Read The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Online
Authors: Melanie Benjamin
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb
is a work of fiction. Any references to
historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are
intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names,
characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life
counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Benjamin
“A Conversation with Melanie Benjamin” copyright © 2011
by Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of
The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York.
D
ELACORTE
P
RESS
is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the
colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Benjamin, Melanie.
The autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb: a novel / Melanie Benjamin.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52757-8
1. Magri, M. Lavinia (Mercy Lavinia), 1841–1919—Fiction.
2. Women circus performers—United States—Fiction.
3. Dwarfs—United States—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.A876A94 2011
813′.6—dc22 2010052863
Frontispiece photograph of Lavinia Warren by Mathew Brady
from the Library of Congress collection
Jacket design: Gabrielle Bordwin
Jacket photograph: © Cathy Stancil/Arcangel Images
v3.1
From
Harper’s New Monthly Magazine
, July 2, 1850
A
MERICAN
V
ANITY
We are not at all surprised at what in this country is most foolishly called the conceit and vanity of the Americans. What people in the world have so fine, so magnificent a country? … If ever these magnificent dreams of the American people are realized—and all that is wanted for their realization is that things should only go on as they have been going on for the last two centuries—there will be seated upon that vast continent a population greater than that of all Europe, all speaking the same language, all active-minded, intelligent, and well off.
I
SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE FASHIONABLE TO ADMIT TO SOME RESERVATIONS
as I undertake to write the History of My Life. Popular memoirs of our time suggest a certain reticence is expected, particularly when the author is a female. We women are timid creatures, after all; we must retire behind a veil of secrecy and allow others to tell our stories.
To that, I can only reply, “Rubbish!” I have let others—one other, in particular—tell my story for far too long. Now is the time to set the record straight, to sort out the humbug from the truth, and vice versa.
Has any other female of our time been written about as much as I have? It was not so very long ago when it was impossible to open a newspaper without reading about my husband or myself! We even preempted the War Between the States during its very darkest days. For a solid week, every newspaper in the land was interested only in our wedding plans—the guest list, the presents we received, my trousseau, in particular, receiving much press. President and Mrs. Lincoln were so eager to make our acquaintance that they put aside their own cares, graciously welcoming us to the White House on our honeymoon journey.
During the elaborate reception in the Blue Room, where we met a number of dignitaries, including many generals who would win themselves Glory on the Field of Battle, I permitted
Mr. Lincoln to kiss me. This was not something I allowed strange men to do as a rule, but felt I had to acquiesce to a presidential request. My husband, however, had no reservations of this sort; without even asking, he rose on tiptoe to bestow his usual happy kiss upon Mrs. Lincoln, who twittered and giggled and blushed a rosy red.
“Mr. Lincoln,” she exclaimed with surprise. “The General kisses every bit as nicely as you!”
“Well, why shouldn’t he, Molly?” Mr. Lincoln asked with a twinkle in his gray eyes. “I reckon he’s had much more practice!”
Everyone laughed appreciatively, and none harder than my husband. I could not join in; it was a sore subject between the two of us already, so early in our marriage.
I determined to mention it to him later that night, when we were preparing for slumber. A more immediate problem, however, soon drove the thought from my mind. The enormous four-poster bed, piled high with the downiest of mattresses, pillows, and plush counterpane, was so tall that we despaired of ever reaching the top. Even my wooden steps, which I had carried with me since childhood, were not high enough. With great embarrassment, I had to summon a hotel chambermaid to assist us in attaining our goal. Once ensconced, naturally we were required to put off any thoughts of nighttime ablutions, unless we wanted to sleep the rest of the night on the floor.
The newspapers, naturally, did not recount this particular detail of our visit. This is but one example of why I have decided to write down my own recollections of my life thus far, and I vow I will do my best to keep them free of humbug.
Humbug
. I can still hear my mother’s gentle voice admonishing me all those years ago. “Oh, Vinnie, my little chick,” she said with a worried shake of her head. “If you go with this Barnum you will be just another one of his humbugs. You will be caught up in
that man’s snare, and however will you escape without losing your soul?”
Looking back, I’m forced to admit that my mother was right; I did lose my soul, and so much more. But I’m not sure that I didn’t give it away freely. My mother did not know Mr. Barnum as I did; she did not understand him, nor did the world at large. My intimacy with him is a prize, one that I am not willing to share with anyone. Not even with my own husband, who knew him first.
Not even with Minnie, although she would never have asked this of me; she never asked anything at all of me, except to keep her safe. And in that, I let her down.
This is but one more reason why I am eager to share my life’s experiences: because I will finally be able to provide a full account of my beloved sister’s all-too-brief time on this earth. My name may be on this volume’s cover, as it was on all the handbills, headlines, and invitations, but for once I will not allow Minnie to remain in my shadow, although she was happiest there. I consider it my duty and privilege—even more, my penance—to tell her story, too. She deserves to be remembered; her courage needs to be known—as does the identity of the person, or persons, who killed her.
I have spent the last ten years trying to decide who was most responsible for her death, Mr. Barnum or me. Perhaps by the time I’m finished with this story, I will have figured it out.
Perhaps I won’t, for I’m not sure I want to know.
Listen to me! I am putting the exclamation point before the salutation, as Mr. Barnum used to say; I had best dim the lights and commence my story before the audience grows restless. And there is no better way to begin this tale than by revealing, once and for all, my real name.
It is not, in fact—despite the manner in which I have been
introduced to Queens, Presidents, and even Mormons—Mrs. Tom Thumb. It is not even Lavinia Warren, which is how I was first introduced to the public.
No, God saw fit to bestow upon me the lamentable name of Mercy Lavinia Warren
Bump
.
And of the many obstacles He handed me at birth, Reader, I have always believed this to be the biggest.
