The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (24 page)

But Mr. Barnum did not answer; he was not alone. “Miss Warren, it is such a pleasure to meet you,” said a little boy, hat in hand, standing in front of Mr. Barnum.

But no. He was no boy. I stared at him in puzzlement, trying to place him, for he looked very familiar. Then the dawn broke upon me, as I remembered the
carte de visite
that I still possessed, somewhere, possibly in an old valise back at the farm, the photograph
of an impish young man with light brown hair, merry eyes, clad in a Scottish kilt.

He was bigger now, fleshier, boasting a decided double chin and a mustache, which looked absurd, almost as if it were pasted on. I could not now picture him in a kilt; the idea almost made me giggle. He was immaculately attired, however: a perfectly tailored navy blue suit with snowy white cuffs, gold cuff links. He looked prosperous, well fed, and surprisingly, as I continued to stare, somewhat rudely, at him, extremely nervous.

This was Charles Stratton. Or as he was known to the rest of the world, General Tom Thumb.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we thought we’d see if you’d like some company,” Mr. Barnum said, following Mr. Stratton into my room. I still hadn’t uttered a word; I could only continue gaping, for the two of them aped each other’s movements with odd perfection, as if they had spent a lifetime polishing this act. I wasn’t sure, at first, who was imitating whom. But as they sat down—Mr. Barnum upon one of the two regular-size chairs I kept for visitors; Mr. Stratton settling happily upon one of my small armchairs—they crossed their legs at the same time, loosened their vests, checked their pocket watches—exactly in unison, as if choreographed.

I very nearly laughed, but there was something in the earnestly dignified expression upon Mr. Stratton’s face that stopped me.

“Of course I do not mind. And it is a pleasure for me, as well, Mr. Stratton.”

“My friend came up from Connecticut today expressly to see your performance,” Mr. Barnum told me with an odd little laugh; I noticed he was twisting his hat about in his hands as if he didn’t know what he was doing. If I hadn’t known him better, I would
have thought he was nervous! But no, the Great Barnum was never nervous.

“Oh? I hope I did not disappoint you, then.”

“Oh, no! It was grand! You dance right smart, and sing like an angel!” Mr. Stratton could not contain his enthusiasm; forgetting his practiced dignity, he bounced around in his seat like a jack-in-the-box. “I can’t believe you’ve never performed before! Can you, Phineas?”

Mr. Barnum and I exchanged a quick look; he had taken great pains to present me as his latest discovery, great pains indeed not to mention my previous performing history. I did not mind this omission in the least; in fact, I welcomed it. I suppose it was our very first humbug. But it was a mild one, and it had the added value of somehow convincing me that this might prevent Colonel Wood from making any claim toward my services.

“Thank you, that is very kind, Mr. Stratton. Especially coming from one as experienced in this business as yourself.”

Mr. Stratton puffed and preened but looked to Mr. Barnum as if seeking permission to do so. Mr. Barnum, however, did not respond; indeed, his mouth was clamped shut, his eyes bright: He was observing us, keenly, and I did not like it. I managed to hide my uneasiness and continued to listen politely to Mr. Stratton, who could hardly contain himself; conversation poured out of him as if from a bubbling coffeepot.

“I was just saying to Phineas here that I have some business that will keep me in New York for a few days. Gosh, I do want to tell you all about it! I have so many business dealings these days—real estate, insurance, horses, investments. Do you know what investments are, Miss Warren?”

“I do,” I replied but immediately regretted it, for his plump face fell; obviously, he had wanted to inform me himself.

“Oh. I’m just learning all about this, for Phineas says I need to di-di—what was the word, old chap?”

“Diversify,” Mr. Barnum supplied.

“Diversify! You see, it’s best not to limit myself to performing interests. You don’t want to put all your eggs in one basket, especially these days!”

I had to smile at Mr. Stratton’s enthusiasm, but I could not shake the feeling that he was simply reciting a speech that someone—Mr. Barnum—had taught him.

“How very smart of you,” I said warmly.

“Thank you!”

“You know, Charlie here bailed me out of a jam recently, Miss Warren. He really is a true friend,” Mr. Barnum interjected as the conversation lulled; apparently, Mr. Stratton had run out of rehearsed topics of discussion.

Again, I found his speech a trifle off. “Miss Warren” sounded odd, given how familiar he and I were by now. I wondered why he was acting so strangely; there was no hint of the intimacy that had grown between us.

“True friends are the best friends,” I replied automatically. But Charles Stratton mistook this little aphorism as a compliment; he blushed and shook his head violently.

“No, I was just doing what anyone would do in the same situation. I owe Mr. Barnum everything, and I will never forget it.”

For the first time, I decided, Charles Stratton sounded sincere and unrehearsed. I peered at him, attempting to see beyond the obviously calculated appearance—he tried too hard to resemble a gentleman of the world, with his careful grooming (his odd little mustache glistened as if it had been oiled), the cuff links polished to a gleam. Yet despite his earnestly grown-up manner, his brown eyes were appealingly boyish, almost bashful; I found
myself wondering what it had been like to live in the public spotlight since the age of five. It must not have been easy for him; it was little wonder he had learned to cloak himself in practiced attitudes and rehearsed speeches!

Suddenly I felt a tickle along the back of my neck; glancing up, I observed Mr. Barnum observing me. He was not smiling; he looked grave, almost concerned.

There was another knock at my door; before I could rise to open it, I heard a childishly treble voice call out, “May I dare enter the domain of the lovely and popular Miss Warren?”

I immediately frowned, as did Mr. Barnum and Mr. Stratton. What was
he
doing there?

He
was Commodore Nutt, or as he was better known, “the Thirty Thousand Dollar Nutt,” Mr. Barnum’s discovery prior to me. He was a little taller than me, thirty-six inches, from New Hampshire; Mr. Barnum had hoped to present him as something of a copy of General Tom Thumb. So he’d outfitted him, given him a military title—so popular in those war days—and taught him to sing and dance a little.

(I will remind the reader that Mr. Barnum had no need to train me; I came to him with a full complement of talents.)

Commodore Nutt was younger than me by about seven years; he was closer to Minnie’s age. But he acted much older, putting on airs, smoking endless cigars, consuming whiskey with an efficiency that was alarming. Upon being introduced to me, on my very first day at the Museum, he pronounced me “the lovely and popular Miss Warren.” He had thus addressed me, ever since. It was obvious he was enraptured by me, puffed up beyond his years by an inflated sense of self-importance.

“Ah, the lovely and popular Miss Warren,” he said now, as I opened the door, stifling a sigh; he placed his hand upon his heart and bowed deeply. I suppressed an urge to pat him on his head
and tell him to run off to play. He was such a
boy
, not unpleasant to look at, with shiny brown hair and eyes, a mischievous, almost elfin little smile. His voice was not as high-pitched as Charles Stratton’s, yet I could not think of him as anything but a very nice lad—and one who was not earning nearly as much money as I was.

“Pray sit down, Mr. Nutt.” I refused to call him by his military title; his real name was George Washington Morrison Nutt. I felt the tribute to the Father of our Country rather misplaced; there was nothing grand or imposing about this fellow. He capered about the stage like a child on leave from school; for some reason, the audiences enjoyed seeing him cut up so. I could not help but notice, moreover, that his audiences were not quite as big as mine—and he sold far fewer
cartes de visites
. “Of course, you know Mr. Barnum and Mr. Stratton.”

“Whatever the lovely and popular Miss Warren desires,” he replied, eyeing my other visitors disapprovingly. But then he flashed an expansive smile as he shook hands all around. “Mr. Barnum, as always. And Mr. Stratton, what a pleasure and honor. What brings you out of retirement, old fellow?”

Mr. Stratton did not appear to perceive the insult from the younger man; indeed, he grinned sunnily and exclaimed, “Miss Warren, of course!”

“Indeed!” Mr. Nutt’s nostrils flared, and his chest puffed out like a bantam rooster’s. “What a tragedy for you. For naturally she and I are in each other’s company every day, while you are stuck at home in Connecticut.”

“No, I’m not, for I’m to be in New York often, now that I’m in Business!” Mr. Stratton nodded eagerly.

“Oh, really. How fascinating. Ah, beauty, cruel, cruel beauty!” Mr. Nutt whirled and reached for my hand, raising it to his lips, kissing it. “You know not how many hearts you break!”

“Now, see here!” Charles Stratton rose, a faint, puzzled frown almost creasing his face. “I was here first, old chap.”

“All’s fair in love and war, as the poet says,” Nutt retorted, with a grin.

“Ridiculous!” I yanked my hand away, then pointed to an empty chair. “You—sit over there. And you”—I gestured at Mr. Stratton—“just—sit. And you!” I whirled around and glared at Mr. Barnum.

He was watching the three of us pensively, as if we were performers upon a stage, a stage of his own design. His eyebrows drew together, his crooked mouth pursed, and I saw that piercing, all-seeing light in his eyes escape from behind its gray curtain.

If I hadn’t known any better, I would have sworn I heard a cash register jingle in his brain. Actually, I did know better. And I knew that I had.

I was disgusted, I was insulted.

I was also, in spite of myself, intrigued.

INTERMISSION
 

From
The Scientific American
, April 4, 1863

P
RESENT
C
ONDITION OF THE
“R
OANOAKE”

The iron-clad steam battery,
ROANOAKE
, is rapidly approaching completion and it is thought that steam will be applied by 1st of April. The turrets are nearly finished and the pilot-houses are completed.… Her armament will be one 15-inch gun and one rifled 200-pound Parrot gun in the forward turret; one 11-inch gun and one 15-inch gun in the midship turret, one 11-inch gun and one rifled 200-pound Parrot gun in the after tower.

From the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
, May 23, 1863

P
OLITICS IN
P
ETTICOATS

The people of Brooklyn in turning out largely last evening to hear a young lady talk politics, and in very warmly applauding the incoherent nonsense which she uttered, gave a marked proof—not of their good sense—but of their chivalric feeling for the sex. Miss Dickinson labored for an hour last evening (the thermometer was at eighty-seven), to show a sweltering crowd the way in which Providence is teaching the nation.
Miss Dickinson came to an abrupt conclusion, and left her audience about as wise as she found it. As the ways of Providence are interpreted by Miss Dickinson, our salvation depends solely upon the darkey. She is not very clear on this or any other point, but as nearly as we can guess at it, this is what she means.

[ TEN ]
 
Two Rivals for One Hand