The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (7 page)

Maybe the world was too big for me; I expected that I would soon find out. But I also knew with certainty that if I remained in Middleborough, I would grow even smaller than I already was … until one day, like my name overgrown with weeds, I would cease to exist altogether.

“Minnie, darling, shhh. Look,” I whispered to my little sister, still sobbing on my breast. With a gentle nudge, I pushed her away so that I could cross the room to retrieve something from the windowsill—my beloved figurine of Jenny Lind in a pink dress, with her hands crossed upon her breast, her mouth open in glorious song. I returned to the bed and presented the precious object to Minnie, who had often admired it.

“Here. You keep this for me—you know how much it means to me, don’t you?”

Tears still streaming down her face, Minnie took it and nodded anxiously.

“You keep it for me, Pumpkin, until I come back. Because I promise I will—and then I’ll take you with me, so you can see the things that I do. I won’t leave you all alone here forever. I promise.”

“You do?” Sniffling, she turned her wet little heart-shaped face up to me. “You promise, Vinnie?”

“I promise!” And I vowed at that very moment to keep my promise; to do so was the only way I could tell Minnie goodbye. I would not be there to rock her to sleep, but she could, at least, comfort herself at night with the warmth of her sister’s promise.

“Then I will take very good care of Miss Jenny Lind until you come back. You can count on me, Vinnie!”

She looked so earnest, her eyes suddenly dry even though her eyelashes were still dewy, her previously trembling mouth set in a firm little line. This was the first thing I had ever asked of her, and she startled me with her eagerness, her readiness to comply. I hugged her to me once more, and smiled as she tried to conceal one last sniff with a very forced hiccup.

That evening passed in a frenzy of packing and organizing; Papa had to sell a milk cow to a neighbor in order to provide me with traveling money. At dawn the next morning, after I had eagerly signed a contract stipulating my employment with Colonel Wood and his exclusive right to exhibit me for three years in exchange for providing me with twenty dollars a week—a fortune!—my family gathered around his wagon. Benjamin was not there; he was too furious to say goodbye. My other brothers heaved my borrowed trunk into the back, and I embraced Mama, who looked suddenly older to me; her forehead was checkered with lines that must have appeared overnight, and her hair was more gray than brown. How long had it been this way? I felt a pang of guilt for not having noticed before, and for the first time I realized she was not the young woman I assumed her to always be.

“Vinnie, my little chick, don’t forget us all!” Mama knelt down to my level, her skirt sopping up mud, but she did not notice. “Pray every night and trust in God, and don’t talk to bad people if you can help it. Colonel Wood has promised to care for you with a cousinly concern and affection, but, oh! This is still hard!” With a sob, she covered her face with a handkerchief.

Minnie was already crying, her surprising resolve of the night before chased away by the sight of my trunk in the back of the wagon. She was holding on to my hand so tightly I could feel her nails through my gloves. “Vinnie, Vinnie, oh, why must you leave? Why?”

She was nine, but with her tear-stained face and her uncomprehending
eyes, I thought she more closely resembled a child of five. My sister, my poor little sister! But I had to go; by now I had convinced myself that the only way I could make a good life for her was by making one first for myself. Then, I could come back and shower her with riches and show her the world, release her from her lonely cell, hidden away by well-meaning family.

This was what I told myself as finally I pried her small hand from mine and let Papa lift me up on the seat next to Colonel Wood. The Colonel was obviously impatient to start; we were traveling to his parents’ home in Weedsport, New York—he had a note of welcome from his mother, which he showed Mama and Papa when I signed the contract, helping to ease their minds significantly. There, we would outfit me with an appropriate wardrobe before journeying on to Cincinnati, where his boat had wintered.

Papa settled me in, tucking a bearskin all about me even though it was not cold. But I let him fuss, knowing this was his way of saying goodbye, and that he would sorely miss me.

“Got your money hidden away?” he asked, suddenly very concerned with one corner of the skin that would not stay put.

“Yes, Papa.”

“Keep it in case of an emergency. You never know what might come up.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Don’t let strangers pay for anything, you understand? That’s the way to ruin; you pay your own way, if Colonel Wood can’t.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And don’t forget to write. Your mother will surely look forward to a letter now and then.”

“I won’t forget, Papa, oh, I won’t!” And I could not help but throw my arms around his rough and weathered neck; I heard him sniff just once, then he patted my arm and gently pushed me away,
muttering something about checking the back wheel of the wagon, as it didn’t look “put on right.”

Of course it was put on right; Colonel Wood abruptly slapped the reins, and the horses started forward. I twisted around and waved at my family, memorizing their faces, until we rounded the bend in the road and I could see them no longer.

“Not going to cry, are you?” Colonel Wood asked just as I reached for my handkerchief. “I can’t stand sniveling females.”

“No, not a bit!” I replied, blinking furiously.

“Good. Now, let me tell you about my boat.” And he began to spin a yarn of assorted colors and shapes, of minstrel singers and gamblers and cotton bales stacked up at southern docks by slaves dark as night; about the high bluffs of Minnesota, where eagles soared above the river, card games got up after midnight shows, the huge calliope that sang out merry tunes at every port of call; even a man who could spin two dozen plates at once without dropping a one!

And my heart, which had felt as heavy as a roof smothered in January snow, began to thaw, began to soar like the sun that was just beginning to peek through the trees. I felt as big as the sun; no, as big as the sky! The sky was a vast, endless sea in which the sun was just a small orb, the size of a coin. I held my thumb up to it; I blocked it neatly out.

So it was true; the sun was no larger than the tip of my thumb. The notion tickled me, tickled my rib cage until I had to laugh out loud.

I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, was bigger than the sun.

INTERMISSION
 

“R
IDING ON A
R
AIL
” (1853)

Sung with Unbounded Applause by Ossian’s Bards.

(Words—anonymous.) Music by Charlie Crozat Converse.

CHORUS (
sung after each verse
)

Singing thro’ the mountain,

Buzzing o’er the vale,

Bless me, this is pleasant,

A riding on a rail.

Singing thro’ the mountain,

Buzzing o’er the vale,

Bless me, this is pleasant,

A riding on a rail.

VERSE

Men of different stations,

In the eye of fame,

Here are very quickly

Coming to the same;

High and lowly people,

Birds of every feather,

On a common level,

A travelling together.

From the Abbeville, South Carolina,
Banner
, November 23, 1854

Ranaway from the owner James SMITH, in Anderson District, a negro boy Bob, about 30 years of age, about 5 feet 10 inches high, black complexion, medium size, weight about 160 pounds. The said negro left on Sunday evening the 14th inst. The owner is now on his way to Texas. Any information concerning said boy will be communicated to Robert SMITH residing near Cokesbury in Abbeville district who will pay charges and take him into custody.

[ THREE ]
 
Life on the Mississippi, or
My Education Truly Begins

Y
OU LOOK AS PRETTY AS A CHINA DOLL
,” S
YLVIA PRONOUNCED
with an approving smile; it broke slowly as usual across her rough, bony face with its cheekbones the size of large apples, deep hollows, the crooked nose that looked as if it had once been broken. Her smile brought her no beauty, but it did soften her face considerably.

“Do I?” I pretended not to know, but deep down I did; I
was
pretty. As pretty as a china doll.

The gown that Mrs. Wood had made for me was of the shiniest material we could find: a gossamer blue satin that reflected every light in every direction. While I was assured it would look brilliant behind the footlights, it was also of the highest fashion for the present year, 1858; Mrs. Wood had fastened hoops for me that allowed my skirts to sway and swing so that they did not touch my legs at all. She had not been able to send away for a custom
corset, however, so she had done what Mama had done: cut down the smallest one she could find. It still gapped uncomfortably at my bosom, and did not cinch my waist as tightly as I naturally desired.

Still, admiring the lace and silk flower festoons that adorned my hem, my pretty new white satin slippers, the silk flowers in my glistening hair, I was happy with my appearance. My brown eyes sparkled almost as vibrantly as Minnie’s, and for once I did not fret about my high, wide forehead; Sylvia had arranged my hair in a way that detracted from it.

“Now remember,” Sylvia intoned in her considered, deep voice. “Whatever happens, I’ll be right there.”

“ ‘Whatever happens’?” I smoothed the bodice of my dress anxiously. “What do you mean? What usually happens?”

“You never know. It’s a rough crowd, so you just never know. But you’ll be fine, Vinnie; no one would ever want to harm you, as tiny as you are.”

“Harm?” I recalled all I had read about Miss Jenny Lind; no newspaper had ever mentioned any kind of harm coming to her, except the threat of being crushed by adoring fans.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sylvia repeated as hastily as she possibly could. Rising from two chairs put together, for she could not fit comfortably on one, she had to duck her head in order to clear the ceiling of the private stateroom set aside for performers.

I had been surprised to learn that there were two boats that made up my new home. The one I first boarded, and where my room with Sylvia was located, was a tugboat that towed the larger, flat-bottomed boat when necessary. Both were powered by steam belowdecks, from a great hissing, churning apparatus that gleamed hellishly red at night, and which frightened me more than I was willing to admit. All the living quarters—staterooms, kitchen, and dining room—were on the smaller boat, while the
theater, taking up almost the entire length, was on the larger boat. But there were private staterooms for the performers on the large boat, which was where Sylvia and I were, primping for our appearances. Or rather—I primped. Sylvia could hardly be induced to run a comb through her dull hair, and her gown, consisting of so many yards of rough, plain fabric, was not held up by hoops; if it had been, there would have been no space in the stateroom for me.