The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (32 page)

We borrowed a baby. How callous that sounds now! But Mr. Barnum persuaded me to pose with a foundling—a very small one—that he had personally selected from a charity hospital. In Mr. Mathew Brady’s studio, just across the street from the Museum, I sat holding that infant, who was beribboned and beruffled in borrowed baby finery (for the things given to us were much too small), smiling at Mr. Brady’s camera.

The child, I must say, was well behaved, although rather heavy for me; by the time we were done, the crook of my arm ached.

In our last few appearances at the Museum, in preparation for our European tour, we had introduced our “child” to the public. “Miss General Tom Thumb,” she was called, as I paraded her about the stage; no one thought to christen her with a first name. Although I suppose this made it easier to return her to the hospital, as if she were a pair of shoes that did not fit, on the eve of our sailing.

Easier for me, at any rate; not for Minnie, and not for Charles, either. They both grew quite fond of the child, who was cared for by a hired nurse when we weren’t performing. Charles had so enjoyed
playing with her; he dangled his watch chain above her until she gurgled and cooed; he tickled her; he sang her songs.

And Minnie, who loved all children, who still traveled with a doll although she no longer played with it, well—she had cried and cried when we had to give the baby back, kissing the infant until I was alarmed that she might smother her.

She had tears in her eyes now, as she thought of it. “She was such a little thing. I hope someone good takes care of her. It seems so sad to give her up like that.”

“I know, but it’s much easier to get a new child when we land. Traveling on a boat would not be fun for an infant—and besides, Mr. Barnum felt that that baby was getting too big. Babies will grow, of course.”

“But Vinnie, don’t you miss her? Don’t you want a baby of your own? One you’ll never have to give back?”

I stopped in the middle of arranging some flowers that had been sent to our room by General Winfield Scott, conveying his best wishes for a safe voyage. The boat was starting to rock a bit, as we must have been heading out through the Narrows. And although I was a very good sailor, my stomach lurched at that moment, as I contemplated the notion of ever having a baby. It was still the one thing that could make me have nightmares. Always, it was a dream of blood and pain and cries and finally—nothing.

I wanted to cry out, “No! No, I never want a child, and neither do you!” But I knew it would hurt Minnie, who loved children so; I didn’t want her to think I was as coldhearted as I really was. So instead I answered, “Of course, Minnie. But wanting a baby isn’t the same as actually having one. And you know—I’ve told you, darling, remember?—that I can’t.”

“But Charles wants a baby, I know he does. He told me. Oh, poor Charles!”

“Poor Charles will be just fine. And in the meantime, we can
all play with the new baby, and care for it, and I imagine it will be a very nice one, at that. Perhaps, since we’re getting it in France, it will even cry with an accent!” I smiled, coaxingly, at my sister. She looked so pretty in her new traveling dress, nearly identical to mine, which was black satin while hers was brown. We both had such lovely wardrobes for this trip, smart cloaks and fur caps and muffs, so many pairs of gloves I couldn’t imagine ever running out, but of course knew that I would. I always ran out of gloves, at an appalling rate; I simply shook far too many hands. My husband might kiss every lady he met—and he did, much to my annoyance—but I shook the hands of them all, plus their husbands. And my supply of gloves could not keep up.

Minnie’s dark eyes twinkled at the thought of a baby crying in French, even as tears still rolled down her cheeks. She laughed, just as I’d hoped she would, her little dimple showing. And I relaxed—for the moment, anyway—and proposed that we dress for dinner.

I have fond memories of that first journey across the ocean. The weather was fine much of the time, and, dragging my steps with me wherever I went, I was able to look over the railing, marveling at the whitecaps, the seagulls that followed us like a noisy white cloud, the occasional whale surfacing perilously close to the boat, so much more thrilling to see than the poor whale in his tub back at the Museum!

In particular, I enjoyed the brisk, salty slap of wind against my face. I timed it so that I would walk out, bareheaded, stairs in hand, toward the prow of the ship just when the winds were fiercest; the sailors at first were amused, but soon enough they ignored me. I would climb my stairs—well away from the rail—and face the wind with gritted teeth and shut eyes, welcoming that first harsh sting against my soft, protected skin that had never
been without a hat, bonnet, or veil. Invariably, it brought tears to my eyes—welcome tears.

For I needed to be punished. I needed to atone for what I had done and for what I still must do, as Minnie continued her discussions of the new baby and even knitted a blanket for it. I deserved every slap in the face that the cold North Atlantic winds could give me. I deserved more, even. But I had to content myself with that.

L
ANDING IN
L
IVERPOOL, WE SPENT THE NIGHT AT
L
INN’S
W
ATERLOO
Hotel, thinking that we would make a very quiet journey on to London the next day. The next day, however, was Mayor’s Day, and the city was thronged with sightseers eager to see the grand parade. So loud were the crowds that we ran to our balconies to see what was happening; in a flash, the crowd had turned toward us and was waving and shouting its welcome.

“Well, if it isn’t Tom Thumb and his little bride!”

“Welcome back, General!”

“ ’Ope you ’ad a safe crossing!”

Soon the street in front of our balcony was thoroughly blocked—and so was the mayor’s parade! We retired quickly inside our suite so that the parade could continue, although the cheering for us resounded unabated.

This was just a glimpse of the extraordinary adoration we found waiting for us all through the rest of our trip. I had dreamed and dreamed of this moment, and was not disappointed. To see, with my own eyes, the places I had read of in my history books was an experience I will always cherish.

From Liverpool we journeyed to London. There we were guests of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough
House. The Prince and Charles shared a touching reunion, as the Prince had been a boy the time Charles visited his mother the Queen in 1847, and remembered him well. He also remembered being sent up to bed much too soon; fancy, the future King of England being sent up to bed just like any boy!

The Princess of Wales, a stunning dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with the tiniest waist I’d ever seen, did not say a great deal; I felt she was not very confident of her English, since she was of Dutch ancestry. However, she did not have to speak; her beauty was more than enough contribution to our pleasure, Charles’s and mine. (Minnie and Commodore Nutt did not join us; they were not always invited where we were, and while Minnie never minded, I’m afraid Commodore Nutt did. His impish, elfin face could scrunch itself up into petulance so swiftly, as if it were made of rubber. Indeed, he threatened, many times, to go off by himself at night and find his own fun. This worried good Mr. Bleeker so that I’m quite sure he spent more than one night camped out before the Commodore’s door as a precaution!)

While I truly felt bad for Minnie and the Commodore, my spirits could not be dampened, and at times I had to refrain from pinching myself. Was it possible that I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump Stratton, was having tea with the future King and Queen of England? “Mrs. General,” they both called me, with all the deference I could wish for; I addressed them as “Your Royal Highness,” and returned the favor, curtsying deeply whenever we met.

Oh, if only that sour-faced Mrs. Putnam could see!

After a brief stay in London, we prepared for the first real destination of our tour, Paris. In December of 1864 we took the famous ferry across the channel and landed at Calais, that cold, empty-looking city.

Calais happened to have a charity hospital, though, and upon landing, Mrs. Bleeker went directly there, as instructed by Mr.
Barnum. He had contributed enough money to ensure discretion in the matter. Mrs. Bleeker came back to our hotel with a cherubic infant girl, whom Minnie clasped to her childlike bosom immediately. But the stern English nursemaid we had engaged took the child away, saying grimly, “There’s nothing worse for a child than to be coddled and cosseted! Mrs. Stratton, Ma’am, if you please, I think I know what’s best.”

“I’m sure you do,” I replied with relief. After that, I saw the child only during performances, although once more, both Minnie and Charles snuck into the temporary nursery whenever the maid’s back was turned.

It was in France that I came to rely upon Charles for the first time in our marriage. So far in our life together, I had felt it natural to assume some kind of position of direction, and indeed, Charles seemed relieved to rely upon my judgment and good sense. He was a seasoned performer, yes—far more seasoned than I. But regarding the ways of the world, I felt my life upon the river equipped me to deal with them in a far more practical way than he could. After all, he had been sheltered by Mr. Barnum from the time he was five until the time of our marriage.

Charles, however, was the only one of our party who spoke French. And so, faced with that slippery language that would not stay upon my tongue no matter how much I tried, I found myself turning, more and more, to him for direction. He made all our travel arrangements to Paris, with the assistance of Mr. Bleeker; he ordered for us all the few times we ventured out into restaurants. Every morning when we gathered for breakfast in Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker’s hotel suite, Charles translated out loud all the newspaper accounts of our visit. Some mornings he had to read to us for what seemed like hours, so numerous were our notices! Accounts of my wardrobe, Charles’s cigars, our every stroll and dinner—each detail was devoured by our French admirers.

The notices were even more numerous when we were summoned to appear at court, for this was before the Republic; the Emperor Napoléon III and his exquisite wife, the Empress Eugénie, were on the throne. And while I was delighted by the pageantry—the beautiful Worth gowns on every attending lady, the glittering jewels adorning the Empress’s scandalously low-cut neckline—all I could do was smile and nod. I had to rely on Charles to speak for me, for the very first time.

I must admit that I was proud of him. The manners and courtliness that he had learned, even before his letters, as a child traveling on the Continent served him well; that mind that had absorbed everything that Mr. Barnum had taught him when only a child of five was on display. Reader, I’ll not pretend that I ever felt Charles to be my intellectual equal. I’ll even go so far as to admit to some feelings of frustration over my husband’s immature ways—his habit of simply repeating what others said while conversing about politics or music or art, rather than forming his own opinion; his eagerness to introduce himself with a full recitation of the places he’d seen and the people he’d met; his gullibility, for my husband would believe every tall tale ever told to him, every pipe dream sold, every pot of gold promised.

But in Paris, I was finally able to find more things to appreciate about him. After our invitation to the palace, our success was assured in that gray city (for that was how I remembered it; we were there in winter, and every building, sidewalk, street, and even the sky all seemed the same gunmetal gray to me). I may not have been able to understand the language, but there was no mistaking the interest in the throngs and throngs that we encountered whenever we attempted to leave our hotel. It grew tiresome; it was much too difficult to navigate the narrow Paris streets hemmed in on every side, ears assaulted by the excitable Gallic language. I was quite accustomed to being stared at and pointed
to, but hearing myself discussed in a language I could not understand began to wear on my nerves.

The crowds were so pressing that when we tried to go see Napoléon I’s tomb, we had to turn around after just a few blocks and return to our hotel. So it was that Charles and I found ourselves spending long, lonely afternoons together. Minnie was usually with the infant, and Nutt was usually off with one of his conquests—one of his many conquests, if his boasts were to be believed—so it was just the two of us. One of my talents long being an aptitude for fine embroidery, I began to teach Charles. To my surprise, he took it up very quickly and soon proved himself even superior to me—and he did not mind Nutt’s teasing about it, or even Mr. Bleeker’s gentle jokes. Charles retorted that a man had to occupy himself somehow, and this way he’d have something useful to show for it. And indeed, he embroidered many seat covers and pillows and fireplace screens that I still use to this day.

It touched me to see him so intent upon choosing thread of the right hue or a perfect needle. His head bent over his work, his tongue sticking out between his teeth, he was the very picture of virtuous industry. He tugged at that reluctant heart of mine, almost as if he had embroidered himself to a very small, remote corner of it. I don’t believe I ever liked my husband as much as I did during our time in Paris.

Yet most of our marriage was still spent upon the stage; whether or not they could understand us, the enthusiastic Paris audiences always applauded ecstatically. Our act was the same as it had been at home, except that we no longer reenacted our wedding. Our wedding clothes were on display before the performance, but now I ended the show by bringing out the child (whose name I still had not learned), doing my best to smile maternally, while in reality, I trembled with fear.

I may have been able to face down a crowd of Rebels to get passageway home from the South, but when called upon to care for an actual infant, I admit to some cowardice. It, or rather,
she
, proved to be very wiggly indeed; squirming, waving clenched fists in the air, so close to my face they almost hit my nose, blinking her eyes against the bright gaslights. Automatically I tightened my grasp about her; this wriggling, live
thing
in my arms reminding me of the time I had dressed up a baby pig in doll clothes, back when I was a girl. The pig had shot out of my arm like it was greased, landing with a sickening thump on the floor, where it lay for a moment, stunned, before it shook its head and ran squealing off, dragging its clothing behind. I was most afraid the same thing would happen now.