.”

“Vinnie, Vinnie, my dear girl. I believe anything you tell me; I believe in
you
. More than I can adequately express.”

We smiled at each other, and then he leaned forward and for a moment—oh, such a brief, precious moment—he placed his hand upon my face, gentle as a sigh. It was the first time he had touched me like this; indeed, it was the first time any man had touched me so reverently, tenderly. I shut my eyes, hoping to memorize his touch; I knew it would have to last me a long time. A lifetime.

Then I looked up at him with a bright, capable smile upon my face; continuing to discuss the matter, we both swore we would never repeat our conversation to anyone. We both knew the value of romance as a marketing tool; we also knew we did not want to hurt Charles.

Should you care to read further about the details of my
engagement to Charles Stratton, or General Tom Thumb, Mr. Barnum’s autobiography provides a very interesting, entertaining account. It was the story that the world—and Charles himself—came to believe. It was the story that both Mr. Barnum and I told him, individually and together, through our actions and our words; you would be hard-pressed to find better actors than Phineas Taylor Barnum and Lavinia Warren, working together.

It was a story of a bashful maiden reluctant, at first, to all overtures on the part of the dashing, beloved hero, a story of a benevolent friend who slyly arranged to help the hero overcome all obstacles and win the fair maiden’s hand.

It was a romantic story, a true fairy tale; Charles always did enjoy those. He never lost his little boy’s eagerness for happily-ever-after endings. Neither did Presidents, Queens, newspaper magnates, shopgirls, Vanderbilts, and Astors.

Neither did a world sickened and weary of war, we were all soon to discover.

INTERMISSION
 

An advertisement in
The New York Times
, January 18, 1863—

B
ARNUM’S
A
MERICAN
M
USEUM—

Now or Never! The wedding is positively fixed for TUESDAY, Feb. 10th, on which the world-renowned Chas. S. Stratton, known as TOM THUMB, will be married to little MISS LAVINIA WARREN THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY, who has been visited and admired by over TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE, every one of whom pronounced her THE MOST BEAUTIFUL MODEL OF A WOMAN … see her NOW OR NEVER as her engagement ends with her NUPTIAL CEREMONY …

[ ELEVEN ]
 
In Which Our Heroine Finds True Love at Last

M
Y DEAR FRIEND DID NOT HESITATE A MOMENT BEFORE
capitalizing on our engagement; as soon as Charles placed the ring upon my finger, the unbelieving grin upon his face thawing my increasingly icy heart a fraction, he was appearing with me at the Museum. Between my levees, we both appeared in the Great Hall, selling our individual
cartes de visites
—and reminding everyone that, soon, there would be photographs of us together to purchase. The crowds were endless, the excitement palpable; never had I experienced anything like it. Policemen had to be called in to keep the crowds at bay as we entered the hall, and to keep the lines for our photographs orderly.

There were moments when I paused and looked around, trying to absorb the scene, the frenzy, trying to make sense of it all. How was it that just a month ago, I was excitedly preparing for my little reception at the St. Nicholas Hotel?

Now everywhere I looked I saw faces, happy shining faces, smiling down at me, calling my name; even in my dreams I saw outstretched hands, all wanting to shake mine, clamoring for my signature, clutching my photograph. The noise, the chatter, was incessant, and at night, when I was blessedly alone in my hotel room, my ears still rang from it. My neck ached alarmingly, as there were simply so many more people to
see
. It was as if Charles and I were one pebble, tossed into a pond, staring up in astonishment at the ever-widening ripples caused by our presence.

I had always looked up, of course; that was my natural position, just as a flamingo stands on one leg or an otter swims on its back. But for the first time, I was so acutely aware of the strain it put on me—my muscles always knotted, both at the base of my skull and where my neck met my shoulders. And my hand, my tiny, delicate hand! I thought it had ached before! Now, so crushed it felt at the end of the day, I finally decided to carry a nosegay, so that my hands might be occupied and thus not available for shaking.

And through it all, through this outpouring of joy and heartfelt wishes for our future—even then, I knew that our union had struck a chord in a nation heartsick of casualty lists—a stranger was by my side. A man who tucked his arm in mine to escort me wherever we went; a man who sat beside me while we signed photos, our elbows often bumping, my skirts often draped over his knee; a man who, in the rare moments we were alone, sighed and whispered my name, brushed his lips against my cheek, held me in a clumsy embrace. Very tentatively, as if he were seeking permission, which he was.

And it was up to me to bestow it; it was up to me to put him at ease, to blushingly return his shy affection, his timid glances. I had to pretend to be thrilled by his trembling, fumbling caresses, so thrilled that I might desire to return them myself, one day. One
far-off day, a day I could not yet bring myself to imagine. And because I could not, I concentrated solely on the now; telling myself that at least we had this astonishing experience to bond us together, and hoping that perhaps it would be enough of a foundation to build a believable marriage. Believable to him, to my family, to my public.

For myself, I did not hold out such hope.

Marriage
. I truly could not comprehend it. Right now, it was just the curtain that would soon fall upon a very elaborate, precisely plotted play. What happened after the principals retired backstage, I simply could not imagine.

I don’t believe Charles could, either, and this somehow gave me courage. He was such a creature of the public; he had grown up knowing no other life. I suspected he viewed everything as a performance, even the act of brushing his teeth or combing his hair. So that his idea of marriage was no more real than mine; we had that, at least, to unite us.

And so I continued my part in this elaborate play and, little by little, day by day, I began to enjoy myself; perhaps, like Charles, I even began to believe it was real. I started each morning hungrily scouring the newspapers for articles and illustrations about us, and I was never disappointed. The Civil War was still raging, but you would not know it by looking at the front pages of the New York newspapers; body counts and war maneuvers were displaced by articles about my upcoming nuptials. When I went to Madame Demorest to be fitted for my wedding gown, I was accompanied by two lady reporters who enthusiastically described my bridal finery. (Oh, it was beautiful; an exquisite concoction of white satin and lace with a flowing train, decorated with pearls and beads!) I also modestly released such details of the rest of my trousseau as Mr. Barnum felt necessary, as well as illustrations of my jewels. Mr. Barnum took care of releasing the details of everything else.

He, of course, oversaw the entire operation; it was his gift to us—and to himself.

“Vinnie, Charlie, now, who are you going to have as your wedding party?” Mr. Barnum asked us one evening, after the Museum had closed. We were in his office, both of us exhausted; Charles was too tired even to hold my hand, as he did, much like Minnie, whenever he was near me. In fact, I was beginning to think of him in much the same way as I did my beloved sister: someone just a little more delicate, just a little more innocent, than I was. Someone in need of my constant protection, perhaps more in need of protection than he was of my love.

Maybe it was because I was thinking of her that her name popped out of my mouth. “Minnie,” I said, stifling a yawn. Then I realized what I had said and sat up straight.

“Minnie?” Mr. Barnum looked confused. “Who’s Minnie?”

“Why, she’s Vinnie’s sister!” Charles piped up, even though I shook my head, warningly, at him. But he did not pay any attention. “And say, Phineas, she’s just like us! Smaller than Vinnie, even. I met her when I asked Vinnie’s parents for her hand. I’m awfully glad to have a sister I don’t have to look up to.”

“You have a sister?” Mr. Barnum looked at me; there was surprise and hurt, both, in his eyes. “You never mentioned that to me before.”

“I never—I just didn’t think it necessary, as Minnie’s so shy. She’s content to stay at home with Papa and Mama.”

“What other secrets do you keep from me, Vinnie? I have to say, I’m quite hurt!”

I could not decide if he was joking or not; he had a teasing, crooked grin upon his face, but his eyes glittered, hard.

“None. It’s not exactly as if Minnie is a secret, of course, it’s just—”

“That you never felt like telling me, your friend, about her?”

“No, it’s not that—you don’t understand.” I shook my head and attempted to undo the damage. “Actually, to get back to the subject, I think Pauline would make a wonderful bridesmaid, and I’d be honored if she would accept.”

“And of course you’ll be my best man, Phineas.” Charles rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“I am much honored,” Mr. Barnum replied seriously, patting Charles on the shoulder. “But I can just imagine what the newspapers would say to that—accusing me of hogging the spotlight or some such nonsense. No, I think it would be better if you found someone else. What about Nutt?”

“Old Nutt? Well, he’s a jolly old fellow, but he’s mad at me, you know. I guess he’s still mad about Vinnie.”

“I think that he might appreciate it if you ask him, Charles. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d put aside his wounded pride out of happiness for the two of you.”

“Well, if you think it’s best, Phineas—”

“I do, old fellow. Now, Vinnie, obviously you want your sister to stand up with you—why pretend otherwise?” Mr. Barnum turned to me, again with that hard glitter in his eyes; I could hear the gears in his brain turning now, as well, as he chewed his lip, drummed a pencil against his desk. “I have an idea. Listen to me. We haven’t discussed what you’ll do after your honeymoon tour—by the way, the Lincolns have definitely invited you two to a reception at the Executive Mansion, and that’s a bit of publicity beyond anything I could dream up, bless their Republican souls—but now I’m coming up with a plan. Imagine this: a quartet of the most wonderful, intelligent, and perfectly formed ladies and gentlemen the world ever produced, presented for the first time ever before the public. You two, Nutt, and now—Miss Minnie Warren. What do you think of that?”

“No.” I shook my head so vigorously that some of my hair
escaped its pins, falling down and tickling my nose. “No. Not Minnie. She is not cut out for this life, and I’ve promised that I will keep her safe. And safe, for her, is back home, on the farm, where she belongs.”

“Vinnie, Vinnie, what’s the danger in the life that you are living now? Surely you don’t feel as if you’re physically at risk in my beautiful Museum?”

“Of course not.” I waved my hand impatiently; Mr. Barnum was being deliberately obtuse, and both he and I knew it. Charles, however, did not.

“Why, Phineas is right, you know, Vinnie. Look at how long I’ve been with him—the worst thing that ever happened to me was when Queen Victoria’s dog almost bit me, remember, Phineas? We were at the palace, you know, and I had my little toy sword that I used onstage, and when that dog came yapping toward me, I waved my sword at it—how everyone laughed! Remember, Phineas?” Charles’s eyes gleamed bright, as they always did when he was relating stories of his past successes. I tried to smile patiently; he had told me this story many times before.

“Charles.” I placed a gentle hand upon his arm, something I knew soothed and pleased him. “You hardly know my sister. Minnie is the sweetest soul in the world, but simple. Trusting. The type of timid soul who can be wounded by so many things, not just physical ones but a glance, a word, an idea, even.”