The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (5 page)

“Hello, my name is Miss Lavini—Oh!” I couldn’t help myself; I stopped dead in my tracks, all sensible notions drained from my being. My hands, my knees, began to quake, and I would have turned around and run back outside, had Colonel Wood not been immediately behind me, barring any escape.

For slowly rising from a bed—no, two beds, pushed together end to end—was a giantess. An actual giantess, such as I had read about in many a fairy tale, the kind of creature that ate little children who got into mischief or otherwise misbehaved.

The giantess continued to unwind herself, rising slowly—oh, so slowly!—until she had reached her full height, which seemed, from my perspective, to be twenty feet, at the very least! She had to stoop so that her head did not brush the sloping stateroom ceiling.

“Hello, Miss Lavini-o,” she said in a basso profundo voice. With a smile, she extended her hand; a hand so massive, so bony, that I fought with every fiber of my being not to recoil from it. As it came near me—again, so excruciatingly slowly—I glanced quickly at the giantess’s feet; they were the size of canoes, and I could easily imagine them squishing me into oblivion. I remembered Mama’s silly terrors about horses’ hooves; how quaint a fear that seemed now!

“M-m-my name is Lavinia,” I corrected the giantess as I placed my hand, my tiny, delicate hand, in her enormous one. I winced in anticipation, but to my relief she did not crush me. In fact, she seemed to be as hesitant to touch me as I was to touch her; her hand did not even close completely about mine, and she withdrew it with as much haste as she could muster.

I must confess, right here and now, to making a dreadful assumption. And that assumption was that a person this tall, who moved this slowly, must be very slow of mind and wit as well. All my life, I must admit, I have always associated quickness of mind with smaller people, quicker people, people like me. Large, clumsy creatures, freaks of nature to me—my initial assumption was always that they possessed inferior minds.

So I corrected the giantess, thinking she was not very bright, forgetting that I myself had mispronounced my own name in my initial consternation.

“And my name is Sylvia. Miss Sylvia Hardy, from Maine.”

“For the love of Pete, just look at the two of you!”

I spun around, startled to find Colonel Wood still standing behind me; I had forgotten all about him. He stood gaping at the tableau before him, his head swiveling up and down as he took the pair of us in; there was an eager gleam in his eye as he appraised the situation.

“Oh, this is going to be rich! The two of you side by side—by
God, I’m a genius! Barnum who, I ask you? Eh? Colonel John Wood will be the name on everybody’s lips, I wager!”

I was too speechless to respond. The giantess, however, was not; she dismissed him with a firmness I could not help but admire as she said, “Goodbye, Colonel Wood. Leave us to get better acquainted, for I imagine Lavinia is tired from her journey.”

And despite the rumbling low pitch of her voice—it tickled my eardrums—and the slowness of her speech, I turned to her with gratitude, blinking back sudden tears. I
was
weary; the journey
was
exhausting. The excitement of my very first train trip had long since abandoned me. The exhilarating sense of discovery I had felt as I stared out soot-covered windows while unfamiliar scenery passed so swiftly by; the novelty of eating sandwiches wrapped in paper, bought from enterprising farm boys at various stops; the thrill of rattling over high bridges while far below, unfamiliar rivers ran—all was gone now.

I remembered only the dirt, the barnyard odors of being in such close company with strangers who did not wash regularly, the stiffness of my back from sitting up for so long even in sleep, the impossibility of making myself feel fresh with the dirty water in the lavatory basin. That is, even if I could
reach
the basin; I couldn’t, unless I dragged my stair steps with me, but there usually wasn’t enough room in those miserable little closets. And often there were no closets at all, just primitive dark corners with buckets full of human waste slopping out with every rattle over a railroad tie.

We changed trains so many times I lost count, always a chaotic affair. I had to submit to countless strangers lifting me up and down, for there was no way to manage the great difference between train and platform myself, and Colonel Wood was always gone somewhere, wrestling with our luggage or arguing with the ticket agent that I should cost him only half a fare because I took up only half a seat.

These dispiriting experiences were all I remembered now; they had left my clothes filthy and stained, my skin covered in a gritty film of dirt, my toes pinched and blistered. My first pair of adult shoes, custom-ordered to fit, had proven to be very uncomfortable for feet used to the soft soles of children’s slippers.

I also remembered, suddenly and overwhelmingly, how sad my parents and Minnie had looked when they said goodbye. I had waved at them for as long as I could as I drove away with Colonel Wood in his wagon, all my clothes and mementos and my beloved stair steps packed in a trunk borrowed from my married sister, Delia, as there had been no time to purchase one of my own. I remembered Mama’s tears, Minnie’s wails, Papa’s stoic face, his emotion betrayed only by the working of his Adam’s apple.

The memories overwhelmed me, and I could not help it; as soon as the Colonel shut the door and I was left alone with the giantess, my tears could no longer be contained. I sat down on the floor, not caring about my dress, and I put my head in my hands and began to cry. Why, oh why, had I ever decided to leave home? My heart—too large for me all of a sudden, too full of pain and longing for family—felt as if it would break into pieces, so lost, so lonely, so dirty, and yes, so very
small
, did I feel.

Mama had been right all along. The world was too big for me. I would get lost in it, swallowed up or trampled by this giantess—

Who, without a word, without a sound, scooped me up in her arms and carried me to her bed. There she held me on her lap, rocking me as if I were a child, as I turned my head toward her vast, comforting bosom and sobbed my heart out.

A
MONTH EARLIER
, C
OLONEL
J
OHN
W
OOD HAD SHOWED UP AT
our door. It was in March of 1858, during my first vacation from teaching. With a knock, a bow, a presentation of a card, he was
ushered inside, where he brought with him the bracing air of a different world. He was dressed not in military clothing, as one might expect (I never did understand how he came by his title), but his costume was no less exciting. He wore a jacket made of red wool; I’d never seen such a thing on a man before! All the men in my life wore sober black, gray, or brown. Complementing his red jacket was an emerald-green vest, which was hung with a bright gold watch fob. His black hat, over graying curls, was shiny and tall, and he carried a polished ebony walking stick. He had a habit, I soon discovered, of pressing two fingers against his mustache—suspiciously black, considering how gray his curls were—whenever he desired to appear thoughtful.

In short, he looked to be quite a man of the world to us Bumps, so insulated in our rural community. I would come to know many men of the world and recognize that the Colonel was not quite the dandy he thought himself to be, but at the time he certainly impressed Mama and me; Papa, however, merely sat and regarded him with a skeptical eye, puffing on his pipe distrustfully.

“Sit down, sit down, and let us figure out our relation,” Mama exclaimed as she ushered Colonel Wood into our parlor; he had introduced himself as a cousin, which was all the calling card one needed in Middleborough, Massachusetts.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Colonel Wood replied, taking the best chair before he was asked. While he addressed Mama, I felt his curious gaze still upon me, as it had been since his arrival. Minnie was off hiding in her room—she always vanished whenever we had visitors—and my three brothers who were still at home, while politely greeted, were given no further notice by our visitor. Colonel Wood seemed fascinated solely with me. His attention was different than what I usually encountered from the few strangers who happened through Middleborough; he did not look
as if he was about to ask me if fairies had forgotten to give me my wings (one of the many fanciful sentiments that strangers were inspired to utter when first making my acquaintance).

Instead, I felt his gaze to be more calculated, more appraising, but for what purpose I could not begin to guess.

As Mama and he attempted to sort out their relation—I never did figure it out and later wondered if there really was such a connection—he still managed to throw glances my way, as if he was sizing me up. Whenever I ventured to speak, he listened carefully, and I could sense first his approval and then his excitement as I displayed my usual intelligence in my typical forthright way.

Finally, he admitted he had come here with a specific purpose in mind.

“Have you all ever heard of a fellow named Barnum?”

“Well, yes, Cousin, of course we read the newspaper. Do you think we’re so ill informed, just because we’re farmers?” Mama answered softly, chidingly; despite our humble abode and plain living, she was very conscious of her heritage as a descendent of one of the Mayflower Compact signers.

“Of course not, of course not,” Colonel Wood replied hastily. “Forgive me, I’ve been so long in the West that I sometimes forget how civilized we are here in New England.”

“What does that Barnum have to do with us?” my brother Benjamin asked, regarding Colonel Wood with barely concealed hostility.

“Well, he’s had a great deal of success, you know. First with that Tom Thumb fellow, the one that visited England and had tea with the Queen and all. Then with Miss Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale.”

At the mention of Tom Thumb, Mama and Papa exchanged glances, careful not to look my way.

“Can’t say as I approve of that man,” Papa grumbled. “It seems wrong, somehow.”

“Wrong? Why, both Jenny Lind and the little man are famous! Millionaires, they say! Living it up, meeting royalty—what’s wrong with that? Sounds like a mighty fine life to me!” Colonel Wood was unable to keep up his careful nonchalance; he was now leaning forward, his dark eyes snapping.

“I’d wager it’s that Barnum who’s getting rich,” Papa retorted. “Showing people about like they’re
things
, not humans. Humbugging the public, like he did with that Joice Heth, claiming she was a hundred and sixty-one years old! George Washington’s nurse, he said she was! George Washington’s nurse, my eye. Anyone could tell she was just some old slave woman.”

“Oh, but Papa—Miss Jenny Lind is not a thing! She’s an artist! And what was the humbug there?” I couldn’t help myself; I did not like to contradict my father, but on the subject of Jenny Lind, I could not keep quiet.

I was just a child when Jenny Lind came to America, back in 1850. I never heard her sing; she never came anywhere near Middleborough. But I followed her every move in the newspaper, drinking in every detail of the Swedish Nightingale—what she wore, how she did her hair, what her favorite foods were. And, of course, how she sang: like an angel, the newspapers said. With a voice of such incomparable beauty it made grown men weep, particularly when she ended her concerts with her signature song, “Home Sweet Home.” There were Jenny Lind waltzes performed in her honor, Jenny Lind polkas, ballads, clothes, dolls, figurines. I had a china likeness of her that Papa and Mama had given me on my tenth birthday; I kept it on the windowsill in my bedroom.

Mr. P. T. Barnum, the famous promoter, brought her here from Europe; he arranged her concerts and made her a household
name, although they parted ways in 1852 and she had since returned to Europe. He told of all this in his recent autobiography, which had caused an uproar, for in it he admitted to several humbugs he had perpetrated upon the public, including the one involving Joice Heth, as well as the one involving General Tom Thumb. Born Charles S. Stratton, the latter had been a lad of only five when Mr. Barnum had first presented him, back in 1843, as “General Tom Thumb, a marvel of miniature perfection, eleven years of age!”

Since then, the tiny general had traveled to Europe and met with Queen Victoria herself. I admit to my curiosity being aroused by the few newspaper illustrations I had seen of him, now a young man, three years my senior. So far in my life, the only other little person I knew was my sister Minnie. The evidence that there were others incited my curiosity and made me feel slightly less alone. Knowing that General Tom Thumb had sung and danced for huge crowds and become celebrated the world over gave me a peculiar sense of pride, I must confess. Also, he was a handsome fellow in the illustrations; boasting large, mischievous eyes and a winning smile, he looked very smart in his various miniature uniforms.

He was no Miss Jenny Lind, of course, but reading about either of them was like reading about royalty, or Presidents; their lives were special, remarkable, not at all like my own or my family’s.

“Oh, Papa, you know how I longed to hear Jenny Lind sing! She’s the reason I practice so very much on my own music,” I reminded my father, who looked at me with a suddenly clenched jaw and narrowing eyes, as if he was trying silently to warn me not to speak further. But I did not heed his warning. “Do you know Mr. Barnum?” I asked Colonel Wood, unable to contain my excitement.

“Why, sure, sure,” he answered smoothly, addressing me for the first time. “Naturally! We showmen all know each other.”

“Really?” I couldn’t help but be impressed. “Did you ever see Miss Jenny Lind?”

“Certainly! Many a time did she sing for me privately, when I was in New York working for Mr. Barnum himself. I take it you sing, Miss Lavinia?”

“Oh, I’m a schoolteacher, but I do love to sing.” I returned Mama’s fond smile; my songs were much loved not only within the family circle but also in the schoolroom. From an early age, I had enjoyed soothing my classmates with ballads. Mr. Dunbar used to pick me up and place me atop his desk, so that all could hear.