The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (11 page)

There was also one photograph of him standing on a tall table, leaning his hand upon the shoulder of another man, who stood next to him.

“That’s Mr. Barnum,” Sylvia said, groaning as she knelt down so she could see the images. “The man standing. That’s Mr. Barnum.”

“Really?” I was surprised and, I confess, a little disappointed; the man in the photograph looked so very … 
ordinary
. Curly hair parted on the side, a wide forehead, a somewhat bulbous nose, an unremarkable smile. He resembled any man I might have passed in the street; he certainly did not resemble a world-famous impresario. Colonel Wood, I had to admit, looked much more the part than did this man.

“Good God Almighty!”

Sylvia and I both looked up, she rising as hastily as she could, leaning heavily upon the glass case, which shuddered alarmingly beneath her weight. A very surprised young man, with thick spectacles and a pale complexion, stood behind the case. Wiping his hands on a long white apron, he didn’t look like a photographer; he looked like a butcher. Except instead of blood on the apron, there were inky black stains.

“Hello,” I said with a smile, since he appeared unable to do anything but gape at the two of us. “I was hoping you could help me. What are these?” And I pointed to the photographs behind the case.

“The—the—they’re
cartes de visites,
” he finally stammered,
pronouncing it
car-tays-vizeetz
. “I got ’em from a supplier in Paris. Folks here are crazy about ’em, but I’m almost plum out. Say, ladies, I’d take your photographs right here on the spot, free of charge, if you’d let me sell them. Whaddya say?”

Sylvia began to tremble, but I answered firmly, “I’m afraid we couldn’t do that, not now. But perhaps later. Do you have a card?”

“Would you like to buy one of the little General’s? He’s our top seller.” The man gave me a conspiratorial smile as he handed over his card. “I bet you’re sweet on him, ain’t you?”

“Why on earth would you think such a thing?” I asked, insulted by his impertinence, and not inclined to hide it.

“Why, because—well, because. He’s a mighty handsome little man.”

“And I suppose I’m a mighty pretty little lady?”

“Sure! Why, sure you are!”

“And because he’s handsome and I’m pretty, we must make a match?”

“No, because you’re little and he’s little!”

“Really,” I said to Sylvia, who was watching me with her usual admiring, openmouthed smile. “The nerve!”

“Well, anyway,” the young man said with a shrug. “Take it for free. And come back if you change your mind about being photographed.”

“No, really, I couldn’t—”

“I’ll take it.” Sylvia held out her massive gloved hand. “That one.” She pointed to the photograph of General Tom Thumb in Highland dress. The young man placed the
carte de visite
into her hand with trembling fingers.

“Gosh” was all he could say as we left the store; a crowd of children, who had been pressed, nose first, against the store window while we were inside, scattered like frightened mice before us.

“I never saw anyone so rude,” I muttered as we began to walk back toward the river, the busy hum of activity drawing us like bees to a hive.

“Do you want the picture?” Sylvia asked. I looked up at my friend, in whose shadow I could easily walk; despite the parasols we both carried—each painted with the words
Follow Me to the Show!
—she shielded me from the peculiarly pale sun I had already learned to associate with the West.

“No, you keep it. But thank you.” I had no interest in General Tom Thumb beyond his association with Mr. Barnum.

As the
Banjo
, docked in all its desperate jauntiness, came into sight, however, I reconsidered. There it was, the long, flat boat trimmed in peeling shades of red, white, and blue—with a new sign hanging over the ticket office proclaiming, in huge letters,
The One, the Only, Floating Palace of Curiosities Including the Only Dwarf Woman This Side of the Alleghenies
. There I was, my name not of any value, nor my face, nor my talent—only my size and, of much less importance, my gender.

And here was General Tom Thumb, his photograph being sold for twenty-five cents beside those of Queens and Presidents.

How had this happened? I had not left my family to become the only dwarf woman this side of the Alleghenies, stuck on this miserable boat. I was educated; I was descended from the first Americans; I was gifted with a fine voice, face, and form, not to mention manners and intellect.

As far as I could tell, Charles S. Stratton, General Tom Thumb himself, was not blessed with any of these advantages.

Suddenly I felt a fire burning in my very soul; perhaps it had been tamped down these last few weeks, but it was a fire that had always been there. It had begun as that ember that kept me warm at night while my mother wept for my lonely fate, the same spark that had inflamed me to excel in my job as schoolteacher, even as
I knew it was offered out of pity. It was the fire of ambition, and I knew it was the only thing that would save me from spending the rest of my life a sad curiosity—like Sylvia—or from going back to the farm and hiding from the world, like my beloved Minnie. At that moment, I wasn’t sure which of the two fates was the least desirable; I only knew I didn’t want either one.

“I’ll take that after all,” I said to Sylvia, who handed me the photograph of the General. I tucked it carefully into my reticule, then drew up the strings tightly, to keep out the dust.

It may have been only a photograph, but it was necessary fuel to that fire I was determined to nurture or else I would be lost, or else I would be forgotten, just a nameless memory in the minds of some rough folk who lived along a river. “Remember, Ma, remember, Pa,” I could imagine them saying to each other years from now. “Remember that dwarf woman we saw? Wasn’t she something?”

“She sure was,” it would be agreed. And that would be all.

No, I couldn’t allow that to happen. And this photograph of General Tom Thumb in an outlandish costume—perhaps it could be my ticket out of here, away from such a sad, anonymous fate.

It could also be my ticket
to
somewhere: to New York, and the Great Barnum himself, who was fast becoming, in my mind, the only person who could repair my dignity and give me the career I so desired. Perhaps he could be persuaded to buy my contract from Colonel Wood.

But first, of course, he would have to know about me. A photograph would be the perfect introduction. And I imagined that I would take a very nice photograph, indeed.

INTERMISSION
 

From the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
, September 14, 1855

The Syracuse
Standard
says a healthy lady with four babies, all born at once, passed through that city and took dinner at the St. Charles Hotel yesterday. The children are three boys and one girl, and were born in Tompkins County. They are a trifle over seven weeks old, and are represented to be very hearty and handsome children, and so much alike that it is impossible to tell “t’other from which.” They were bound for the Boston Baby Show. Physically, the lady may be healthy, but morally and mentally she cannot be, for no sane or modest lady would make a “show” of herself. To sit in a public place, courting the notoriety of having produced an unusual number of children is neither ennobling nor modest.

From
The New York Times
, November 30, 1859

T
HE
N
ORTH AND
S
OUTH

We are in the receipt of numerous communications concerning the Harpers Ferry affair, and the various topics connected with it. They are from all quarters, and on all sides,—some defending the North, assailing Slavery, urging the policy of not hanging John Brown, etc., and
others presenting the gloomiest pictures of the state of public feeling at the South, and insisting on the necessity of some immediate step to avert the disastrous political crisis which seems to be impending.

We must decline to publish them all,—simply because we see no possible good which they could accomplish.

[ FOUR ]
 
In Which Our Heroine Nearly Comes to Ruin

I
NTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST FALL
,” M
R
. L
ONGFELLOW
wrote, and thus far, I fear I have done an excellent job recounting the rain that fell upon my life on the river. It is time to remember something another great man once said.

“Every crowd has a silver lining,” Mr. Barnum told me once as I recounted to him some woe or another. I laughed, as he intended, but have never forgotten it. Now I shall attempt to recount the silver linings among the clouds—as well as the crowds.

Life on the Mississippi: How romantic it sounds, still, especially to those familiar with the novels of Mr. Twain! Long before anyone had ever heard of their adventures, I passed by Cairo, Illinois, where Huck and Jim were bound; I saw the sleepy streets of Hannibal, Missouri, where Tom Sawyer whitewashed his fence; I passed scores of mysterious islands, any one of which could have been Injun Joe’s hideout.

The scenery truly was thrilling, especially to one reared in the snug, protective hills of New England. The wild islands appearing, as if conjured, in the middle of the widest parts of the river. The high, rocky bluffs in Minnesota, just as Colonel Wood had described, where I saw my first bald eagle, that soaring symbol of our Grand Republic! The bustling docks of St. Louis, rows of boats and barges lined up, like floating dominoes, with exotic names such as
La Belle du Jour
and
El Caballo del Mar
. I was introduced to my first Negro there, a man with skin so dark his eyes popped blinding white; he was as fascinated by me as I was by him, so we shook hands cordially and parted as friends. Then New Orleans, where accents flew as thick and flavorful as the gumbo I tasted for the first time, a mixture of sharp, staccato French and lazy, drawling southern accents, combined with the occasional nasal twang of a Yankee tradesman.

I was presented with a slave once, in New Orleans! A beautiful girl, so graceful and delicate. When I first saw her, accompanying one of her young charges to the show, I was unable to take my eyes off her. Her owner—a smooth southern gentleman, well fed, obviously satisfied with his status as master—noticed and then sent her back aboard the
Banjo
that night as a gift to me. Naturally I could not accept this “gift,” but it took me several days to convince the girl to go back to her master.

I had felt morally obligated to refuse her, as no human being should ever be given as chattel! It was the great debate of our time, this decision as to whether or not new states should be allowed in as free or slave-holding, and of course, as a New Englander, I was firmly on the side of the abolitionists like Mr. Garrison and Mrs. Stowe. Yet after the girl left, reluctantly, I felt a surprising wrench; it only then occurred to me that the moral thing would have been to accept her and take her back north, where I could set her free. Even as I realized this, however, I
remembered that I was almost as indentured as she; Colonel Wood would not have allowed it. She would have been one more mouth to feed, for obviously a slave could not perform and earn her keep, as the rest of us did.