Jenny and Barnum (48 page)

Barnum climbed halfway up the staircase to the second floor and called for order. “Time for the toast!” he boomed. “I want to make a speech!”

“Speech!” people shouted. “Speech!”

“Charlie—Lavinia,” Barnum said as they were passed to the top of a display case where they could be seen, “I wish for you what I wish for myself. That's the speech. I love you both.”

“That goes double for the rest of us!” a woman called. People looked around. It was the mayor's wife, already garrulously drunk. Everybody cheered again.

But it was Mrs. Farrell who was the star of the party, dancing with one and all, hour after hour, including, with the aid of a female volunteer, Chang and Eng. The foursome had the floor to themselves, stopping at mid-point to change partners. The twins were thrilled, because they had never danced before. If Mrs. Farrell had not caught the attention of the crowd by then, she certainly had it thereafter. She had her shoes off, and the bottoms of her stockings wore through, but she stopped only for a sip of champagne or to kiss her husband, who was much more interested in talking than dancing. He understood her; she
was
a joy to everybody, with the vitality of ten women. Barnum could not help thinking of Jenny—he could not help thinking of Jenny anyway, all day long—and how she was different from this woman, yet the same. For all his understanding of midgets and giants and the other exotic variants of humanity, Barnum had to wonder what he understood of women—and, for that matter, in the light of what he had done for the exotics, what he had done for women, who were only the other half of all humanity. No, Barnum decided, as he watched Mrs. Farrell dance into his memory forever, he had not solved the mystery of women at all.

The last blow fell early in March. Barnum thought that Jenny had learned his lessons too well. She had waited a suitable interval after Charlie and Lavinia's wedding, and had picked a date that all but ensured her privacy, if that was what she wanted. Barnum had no doubt. Miss Jenny Lind and Mr. Otto Goldschmidt took pleasure in announcing their wedding, in Philadelphia, on the evening of March 3, 1861. Abraham Lincoln was sworn into office the next day, and people could find the Lind wedding story on the inside pages. If they cared.

At first Barnum could see only the damage he had done to her. Jenny Lind was—still—a princess, and her wedding should have reflected that. If Barnum had controlled himself and minded his own business, she would have had the wedding she deserved, and not skulked off in a corner like a cat to do its business. Barnum was surprised to find that he was not all that dismayed with Jenny's choice of a husband, or consort. Otto was born to play the role of a male walking two steps behind her, hands clasped at his back. Jenny's talent and its needs probably made any other choice impractical for her, at the least. Barnum still loved her, but he remembered too clearly that when the first flush of their affair had faded, she had not found peace of mind. She needed pampering and tending, like a queen bee; and Barnum had been too involved with his own business to provide that kind of treatment more than occasionally, at odd moments. Otto was happy in that role—without withdrawing any of his feelings for Jenny, Barnum thought he could have it. At the end, Barnum's unquenchable interest in his own life made him unsatisfactory for Jenny, and now he was fairly sure he had known it all along. He had been unable to face it. He had not wanted to.

He sent the couple a congratulatory telegram, and then went around to the neighborhood jeweler for the appropriate gift. He wanted to show his true feelings—and give her the chance to turn the tables on him, if she were so inclined, and call in the press to get some publicity out of the thing.

It took a bit of doing, and more than a little money, but in less than ten days the gift was ready. A box made of fine-grained native American walnut buffed to a lemony glow, a foot long, six inches high and nine inches deep, the lock, key, and hinge made of gold, the interior lined with royal blue velvet; when the lid was lifted, it revealed a mirror on its underside, and then a hidden mechanism played the “Casta diva” aria from
Norma
. He meant it only as an overelaborated doo-dad, but he found himself caught up in it, and feeling a pleasure that liberated him from his woe. He sent it to them straightaway and sat back and waited.

They were in Philadelphia, doing worse than ever. The audiences were meager, the reviews less than excellent, and Jenny's temper not entirely productive. “The poor dear sounds worn to a frazzle,” went the worst of the reviews. It was no wonder Barnum did not hear from them. “Miss Lind was demonstrably vexed by the poor turnout for her performance,” the review went on, “and it is now clear that the angelic Nightingale can become a dreadful harridan when displeased. While she did not berate her long-suffering bridegroom, as has been reported in other gazettes, she was snide in thanking the audience for its attendance, as if those who had braved the cold were entitled to be blamed for those who didn't. Her voice was in such poor condition that Miss Lind got what she deserved. With so many empty seats at our backs, we few who were there looked like a dozen-score beans in an otherwise empty bowl.”

At the end of March it was announced that Jenny Lind was canceling her tour and returning to England. No reason was given, and the newspapers speculated that there were two causes: one, her recently diminished receipts; and two, the state of the nation, if such a word still applied. Six states had followed South Carolina by now, and it looked like war would begin before Abe Lincoln learned where his wife had put his socks in the bureau in their White House bedroom. Barnum didn't envy Lincoln, who could be presiding over the dissolution of the noblest experiment in the history of man. Even if the Jenny Linds of the world could not understand it, freedom was humanity's highest calling, its only gift from God, if there was such a fellow. In aspiring to freedom, humanity defined life on earth in the only terms that saved it from being an agony and a bore. To be free meant that one could respond fully to the challenge of inventing oneself—history could be made, and art, so that civilizations rose, to be torn down and built anew. No one knew what would become of humanity if it allowed itself a thousand untrammeled generations of music and literature. The nineteenth century was as different from the eighteenth as it was only because so many people had become
free
. The streamboat, railroad, and telegraph were merely the beginnings of another thousand worlds, if humanity persevered. With all that so threatened, even a Barnum found it difficult to care much if Jenny Lind sang or not, or went home to England or not, or even if she thanked him for his gift—which she did not. He did not want to believe that she would leave America without giving him the chance to say good-by. He wanted her to know that he accepted the situation, but more than that, he wanted to see that he had not caused her permanent harm.

The weather was still poor for transatlantic crossings; the wealthy and wise who wanted to stay healthy booked the biggest ships afloat. With the
Great Western
scheduled to sail at the end of the week, Barnum waited to hear from Jenny—or Otto, if that was what she wanted. A letter did not arrive until Thursday afternoon. In Miss Holobaugh's hand, not entirely surprisingly, it asked him to call at the Goldschmidts' stateroom on the
Great Western
the next morning at eleven o'clock—one hour before the ship's noontime scheduled sailing.

Barnum arrived with flowers, champagne, and caviar, even though he knew they would be redundant. He had to put on a good show. As expected, the press was everywhere, milling on the dock and belowdecks on the great steamship itself, adding to the pre-sailing hubbub. Barnum shouldered past them, calling to those he knew by name, letting everyone see his beaming smile.

“We thought you were fired, Barnum!”

He turned to the man. “Fired? Of course. Fired, alight, and aglow with the joy and gratitude that all Americans feel for Miss Jenny Lind, who brought true beauty and art into our lives when we needed it most. Do you have enough, or do you want me to keep talking?”

Everybody laughed. The reporter who had asked the question gave Barnum a sour look. “How do you feel about her getting married?”

“Having been faithfully married for more than a quarter century—except for the time your mother passed through town—I'd have to endorse the prosposition.” The laughter was much louder now. “If you'll excuse me.”

The ship's steward at the suite's door stepped aside to let Barnum knock. Hannelore stuck her head out, saw him, and jumped back so violently that she banged the back of her head on the jamb.

“It's you!”

Barnum bowed. “None other. Miss Holobaugh instructed me to call at this hour.”

“Let me go see.”

“Show Mr. Barnum in, Hannelore,” Otto Goldschmidt called.

She stepped so far back in admitting him that one might have thought he was carrying a sword dripping with blood, rather than roses, Mumm's, and Delmonico's best iced roe.

“Take those things from Mr. Barnum, Hannelore, please,” Otto Goldschmidt said. He extended his hand. He looked weary but resplendent—his crisp three-piece suit could have been cut for a young king. “Hello, Barnum. You seem fit.”

“I am. Congratulations, Otto. I wish you well.”

“I know you do. Thank you. Jenny is quite tired, but she wanted to say good-by. I feel sorry for your country, Barnum. I'm not a student of these things, but it would seem that the worst is about to happen.”

Barnum was thinking about the suit. He scratched his nose. “The worst already has happened, Otto. The union is dissolved. The country's a shambles.”

“Jenny told me you foresaw it.”

“Other recent events prevent me from taking bows for perspicacity, Otto.” He paused. “I do congratulate you.”

“I understand. Let me tell her you're here. She's going to rest for six months and make herself strong again.”

Barnum watched Otto's eyes brighten as he said all this. Barnum slapped him on the arm. “That's right. I won't worry about her.”

“We have a great deal in common—she and I,” Otto said, his hesitation betraying the intensity of his concern. Now, as if he could see what he had admitted and could not face it, he ducked away. Otto was years younger than Barnum, younger than Jenny, in fact.

“Barnum brought caviar,” he heard the man saying, “and roses and champagne.”

“How sweet.”

She was in the doorway, and looked at Barnum for the first time. Her hair was pulled back in a bun, and she was wearing a dark, simple dress. Barnum thought she looked very tired, and he mourned. He believed Otto, that she would be all right, but not soon. Barnum could see how much he had hurt her. Now he did not care if she had done the same to him. She could not really keep her eyes on his. She was beaten. It was not as if she had gone against herself; she had been so divided all along that she could not have gone either way without paying the price. Barnum could see that Otto knew it, too, and had taken her on faith. At this point theirs was not an easy marriage—with the roles reversed, perhaps not different from his own. Suddenly Otto took his leave, touched her hand, and headed for the door. She seemed surprised, chagrined—possibly even humiliated. Her eyes went down.

“I'm sorry, Barnum. I don't have anything to say. I don't know why he's done this.”

“It doesn't matter.” It was like being in chains, the desire to reach for her was so strong. “I have nothing to say, either. Other than thank you, of course. Our tour was very successful. Because we made money, other European artists will be more interested in making the journey. That's important. We changed things. Life here will be better.”

“How can you say that? Your country has disintegrated! No one will come here!”

“It won't be that way for long.”

“You think you know
everything!
You always have!”

He backed away. “I'm sorry.”

He stayed silent. He had returned from Connecticut after Election Day after having told Charity that he planned to leave her and marry Jenny. If anyone had done anything to them, or to their future, it had been only Jenny. It was as if she had forgotten, or did not want to remember. But even if Barnum had any proof of what he suspected, there was nothing he could do about it now. Jenny had married Otto—she had run into a room, closed the door, and locked it. Barnum was too old to stand waiting for her on the other side. He would not do it in the certain knowledge that she would come through. It was clear that she did not understand that. With the childishness of the artist she thought she had assumed the entire burden, as if others were incapable of thought, emotion, or decision. No matter. She had withdrawn into the great childish mystery of her art, where, willy-nilly, she would heal herself. Barnum believed that. He believed in the childishness of the impulse. There was enough of it in him. The child was always close to the adult, often taking over and running the show. The world was full of such mysteries; what amazed Barnum was that so few people saw them. So few, including one artist too many.

“Always count me as your friend,” he said.

“Yes. Otto reads the newspapers. He says you have always spoken well of me.”

“You have been the high point of my life,” he said gently.

She blushed. She whispered something, but he did not hear it. He wanted to believe that it was, “I love you,” but he could see that he was trying to tell himself the biggest lie of all. For a moment, almost in shock, he could not move, then he said good-by and turned to go. Otto entered, leaving the door open so that the journalists could see inside.

“Good-by, Otto,” Barnum said, taking his hand again. “Have a safe journey, and thank you again for everything you contributed to our vastly successful enterprise. My first hope is that you and Madame Goldschmidt will see fit to grace our shores again.”