The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (31 page)

“Perhaps not, but—”

“And the four of you, together—now, you must know you will cause a sensation the likes of which this country has never seen. You will be the most famous quartet in America, I’ll bet my hat on it. Think of the audience you will reach; think of how many people will see how proper, how intelligent you all are—what joy you will bring! And you miss your sister, I know it. Charles is a good soul, but—I can see that you are lonely, at times.”

“Yes, maybe.” I was reluctant to admit it, but I was. “But that’s not the point. And anyway, I don’t believe Mama and Papa would allow it.” And I hoped that they wouldn’t, but I knew, deep down in my sinking soul, that they would. They were both anxious to repair our breach, and entrusting me with Minnie’s care would do that.

“You can talk them into it, I know.”

“I can’t refuse this, can I?” I was suddenly weary; I had a long
evening ahead of me. The Vanderbilts’ dinner would run well past midnight.

“I don’t know why you would want to. Think of the possibilities for us all—and especially for Minnie. Think of the things she will see now! Think of how delighted she will be to join you!”

“I suppose so.” She would be happy to be with me; that was the one bright hope I clung to, defeated and deflated as I was—also ashamed, for it was my own actions, after all, that had brought about this situation. “Is there anything else you require of me? Does this repay my debt to you?”

“Now, don’t talk like that. There are no debts between friends, are there?”

“No, but between business partners, there often are.”

He pursed those crooked lips and looked away; his bushy brows gathered threateningly over his eyes. “Very well. Consider your debt fifty percent repaid. We’ll talk about the other fifty percent later.”

“I warn you, I do not have any other siblings to offer up as collateral.”

“I understand.”

“Fine.” I rose, and was about to leave when I felt compelled to turn around; I did not like leaving him this way. “I do apologize for not telling you about Colonel Wood. I simply wanted, so much, for you to like me and sign me. I was afraid to bring anything up that might prevent that.”

“Vinnie, I liked you from the instant I saw you. I would have done anything to keep you from going off—I would do anything, still, to prevent that. Friends?”

He looked so kindly, so earnest—it always surprised me to see how open and honest his face was. One would expect the Great Barnum to have the best poker face in the world, but he did not. His genius lay not in concealing but in sharing—his
enthusiasms, his opinions, his disappointments, even. That he did not always reveal all the facts of the matter was really a small quibble; the great thing about him was that he, himself, believed everything he ever said.

So he believed we were friends—and so did I. He believed he had extracted a reasonable price from me—and for a time, I did, as well. So we shook hands and parted cordially, peace restored.

I would remember that handshake later. And recognize it as the moment that I gave away my sister, as well as my soul.

INTERMISSION
 

From
Harper’s Weekly
, December 24, 1864

S
HERMAN

How often, as the alarm of Sherman’s march has rung into some neighborhood in Georgia which had before only heard the war afar off, it must have bitterly recalled to mind of some thoughtful Georgian the prophecy of Alexander Stephens four years ago. He foretold ravage and destruction.… And now at last, after four years, the prophecy is fulfilled where it was uttered.

From
The American Woman’s Home
,

by Catharine E. Beecher and Harriet Beecher Stowe

In the Divine Word it is written, “The wise woman buildeth her house.” To be “wise” is to “choose the best means for accomplishing the best end.” It has been shown that the best end for a woman to seek is the training of God’s children for their eternal home, by guiding them to intelligence, virtue, and true happiness.

[ THIRTEEN ]
 
And Baby Makes Three

D
O YOU THINK WE’LL LIKE THE NEW BABY
?” M
INNIE ASKED
anxiously as she sat upon a stool, watching the stewardess unpack her trunk. We were in our stateroom on the S.S.
City of Washington;
finally, I was on my way to see Europe!

It was October 1864, and we were now a corporation—officially known as the General Tom Thumb Company, in partnership with Mr. Barnum. Newly incorporated, we had toured New England and Canada starting in the fall of 1863, presenting a “marvelous, miniature quartet of the most perfectly formed men and women ever seen,” just as Mr. Barnum had imagined. Charles performed his most famous impersonations (unfortunately, he could no longer fit into the body stocking required for him to imitate Hercules, so that was dropped), I sang songs, we both danced, Commodore Nutt performed some sketches, and Minnie
recited a simple poem as Mr. Bleeker invited the smallest child in the audience to stand next to her, for effect.

Each performance ended with a reenactment of our wedding, all four of us wearing our original clothes—a touching tableau suggested by Mr. Barnum, who soon got wind of an odd phenomenon sweeping our nation: a phenomenon known as the “Tom Thumb wedding.”

Newspaper reports began to appear, describing children being dressed up in wedding finery and arranged in pretend weddings, complete with cake and roses and infant minister. It was the nuptial ceremony in miniature, reenacted in our honor. There were hundreds of “Tom Thumb wedding” parties; “Tom Thumb wedding” fundraisers; “Tom Thumb wedding” pageants at schools.

Was I supposed to be touched by this, viewing it as a tribute to our love? Or was I supposed to be offended, seeing it as a mockery, a joke? I never could decide. After all, my own married life still seemed to be pretend. So much of it took place under the microscope of the public eye. At the end of a long day of performing—of waltzing together, singing together, presenting the perfect little married couple, capped by reciting the marriage vows themselves—Charles and I had nothing to talk about, and no house to keep. We took our meals at our hotel in silence and went to our separate bedrooms, exhausted.

I shared my bed with Minnie, just as we had when we were young; I rocked her to sleep every night. Charles did not seem to mind, for he was so very fond of her. In my sister, he’d found the playmate he had been looking for all his life, a partner in mischief and fun. I often came upon the two of them playing a game of marbles upon their knees, or whispering plans to tie Mr. Bleeker’s shoelaces together while he and I sat discussing business.

Minnie, now fifteen and maturing into a very pretty young
woman, had settled in with the troupe remarkably well. Her serious nature was now lightened by flashes of humor, and while she was quite shy onstage, offstage she was invariably eager to explore her new surroundings—enjoying museums, taking strolls in hidden parks, and trying on bonnets in millinery stores. I promised Mama and Papa that I would see that she ate well, never walked alone without an escort, and went to church every Sunday. Above all, I promised myself that I would keep her sweet, innocent nature just the way it was. And to that end, I kept her close by me at all times. Much closer than I did my husband.

Our inaugural tour was so immensely successful that Mr. Bleeker felt compelled to write to Mr. Barnum proposing the postponement of our European tour for a year. “Leaving now,” he cautioned, “would be throwing away the cream.”

To no one’s surprise, Mr. Barnum wrote back, “My dear Bleeker, Go on; save the cream. Your returns show it to be cream and not skim milk. Yours, P. T. Barnum.” So we continued our travels in the United States, this time heading south. We even crossed enemy lines for one brief, confused moment when Mr. Bleeker couldn’t read a map, although to my disappointment, the enemy did not appear to notice. We soon got our bearings and turned around, crossing back into the safety of Kentucky.

It was there, in Louisville, where I saw my old friend General Grant, who was on his way to take command of the Army of the Potomac. The tide of war was turning, ever so slightly; after New York was torn apart by the Draft Riots of 1863 (we were on the last train out, heading north to Canada, before rioters tore up the train tracks leading to and from the city!), the Union was amassing more and more victories. Chattanooga, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor—these battles had drained the Confederacy of more men than it could afford to lose. And General Sherman was at that time planning his assault on Atlanta.

It was also in Louisville that I exchanged photographs with a handsome young actor staying in our hotel; he introduced himself by reminding us his brother had attended our wedding.

A year later, I tore that photograph up in horror; John Wilkes Booth had just shot the President.

And now, at last, we were turning our sights to Europe. Our company remained the same, including Mr. Bleeker as manager, and his dear wife, Julia, who mothered Minnie and me in the best possible way, proving to be a boon companion and loyal friend as well as an experienced seamstress. We also employed Mr. Kellogg as treasurer (the poor man developed a nervous tic; as there were so few banks in those days, he practically slept with our proceeds under his pillow at night, forever fearful of robbers!); Mr. Davis, who assisted Mr. Bleeker; Mr. Richardson, our pianist; Rodney Nutt, George’s brother, who served as footman and groom for our small Shetland ponies; and Mr. Keeler, who did everything else that needed to be done.

There was one member, however, whom we had to leave behind, and whose replacement we would not meet until after we crossed the Atlantic. It was the very smallest person in a troupe of very small people, and it was the person whom Minnie was so eager to meet, as the
City of Washington
steamed its way down the Hudson toward open sea.

“Do you, Vinnie? Do you think we’ll like the new baby?” Minnie asked again, as the stewardess left our stateroom with a curtsy and a wish, in a strong Irish brogue, that we “have safe travels, wee that ye are, mind that you don’t get swept overboard!”

“I imagine we’ll like it. We liked the other one well enough.” I shrugged; I had not gotten too attached to the previous infant, regarding it as simply another prop I had to use onstage. However, both Charles and Minnie had become alarmingly attached, and I had warned Mr. Barnum that this would happen.

This, then, was the last thing I owed him, the last price—or so I thought at the time—that I had to pay for my carelessness regarding Colonel Wood: I had to agree to participate in one colossal humbug, the biggest one of them all.

I had to pretend that I was the mother of an infant daughter. I had to allow Mr. Barnum to fill the papers with the news that General Tom Thumb and his wife, Mrs. Stratton, were the proud parents of an infant daughter, as yet unnamed. I had to accept the mountains of cards and letters of congratulations, the acres of miniature blankets and nightgowns that would not cover a chipmunk, let alone an infant, but the public, naturally, assumed our child was of fairylike proportions. Mrs. Astor sent an exquisite miniature cradle; Mrs. Vanderbilt, a tiny christening gown.