The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (20 page)

“Madam, I assure you. Anything I say in public will be only with Miss Bump’s knowledge and approval.” Mr. Barnum turned to me, and once again I saw that sparkle flickering behind his gaze.

“Now, Mama, Papa, I would very much like to talk to Mr. Barnum alone,” I said decisively. This was my future, after all, and I had sat by, discussed to no end, for long enough. I wanted to talk to the man plainly; I had no desire to bind myself to anyone like Colonel Wood ever again. Even though he was the Great Barnum, I was determined not to let my vanity cloud my judgment this time.

“Really? Do you think that’s wise?” Mama asked Papa, as if I wasn’t there.

“Yes, I do,” I answered for him. Papa looked at me in that odd way again. I nodded gently at him and then waited as he and Mama withdrew outside, at Mr. Barnum’s suggestion, to stroll about the grounds and see the stables.

“Now,” he said, pulling his chair over to mine and slouching so that we sat, knee to knee, eye to eye. “Let’s have it. I perceive you are a most remarkable woman, Miss Bump.”

“Why is that, Mr. Barnum?”

“You sent me that letter, didn’t you? The one with all your clippings—but you didn’t tell your parents?”

“No, I did not.”

“And why is that? I have to say, it’s very unusual for me to hear from a performer directly in this way; I was surprised to find you weren’t already under contract with someone.”

I hesitated for only a moment before replying, “Well, I’m not. And I desire only the best for my career, which prompted me to write to you.”

“And about that career.” Mr. Barnum leaned back a little and lit a cigar, puffing it for a few moments before continuing. “Tell me about it. I know those showboats. I know the West. I know it’s a wild and woolly place. How did you survive it?”

Again, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “I got out just in time, because the War came. I won’t deceive you; it was not
easy. I was not pleased with the vulgar manner in which—in which my cousin decided to exhibit me. For that matter, I would like to know your plans before I agree to anything. I think you should know, right off, I have no intention of being a female Tom Thumb.”

“You don’t?” He raised a bushy eyebrow, and I had a sense of the steely flint that gave that merry light its spark.

“No, I don’t, sir. I will not be paraded around in costumes and uniforms; I will not do imitations; I will not be your performing puppet. I think it’s not fitting for a woman, and it’s certainly not fitting for me.”

“You think Charlie Stratton’s my puppet? Why, you know nothing of it,” Mr. Barnum growled, reminding me of a grumpy bulldog with his round face, round nose, crooked mouth. “He’s my good friend, and he bailed me out of a real jam recently, agreeing to go on tour again because I needed the money. He was just a child when he dressed up in those costumes; it worked for him then. Now he’s a man—as you’re obviously a woman.”

“That’s precisely my point. I am a woman, not a puppet. I desire respectability in all things. And protection, too, from—from—well, protection that any lady would require from those who would take advantage of her—vulnerability.” My voice did falter, as I could not prevent myself from thinking of Colonel Wood’s plans for me in New Orleans.

Mr. Barnum fixed me with a bright, hard gaze, searching for the truth I was so obviously unwilling to speak. He found it; I’m sure he did, as he suddenly paled, then growled, the tip of his nose and his ears turning a dangerous red. He squashed his cigar down in the ashtray beside him with a violence I did not expect, then muttered something under his breath.

I hung my head, my face suffused with warmth; at that moment I could not meet his gaze. Yet when he finally spoke, it was
with a voice so gentle, so careful, it reminded me of a child cradling a kitten. “Miss Bump, I’m sorry. I appreciate your delicacy in conveying this to me. When I spoke of the showboats being wild, I assure you—I had no idea of something of this nature, particularly happening to one so fine, so ladylike, as you. You have my word that nothing like that will ever happen, as long as you’re employed by me. You asked me how I intend to exhibit you—would you like to hear my plans?”

I nodded, still unable to look at him.

“As a lady. As a model lady, a lady of deportment, a lady deserving of every consideration, every finery. Do you remember Miss Jenny Lind?”

“Oh, yes!” I raised my face eagerly. “I do!”

“She was a model of womanhood.” He gestured to a painting I hadn’t noticed before; it hung on the opposite wall of the fireplace, and it was illuminated by a discreetly placed gaslight. It was of the Swedish Nightingale herself; a glorious portrait of a woman with softly waving brown hair, luminous eyes, in a virginal white dress. Mr. Barnum followed my gaze; I thought I saw a softer light in his eyes as they fell upon this portrait. I wondered at their relationship, and was surprised to feel a small prick of jealousy. I wanted, suddenly, someday, for someone to look at me in that reverent, adoring way.

“Miss Lind was—is—a model of womanhood, and that is how I displayed her—her voice, of course, was without parallel. That was always understood. But there are other fine singers, most of whom you’ve never heard, Miss Bump. Why is that? Because I decided to play up her modesty, her gentility, her virtue. No singer had ever been promoted in that way. I have something of the same in mind for you. That your size makes you different is not in question; why call attention to it only? But your manner, your intelligence, your family heritage—that makes you just as
socially acceptable as Mrs. Astor or Mrs. Belmont. That is how I intend to present you to the public—as a perfect little lady, a gentlewoman, a Society woman. This is what people will remember about you.”

Tears stung my eyes as I listened to him; he had put into words what I myself had desired for so long. Yes, my height would be the first thing people noticed about me, but it would not be the last. Colonel Wood had never understood this very fine point; he had been such a rough, despicable man. I hoped never to have to utter his name again.

“Then I agree to work with you,” I told Mr. Barnum, holding my hand out to seal the bargain. He leaned forward and shook my hand heartily—not timidly, as most men did—and began to laugh.

“Of course,” I interrupted him coolly. “I will require a salary commensurate to a lady of my fine breeding. And a percentage of all souvenirs and
cartes de visites
sold.”

Mr. Barnum stopped laughing. He squinted at me with that bright, hard gaze. Then he laughed again, but not joyfully; just one short, rueful bark.

“Five percent is all I’ll give.”

“Ten.”

“Seven.”

“Eight, and I want to go to Europe first, to see the Queen, before I perform here. First-class passage, naturally.”

“Eight. And I’ll consider Europe. It worked for Charlie, back in the day. Our good patriotic citizens never fail to be impressed by a Royal stamp of approval, for some reason.”

“Deal,” I said, extending my hand once more.

“Deal.” Once more, he shook it. Then he leaned even closer to me, suddenly deadly serious. “But there’s something we need to settle right away, Miss Bump.”

“What is that?” My thoughts raced wildly; did he suspect about Colonel Wood’s contract?

“It’s the one thing that could doom this whole enterprise.” He gazed at me, not blinking; I gazed right back, holding my breath. I waited for him to speak, for a terrifyingly long time; I heard every creak and movement in the house, a muffled door slam, a silvery tinkle of china, so many clocks ticking out of sync. Still, he stared at me, until I was about to blurt out Colonel Wood’s name—then, finally, he grinned.

“Now, what are we going to do about your last name?
Bump
will never do.”

I drew in my breath sharply, then exhaled. And I began to laugh, out of pure relief and delight. He joined in, and suddenly I felt as if I’d known him all my life. He was no longer the great, revered P. T. Barnum, nor “that Barnum,” nor even the Prince of Humbug.

He was my mentor and friend. Mr. Barnum. And that was what he would remain.

Or so we both believed at the time.

INTERMISSION
 

From the
Brooklyn Daily Eagle
, February 6, 1863

A S
URPRISE

Doctor Colton is preparing a surprise for Ladies and Pupils of Schools at the Athenaeum tomorrow afternoon. In addition to the Laughing Gas exhibition, he proposes to condense into half an hour a great variety of experiments, illustrating the properties of the air, with simple explanations—among other things a Balloon, holding thirty gallons of hydrogen gas, is to be sent up with a car full of “little folks.” Such a lecture must prove highly instructive, and as the admission is only five cents for children, we trust they will be allowed to attend.

From
Harper’s Weekly
, February 14, 1863

T
HE
I
NEVITABLE
Q
UESTION

The question that every body has seen from the beginning of the war must be answered has at last been asked. Shall there be colored soldiers? It is a question upon which there need be no loss of temper. If a man says that he is willing to see the Government lost rather than maintained by such allies, he must answer the question whether, then, he cares enough for the Government to fight for it.

[ SEVEN ]
 
I Prepare to Make My Grand Entrance

H
OW SWIFTLY THINGS HAPPENED AFTER THAT MEETING
! Mama and Papa and I returned home, where I spent the next few weeks washing and mending my wardrobe. Minnie helped, even as she valiantly sniffed away her tears, to no avail; every five minutes she dropped something and threw her arms about my waist to cry, “Oh, how can you leave again, Sister? Why don’t you like it here with us? I wish I could make you love it here like I do!”

“Oh, Minnie, I do! Of course I do, but you and I are so very—I promise you, things will be different this time. I fully intend to come home often. And maybe even you’ll visit me in New York; Mama and Papa might bring you on the train!” I smiled as I said this, but inwardly, my stomach tightened. Mr. Barnum had asked, jokingly, if I had a sister just like me at home—“The more
Bumps, the merrier!” I hastily replied that I did not; perhaps too hastily, as his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

I had no desire ever to inform him of Minnie’s existence. Even as I eagerly looked forward to my next adventure, I needed to know that Minnie would remain where she always was—back on the farm, protected by Mama and Papa, waiting for me to return. It was almost as if she were my conscience, my anchor, the one thing tethering me to home, reeling me back in occasionally so that I wouldn’t completely lose my way.

“I might want to take the train,” she admitted with a reluctant, shy smile. “Mama said it wasn’t as dreadful as all that. But now that I think about it, it must be, because it keeps taking you away! What a terrible, nasty old thing it is, carrying people away from their homes so easily. No, I don’t want to take it, at that.” And she shook her head so vigorously she almost lost her balance.