The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (45 page)

“It’s nonsense. He doesn’t know what he means,” I replied, trying to keep my voice even and pleasant, returning to my maps as if I wasn’t seething on the inside. Seething and longing, both—how dare he put Charles in the middle of our quarrel! Yet my fingers also itched to tear the letter away from Charles, pick up my pen, and answer it immediately, restoring our friendship, speaking my mind. Perhaps even locating my heart, if I could recall where I had placed it—probably in the trunk with all of Minnie’s things.

Minnie
. Oh, how could I even think of going back to him, to the way things were before? Minnie might still be here if it wasn’t for him, and I knew that were I to be alone with him for just two minutes, he would make me forget that. He would sell me a new memory, for that was what he did. With P. T. Barnum, memories and dreams were available for only a quarter—unless you were smart enough to find your way to the Egress.

I must not have succeeded in hiding my turmoil, for Charles dropped the letter, wringing his hands in worry. “Oh, why are you two quarreling? I don’t understand! No one tells me anything, not you, not him! I miss him, Vinnie. Let’s go up to Bridgeport tonight and surprise him!”

“You can if you wish, dear.” Frowning, I drew a big circle around Middleborough; then I began to trace the rail lines leading away from it. “I’m busy.”

“You know I can’t go without you,” Charles said, pouting. “I don’t
want
to go without you!”

I sighed, dropping my pencil upon my desk; I would get nothing done as long as he was standing here. “Do you want me to read to you, then? You’re getting agitated. See what Mr. Barnum does to you? That man!”

“Oh, would you read to me?” And just as quickly as a summer storm moving across the countryside, my husband forgot about any quarrel. Together, we walked to one of the small library tables in the study, where he happily echoed the titles that I suggested to him—
Black Beauty
,
The Water Babies
,
Through the Looking Glass
. In the end, we settled on
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
, recently published.

It was such a charming book. It reminded me so much of my days upon the river, when I could wake up every day to a new town. And I was quite fond of the character of Tom, who was such a smooth talker, able to get all the children to whitewash the fence for him—even eavesdropping at his own funeral! I felt I knew him intimately, even if he was just a character in a novel.

M
ORE JEWELS WERE SOLD, ALONG WITH THE YACHT AND THE
cabin, as we told friends that we simply didn’t have the time to put them to good use. Yet when we were in New York, we stayed at the finest hotels and dined with our dear friends the Astors, the Vanderbilts, and the Fisks, although sometimes it took them several days to realize we were in town. The newspapers did not always trumpet our appearances as they once did, so often I had to drop a note informing them of our presence.

The younger generation, the children of dear Caroline and dear Julia and dear Mittie, were no longer the admiring little boys
and girls who shyly hid from their parents so that they might steal a peek at us. They were now young men and ladies swept up in a new frenzy of balls and parties and dinners, all part of what Mr. Twain had named the Gilded Age. Charles and I were not part of this crowd; rather, I sensed these young people viewed us as relics, odd pets of their parents, leftovers from a simpler, less smart time.

Once I overheard Mrs. Astor’s youngest daughter, also called Caroline, whisper to her dinner partner about how “amusing it was when I was a child, when Mother used to dress little Mrs. Stratton up like a miniature Mrs. Astor. She even had her hairdresser give her the same hairstyle! Imagine—how we all laughed!”

I did not let on that I had heard; instead, I smiled brightly at my dining companions and told the story of how Queen Victoria had invited us to tea at Windsor and given us a beautiful grand piano, which we still displayed in our library.

But I remembered that remark; I remembered also that Mr. Belmont had once presented Charles with a nautical jacket and cap identical to his own. Charles had been so pleased, so proud; he had worn it every time the Belmonts invited us onto their yacht.

Finally, I remembered that Mr. Barnum had not liked that jacket; nor had he ever accepted any of our invitations to go sailing with the Belmonts.

I did not drop a note to dear Caroline the next time we came to town.

Naturally, we could not avoid Mr. Barnum altogether. We encountered him at occasional dinner parties, where he and Charles always greeted each other so fondly, I did feel guilty for keeping them apart. I sometimes caught Mr. Barnum looking wistfully at
me from across the table, leaning forward, as if he could scarcely contain some thought or idea and was eager to share it. And it wasn’t only my grief and loyalty to Minnie that kept me from returning his gaze. I had bared my soul, shared my dark secret and even darker emotions with him—and now I was afraid of who I would see reflected back to me in those glittery, knowing eyes.

And so he would subside, hunching over his cigar. I would stir uncomfortably, and suggest to Charles, far too soon, that we think about going home.

Only when we took our leave would I allow myself to look at him; his shoulders were more stooped with every passing year, and at times I noticed his hands trembled when he lit his cigar. But his mind was as sharp as ever. He was filled with plans for this circus of his, talking boisterously of combining it with others, making it “the greatest show on earth,” he told all who would listen, and in fact I was not surprised the day I saw it advertised so in the newspaper.

I was surprised, however, to receive an invitation to join it in 1881. Our finances were at their lowest point; we were discussing letting out the house and moving in with James and his wife. I couldn’t exactly say what had happened; we toured, but our audiences were smaller than they once were. We were popular but no longer made headlines. Charles invested but saw little return. Yet we had to keep spending—new wardrobes as the fashions changed, new ponies as the old ones died. Without Mr. Barnum investing in our tours, we had to front the money ourselves, which wasn’t always easy.

So it was in desperation that I tore open the letter, the envelope embossed with the seal of “The Barnum and London Circus Company.” And I nearly fainted with relief at the amount he was proposing to give us for a season’s work; it would more than cover the stack of second notices piling up, alarmingly, on Charles’s
desk. I telegrammed our acceptance right away; then I dashed off a letter to Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker, asking if they could accompany us.

Then, and only then, did I remember to discuss it with my husband.

INTERMISSION
 

From
The New York Times
, November 5, 1880

M
RS
. A
STOR
E
NTERTAINS
G
EN
. G
RANT

Mrs. John Jacob Astor entertained Gen. Grant last evening at her residence, No. 388 Fifth avenue. A dinner was given, and the company, consisting of both ladies and gentlemen, was very select. The occasion was purely a social one. Gen. Grant remained until about 11 o’clock. He was in the best of spirits, and, while making no speech, engaged freely in conversation with those who approached him.

From
The Manufacturer and Builder
, May 1881

E
LECTRIC
I
LLUMINATION

It is daily becoming more and more evident that the near future will decide the question of the practicability of illumination with electricity in competition with coal gas. Never was there such widespread public opinion manifested in the subject as at the present time.… The indefatigable Edison has announced that he has at length solved all the practical difficulties that had hitherto threatened the success of his electric lamps for the household, and has taken the field in person to superintend the work of introducing his system.

[ SEVENTEEN ]
 
Ladies and Gentlemen, in the Center Ring …

A
FTER THE SECOND
A
MERICAN
M
USEUM BURNED DOWN IN
1868, Mr. Barnum effectively retired from the show business, aside from his partnership in our around-the-world tour and the occasional discovery, such as Admiral Dot. He claimed he chose to concentrate on traveling, politics, and philanthropy. But in 1871 he bought a small circus; then he bought another—and then another. And soon the whole thing had exploded into what he called “P. T. Barnum’s Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan & Hippodrome.” Now, instead of having the public come to him, Mr. Barnum was back to his roots, when he had first traveled the New England countryside with Joice Heth forty years ago. He was bringing the world of P. T. Barnum to the public.

But true to form, he reinvented what was an already established tradition. He was the first to move his circus by railroad, on his own train—an endless stream of cars all emblazoned
on the side with his name, just like the old American Museum. While other circuses had to rely upon unpaved roads and unpredictable ferry crossings, Mr. Barnum’s circus chugged steadily along all the new streamlined tracks that linked the country together. In the winter, he parked the show in Bridgeport; in the spring, he launched the new season in New York, in the giant Hippodrome at the Madison Square Garden, which seated thousands.

In 1881, when we joined his circus, he had partnered with so many other circus owners, consolidating everything into one grand show, that I had difficulty keeping them all straight—there was a Mr. Bailey, a Mr. Hutchinson, a Mr. Sanger; the show now was called the Barnum and London Circus. We arrived at the cavernous, roofless Madison Square Garden—formerly a train station until the new Grand Central Station was built, when it became an outdoor arena for spectacles—in the spring. The colossal tents were going up, over the three immense rings of the circus; the place was a madhouse of sawdust and people upon wires and animals forever being exercised and trained. Awed, and not a little intimidated, by the enormity of the operation, Charles and I were overjoyed to see Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker once more; their friendship and familiarity were more welcome than the practical assistance they would provide in helping us navigate the usual difficulties of travel—getting on and off trains, managing luggage, reaching hotel beds, opening windows, etc.

However, from the moment we boarded the vast circus train, after the last performance in New York, I thought we had made a mistake. While our accommodations were, by far, superior to everyone else’s, they were far from luxurious. Charles and I did not have a private car, only half a car, to ourselves. An entire circus company is gargantuan; I was reminded of that canvas city of soldiers we had visited just after our marriage. There were stagehands and construction workers and animal handlers; publicity
men, ticket takers, popcorn sellers; wardrobe girls, prop men, barkers; an army of men responsible for raising and lowering the tents and packing them up; cooks, laundresses, boys whose jobs were just to take care of the animal waste; wagon drivers. And that’s not even counting the performers! Trapeze artists, specialty riding acts, jugglers, dancers, a woman who gyrated upon a pyramid of chairs, gymnasts, wrestlers, high-wire acts, Japanese acrobats who balanced upon their fingertips—not to mention all the animals!