The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (8 page)

“Why won’t you at least put a flower in your hair?” I asked her.

“Why? They’d never notice it.”

“How do you know that? People notice performers’ costumes; it’s why they go to the theater!”

“ ‘Theater’?” Sylvia chuckled, so low and throaty that the vibration tickled my ears. “Where do you think we are? Who do you think comes aboard? Why do you think—” But she broke off, and complimented me on my dress again.

After two weeks, I was growing used to the vagaries of life upon a river. While there was something quite soothing about going to bed at night rocked to sleep by the movement of the water, the days were a frenzy of chaos and activity, of men casting off ropes, ramps pulled and lowered, scenery hammered, wood thrown into the boiler. All this activity was very exciting to me, so used to the stultifying sameness of life in Middleborough. While I was in constant peril of being stepped upon or swept overboard by deckhands and performers who had never before encountered anyone my size, I soon learned to shout out my presence whenever I turned a corner or entered a room. There was little privacy and even less decorum, but I enjoyed the easy camaraderie among the company, the way people moved in and out of one another’s rooms without knocking, the impromptu “hen parties” that the ladies held late at night while we pinned up
our hair and stitched up our stockings, paying no heed to the clinking of glasses just down the hall in one of the gentlemen’s rooms. Some of the men even drank spirits on
Sunday
! I found this awfully thrilling, although I did not mention that particular detail in my letters home.

Thrilling as it was, my new life was perhaps not as glamorous as I had imagined. Colonel Wood did not consider things like clean linens and regularly scrubbed chamber pots necessities but rather luxuries, and, as he was fond of reminding me, he was not contractually obligated to provide me with any of
those
. And the dampness that I had first noticed soon revealed itself to be all-pervasive, as my clothes never felt completely dry and my hair developed a frizz it had never before exhibited.

Some wayward curls had escaped, I saw, as I took one last glimpse of myself in the cracked hand mirror Sylvia held up for me (a full-length mirror proving to be one of those luxuries Colonel Wood did not feel obligated to provide). But there was nothing to do but pat my curls, as Colonel Wood stuck his head inside the door and bellowed, “The ramp is down, the crowd’s a comin’; get your asses down to the stage, for I think we can get in three shows today, at least!”

Sylvia rolled her eyes at him but did not take offense at his language, as I very much did.

“I cannot believe how differently he acts now, compared to when he visited me at home! If he had ever dared talk like that in front of my parents—why, I can’t imagine!”

“We’ve all been wondering why someone like you agreed to come along with the likes of him,” Sylvia said with a shake of her head. “That explains it some.”

“He was very proper at home.” I tried to ignore the growing gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that had presented itself ever since we’d arrived on the
Banjo
. Once he’d crossed the
gangplank, Colonel Wood had shown a different—coarser—side to his personality. It was almost as if he were two different people on and off the water.

“Now, Vinnie, don’t be nervous,” Sylvia reminded me once more as we left the stateroom, which opened to the exterior of the boat. Even as slowly as she walked along the slippery deck, I had to hurry to catch up with her, taking at least five steps to her every one. My head barely reached past her knees, and her skirt was so massive that I was in constant fear of being swept off my feet by it. By now, however, everyone was quite used to the sight of the two of us. As we passed by members of the company—most of whom were either hanging over the railing spitting into the river (the chief occupation of many of the men on the boat) or practicing their acts—none remarked upon the disparity in our heights the way that Colonel Wood still did. “Here come the elephant and the mouse,” he often said, snickering, whenever we approached.

“Knock ’em dead, Vinnie,” Solomon Taylor, the plate spinner, said with a gallant bow, a stack of plates balanced precariously on one hand.

“Yeah, knock ’em dead,” echoed one of the specialty dancers, a thin woman with legs so long they reached past the top of her head when she kicked them. Her smile was desperately gay, but it only deepened the spiderweb of lines around her eyes; she was obviously trying to look younger than her years. Her hair was dyed a vivid yellow not found in nature, and her cheeks were painted bright red. Oh, if Mama could only see her! I had to giggle at the notion. My poor mother would have fainted dead away.

Of course, I had not painted my face, although I did allow Mrs. Billy Birch, the wife of one of the minstrels, to rub a soft chamois cloth over my face “to take the shine off.” Despite my excitement and my eagerness to begin my new career, I admit to a few opening-night (or rather, day, as it was only two o’clock in
the afternoon) nerves. Singing in front of my schoolmates was one thing; performing in front of a mob of strangers on a floating stage docked in Madison, Indiana, was quite another. Would my voice even carry the length of the boat? Placing my hand upon my diaphragm, I took several deep breaths and reminded myself not to strain on the higher notes.

When we reached the cluttered area in the back of the stage, Billy Birch and his minstrels were in the midst of performing a lively number. I couldn’t see them, as they were in front of the curtain, but I heard the banjos strumming gaily, felt the whole stage shudder beneath the stomping of their feet.

“You ready, Sylvia?” Mr. Lawson, the stage manager, asked my friend. Sylvia nodded, and as soon as the minstrels were done—I heard some scattered applause, a few shouts from the audience, and something hit the stage with a loud thump—Sylvia turned to me.

“Vinnie, I think I should lift you up somewhere. It’s awfully dark back here, and you might get hurt.”

I looked around; it was quite dark, the only light wafting through rips in the red-velvet stage curtain or spilling in when someone opened the door to the outside. Scattered about were tangled nests of ropes, musical instruments, and heavy pieces of scenery stacked, not very solidly, on top of one another. Stagehands and performers moved frantically to and fro while the entire floor undulated ever so slightly upon the water. Mama had never seen the backstage of a floating theater, but if she had, she
would certainly have added it to her list of things to fear on my behalf.

“I suppose so. How about that trunk?”

Sylvia nodded and carefully picked me up and placed me on top of the trunk. Then she bent down—I still was no higher than her waist—to speak to me. “Now, stay here, and I’ll come back for you when I’m done, just like we practiced.”

“Sylvia!” I had a sudden panicked thought.

“What?”

“Do you think I should sing the ballad first, instead of ‘The Soldier’s Wedding’? Which do you think would go over best? I do want to make a good first impression.”

“Vinnie, it doesn’t matter what you—Whatever you think, dear. Whatever one you like the best.”

“I suppose the ballad, then.” I smiled up at her, but she only peered at me quizzically, an expression I could not interpret in her sad blue eyes. Then she straightened up, sighed, and moved slowly toward the curtain, as if she were on her way to her own execution. I couldn’t understand her reluctance. Why, we were in the show business!

Billy Birch, his face covered in burnt cork (although the back of his neck and his ears remained defiantly pink), winked at me as he made his way offstage, he and his fellow minstrels resplendent in green-and-yellow checked waistcoats and orange pants. “You ain’t afraid, are you, Vinnie?”

“No!” I was weary of people asking me this. “Why should I be?”

“No need,” piped up the tenor minstrel, his voice high and reedy. “And if anything does happen, we’ll all be here watching, so don’t worry. We’ll get you out in a jiffy.”

“What might happen?” My heart was beginning to pound, but Billy only grinned. Frowning, I turned my attention back to Sylvia
as she moved through the red-velvet curtain, allowing a sudden sliver of light to pierce the backstage gloom. Without a musical flourish or any introduction, she simply grabbed the curtain and stepped forward. I found this odd, but then again, Sylvia seemed perversely devoted to shattering every notion I’d ever had about life upon the stage. Earlier, when I’d asked to see her notices, she’d stared at me and shrugged, remarking that she’d never thought to keep them.

There was a startled, collective gasp from the audience the moment she pushed her way through the curtain. The gasp was quickly followed by silence, which was soon replaced by whispers that grew louder and louder. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen; the silence onstage seemed ominous.

Finally someone spoke, but it wasn’t Sylvia; it was a voice from what I had to assume was the audience. “How tall is she?”

“Seven feet, I wager,” someone else replied. And then suddenly Colonel Wood, in his role as master of ceremonies, began to speak in a smooth, practiced patter—yet another side of his personality I’d never before witnessed.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, come this way! Come stand next to Miss Sylvia Hardy, the Maine Giantess, eight feet tall if she’s an inch! Why, Miss Sylvia here used to be the finest nursemaid in all of Wilton, Maine—she could carry an infant quite easily in the palm of her hand!”

I heard gasps; I couldn’t contain my curiosity, so I jumped nimbly off the trunk and hurried around to the side of the stage, pushing my way through boxes and crates and furniture. When I got to the edge of the curtain, I peeked around it, safely hidden; onstage, Sylvia was extending her large, meaty hand toward the audience. There was no doubt that a baby could fit within it.

“But what does she do?” I whispered to Billy, who was suddenly kneeling by my side. “What’s her act?”

“ ‘Do’?”

“Yes—what does she
do
? Doesn’t she sing? Recite?”

“Sylvia doesn’t have to
do
anything. All she has to do is stand. She’s not a performer, Vinnie.”

“Not like us, you mean?” I didn’t look at him; my eyes were still trained on Sylvia, who was now standing with her arms extended horizontally; beneath them, two men stood, with room to spare.

“Well—that is—no.” Billy patted me on the shoulder gingerly; most of the members of the company still seemed afraid to touch me, as if I were made of glass. Sylvia, ironically, was the only one who did not display this tendency. “No, not like us. You sure do take the cake, Vinnie, I’ll tell you that!”

“So why does she do it, then, if she doesn’t want to perform? She looks miserable.” And indeed, Sylvia’s face reminded me of an illustration of Joan of Arc that I’d once seen in a schoolbook: stoic, unflinching, with upturned eyes that were overflowing with the pain the rest of her homely face could not express.

“Somehow that Barnum fellow found her up in Maine; she didn’t have any family living. She’s been alone most of her life, they say. I guess that Barnum can persuade a mouse to go after a cat, so he somehow persuaded Sylvia, of all people, to appear at his American Museum. Don’t think it went over too well, though. Doesn’t seem to have lasted very long, and anyway, she wouldn’t be here if it had, would she?”

“Barnum? Sylvia was at the American Museum? Does Colonel Wood know that? I imagine he does, being they’re such good friends.”

“Wood and Barnum? Friends? Whoever told you that?”

“Why, Colonel Wood did, of course.” I turned around and frowned up at Billy; he had an amused look in his light blue eyes,
pale against the streaky black of the burnt cork smeared on his face.

“Barnum never heard of our dear Colonel, I’d bet my a—, er, hat on it.”

“No, that’s not what he told me; he said he’d worked with him in New York!”

“Maybe he swept the street behind the Museum.” Billy grunted. “But Wood never worked with Barnum. He must have told you that to make sure you’d sign.”

My heart sank; I turned and looked at the stage. Suddenly I saw that the red-velvet curtain, which had looked so glamorous, was patched, the scalloped shades of the footlights were cracked, and the floorboards on the stage itself were warped. Colonel Wood was standing to the side in a bright green jacket with a checkered vest, his curls now as blackened as his mustache, but under the glare of the chipped gaslights, both were beginning to run, inky black streaks appearing on his forehead and around his mouth.

What a fool I was! I’d heard only what I’d wanted to hear and ignored everything else. Why, I knew now he’d never even heard Miss Jenny Lind sing, let alone been given a private performance. At that moment, I had no idea what on earth I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump of the Massachusetts Warrens, was doing on this shabby boat, in this shabby dress that had seemed so glamorous, but now I saw that the fabric was as thin and gaudy as cheap wrapping paper.

I had no idea what Sylvia was doing here, either, if it was true she’d once performed at the American Museum. The American Museum! Even in two short weeks on the river, I’d learned that everyone on this boat aspired to appear at the American Museum someday. How odd that Sylvia had never once mentioned she already had!

I tried to look at my friend through different eyes, she who had been nothing but kindness itself. She had comforted me that first awful night, had listened to my weepy recitation of my family’s wonderful qualities, had suffered much to make room for me in our cramped stateroom, her giant body perpetually folded up like a retracted telescope. Every morning she helped lace up my corset, which was not easy with her thick, fumbling fingers. And I spent half an hour each evening brushing out her long brown hair, which seemed to soothe her, for she was always in pain; her joints and bones constantly ached, and her feet suffered excruciatingly from carrying about her mammoth weight. All this contributed to her perpetual air of discomfort and sadness.