The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb by Melanie Benjamin
“You do understand, don’t you, Vinnie?” My mother’s voice was very gentle, as if she was afraid it might break.
“No,” I said, baldly. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“It’s just that—it’s not that we don’t believe we won’t grow to like Charles, and look at him as our own. It’s not that we don’t truly believe you know what is best for you, for you always have, and you’ve never let us down. But this is all so grand—my heavens, Astors and Vanderbilts, you say!—and we’re so simple. We’re not comfortable with all this, not the way you are, and, well—”
“It’s not as if this is just a performance, Mama.” Finally I turned away from the window, anger doing its best to smother the hurt. “It’s not as if Mr. Barnum is selling tickets to my wedding.” (I did not reveal that at one point, I was afraid that he was—and had to ask him, flat out, not to. He claimed that it never crossed his mind, but I was not so sure.) “We’re getting married in a church, you know, Grace Church, and Reverend Putnam from home is even going to assist. Mrs. Putnam will be there, for heaven’s sake!” I shuddered, remembering how rude that woman had been to me back home. Now she was swanning about Manhattan, telling all who would listen that she was “the wife of the minister who will be uniting those adorable little sweethearts in Holy Matrimony.”
“I know, dearest, and we don’t want to hurt you. That’s the last thing we want to do.”
“But you have, you have, and I don’t know why!”
To my horror, I began to cry, and Minnie, alarmed, placed her doll carefully down on a chair and ran over to me to pat my hand; she soon had tears running down her own rosy cheeks, although she had no idea why I was crying.
“Vinnie.” Papa was suddenly kneeling next to me, carefully pulling up his new trousers so as not to tear them. “Blame this all on me. I’m the one who’s a country fool, not your mother. I’m the one who asked to go right back home. Don’t blame her—blame me.”
“Oh, Papa!” I looked into his sweet, simple brown eyes, those eyes that had never understood me, never known what to do with me—but had never gazed upon me with anything other than pure, unselfish love. And I knew that he was not telling the truth. I knew that it was my mother who had made this decision. A lifetime of worrying about me, about all her children, had made its mark upon her so that now her handsome face was falling, as if under the weight of it all—me, Minnie, my brothers off fighting in a war. She was dear, she was sweet—but she was also far more knowledgeable about the world than Papa was. She had never trusted Mr. Barnum, and now some of that distrust was throwing its shadow across me as well. I did not know what I had to do to win back her trust, and at that moment, frankly, I did not much care to learn. I was simply stunned, my heart pierced by the sting of her rejection.
“It’s all right, Papa,” I said, stroking his large, weathered hand; my small white one looking like a delicate glove against it. “I understand. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“Good,” Mama said, clearly relieved that I appeared to believe him. “Now, Vinnie, after the honeymoon I want you and your Charles to come home for a nice long visit. I mean it. Delia and I are planning for it; you’re going to get the boys’ room, we’ll spruce it up, we’re already sewing some new curtains, and I’m going to have a lovely at-home to introduce you all to our neighbors. I’m sure that you have plans with Mr. Barnum, but he’ll allow you that time with your family, won’t he?” Mama looked anxious; I knew she was apologizing in the most meaningful way she knew how—by diving into a cooking and cleaning extravaganza. I had seen her attack a floor with a brush and a bucket of soap as if she were scrubbing the deviltry from Lucifer himself; I suspected she needed to scrub away some of her own demons right now.
“Of course, Mama.” I wiped away my tears and smiled at her. “I can’t wait. And I’m sure Charles will be pleased as well.”
“I’m so glad.” Mama nodded, reassuring us both. “Now, you’ll take good care of Minnie, won’t you? You know we’d never think of leaving her with anyone but you. You’re the only one we trust—and you’re the only one she trusts, as well!” Mama smoothed Minnie’s curls and planted a kiss atop her head.
“Of course! I won’t let her out of my sight for a moment! I have so much planned for the two of us, Charles will get very jealous, indeed!” I seized upon this request, fell upon it as a soldier might fall upon his own sword. This was how I could recapture Mama’s trust: by caring for Minnie as if she was my daughter, too. Nothing bad would come to her, no harm, no disappointment, no pain or sorrow. Not as long as she was with me.
“And I’ll take care of you, too, Vinnie,” Minnie assured me solemnly. “So Mama won’t have to worry at all!”
“We’ll take care of each other,” I agreed. “I’ll begin by moving you into my suite right away. You can’t stay down here by yourself.” I rose, happy to begin my rehabilitation. “Come, Pumpkin, and help me! Be careful with your doll—she’s made of china, not wax!”
“Vinnie, for goodness’ sake! You forget how old I am now! I know how to carry a doll!” Minnie’s little nose stuck up in the air as she sighed with disdain; I shared a smile with Mama and Papa. I could do this; I could keep my sister safe and innocent. I could preserve her childlike ways.
If only it had been that easy! For the one thing that I did not realize—and I don’t believe my parents did, either—was that my sister was really no longer a child. She was a young woman, despite the fact that none of us was willing to see it. And young women have passions and yearnings that even the most vigilant sister cannot always anticipate or even acknowledge.
Particularly when she hasn’t yet experienced them herself.
AND SO WE WERE MARRIED. THERE HAVE BEEN SO MANY ACCOUNTS of that day; I’ll simply enclose the following report, which was printed in the Manitou, Wisconsin, Daily Bugle.
LILIPUTIAN WEDDING, A FAIRY’S DREAM
This Tuesday last, a ceremony like no other took place in Grace Church in New York City. It was there that that miniature gentleman, Charles Stratton or as he is more popularly known, GENERAL TOM THUMB, at last married his dainty bride-in-miniature, Lavinia Warren.
The bride wore an exquisite gown of white satin and lace, and her hair was arranged à la Empress Eugenie, with a bridal veil held in place by a coronet of orange blossoms. Her little white kid gloves measured from wrist to tip of the finger only four and one-half inches! The bridal bouquet consisted of roses and japonicas, and the jewels adorning the lovely bride were a gift from her dashing little groom, all of dazzling diamonds.
The bride and groom were attended by Commodore Nutt, whose broken heart was much evident, as he had competed for, and lost, the lily-white hand of the tiny Queen of Beauty. However, he was much consoled by the fact that, upon his arm was the tiny bridesmaid, Minnie Warren, younger sister of the bride and even more petite.
The four tiny principals took their places before the chancel, and the ceremony began. The responses of the bride and groom were given in clear, distinct tones, easily heard throughout the packed church where the likes of Vanderbilts, Astors, Generals, Governors and Ambassadors all sat in rapt attention, honored to have been invited to so solemn and heartfelt a ceremony.
After the ceremony, the fairy-like wedding party then entered their tiny carriages and were driven through cheering crowds to the Metropolitan Hotel, where a reception was held for ten thousand guests! The petite party had to be lifted upon a grand piano, from where they greeted their guests, to avoid being crushed by their loyal subjects, all eager to bestow their blessings upon their little King and Queen of Cupid’s Arrow.
The hundreds of wedding gifts were displayed, only a few of which will be mentioned, as there is not enough newsprint to list them all:
A MINIATURE SILVER HORSE AND CHARIOT, EYES OF THE HORSE MADE OF GARNETS, THE CHARIOT DECORATED WITH RUBIES, GIVEN BY TIFFANY & COMPANY
A CHINESE FIRESCREEN OF GOLD, SILVER, AND PEARL, A GIFT OF MRS. ABRAHAM LINCOLN
A SET
A SET OF PERFECTLY MATCHED PEARLS, GIVEN BY MRS. CORNELIUS VANDERBILT
A QUAINT GIFT OF EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS, PERSONALLY WORKED AND GIVEN BY MR. EDWIN BOOTH
A CUNNING BIRD AUTOMATON, BEJEWELED AND COVERED IN REAL FEATHERS, GIVEN BY MR. P. T. BARNUM
After the reception, the tiny pair retired to the Honeymoon suite; they were serenaded by the New York Excelsior Band, which prompted the newly minted bridal couple to appear on the balcony where the General addressed the crowd, beginning with the words, “I will make this speech, like myself, short.”
The General and his new wife will leave on a bridal tour which will commence in Philadelphia, ending up in Washington where the President and Mrs. Lincoln will give a reception in their honor.
This account is accurate for what it relates. It is also glaring for what it does not.
It makes no mention, for example, of how slowly, almost reluctantly, I walked down the aisle toward my groom, who was very handsome and dignified in full black dress suit. Minnie, in the sweetest white silk, a crown of rosebuds in her hair, smiled so happily at me. I remember blinking at her in surprise; she was so poised, she had so eagerly participated in all the festivities, that I almost didn’t recognize her.
The article also does not relate how mechanical, how tinny, my voice sounded to me, despite having rehearsed the responses until I no longer had to think of them, until they were like lines in a play.
It does not describe how proud Mr. Barnum was, like the grandest, most successful parent of them all—like Adam himself. The father of us all. He beamed, he shook hands, he poured champagne at the reception; he slapped Charles on the back and gave me a paternal kiss, the only time he had ever kissed me, and it felt wrong. Awkward, forced—unlike anything that had ever passed between the two of us.
The biggest omission of all, however, is what took place after the reporters left to file their stories, after Charles and I retired to our honeymoon suite. There, we encountered an enormous bed the size of a boat, sprinkled with rose petals. I almost laughed at the absurdity of it; did the Metropolitan not realize whose wedding reception it had hosted? Although a set of velvet steps had been thoughtfully placed beside it—a very nice touch, indeed.
A table had been laid for us, with two slices of our wedding cake, a bottle of champagne, and a lovely roast quail. But the bottle was simply too big and unwieldy for Charles; he tried to pop the cork, huffing and grunting; he suffered not a little loss of pride upon not being able to manage it, and I felt for him. Discreetly, I turned away from him during his exertions but finally summoned a porter to do this chore, reassuring my husband, “A groom should not do anything as ordinary as open a bottle of champagne on his wedding night.”
I believe Charles was mollified, for he relaxed over dinner, and we managed to chat about the odd little details that stood out to us after this very long, endlessly ceremonial day—the comical things, such as when the minister called him “Charlie” instead of “Charles”; how Mrs. Astor, in all her diamond-encrusted finery, actually elbowed Mrs. Belmont out of the way in her excitement to greet us first.
As we began to talk, I realized we hadn’t truly spoken to each other at all until that moment. How odd, on our wedding day!
Eventually we exhausted trivial conversation, and we both simply stared at each other. Mr. Barnum was not here to wink and cajole and suggest; it was up to us now—alone. Finally my mind—which had been clenched all day, as if holding a line of defense against some onslaught of memory or feeling—relaxed. And a memory did assault me, paralyzing me, leaving me to stare at my new husband in horror.
“Oh, it would be dreadful, impossible,” I heard my mother’s stricken voice, from long ago. “Don’t you remember the little cow on Uncle’s farm who …”
I felt my stomach lurch, my skin turn clammy, beads of moisture pop out along my forehead. The room started to sway, and I had to run to the lavatory, reaching a chamber pot just in time. Wedding cake, quail, it all came up—along with the fear that I had carried with me ever since that day I had eavesdropped upon Mama and Delia, talking about the birds and the bees and the perils of childbirth for little cows. And little women.
A fear that was now terrifyingly real, as was my life; no longer was I playacting. The curtain had fallen at last; the crowds, for the moment, dispersed. Suddenly, I had real decisions to make, decisions that would have consequences not just for me but for the person pounding on the door as I hovered over the pot, my stomach still heaving, asking me what was wrong. The person I must now, and forever more, call my husband.
Just as he was reasonably expecting to call me his wife.
INTERMISSION
From Harper’s Weekly, July 25, 1863
THE TAKING OF VICKSBURG
We publish on page 465 a new portrait of Major-General Grant, the hero of Vicksburg. Most of the portraits in existence represent him as he was at the commencement of the war, with a flowing beard. He has since trimmed this hirsute appendage, and now looks as he is shown in our picture. For a life of the General we refer to page 365, No. 336, of Harper’s Weekly. He has just been appointed by the President Major-General in the regular army.
THE DRAFT
The attempt to enforce the draft in the city of New York has led to rioting. Men have been killed and houses burned; worst of all, an orphan asylum—a noble monument of charity for the reception of colored orphans—has been ruthlessly destroyed, and children and nurses have lost every thing they had in the world.
[ TWELVE ]
And So She Is Married
General and Mrs. Charles Stratton are cordially invited to …
The pleasure of the company of General and Mrs. Charles Stratton is requested …
With kind regards, would General and Mrs. Charles Stratton please accept …
So many invitations, so many kind, generous invitations! Mrs. Astor—dear, dear Caroline Astor!—never tired of throwing dinners in honor of we newlyweds, seating us at her enormous dining table so that all might see and converse with us. She even introduced me to her Parisienne dressmaker, and insisted that her hairdresser visit me daily to do my hair in the same fashion as hers.
And Mrs. Hamilton Fish! Sweet, pious Julia, who was so ill-at-ease in society, despite her husband’s wealth—even she overcame her shyness to throw an elaborate reception for the General and me, where every guest left with a sterling silver replica of our famous blue carriage, which was such a fixture now, no social event was complete unless our elegant equipage, with its matched pair of Shetland ponies, was seen to be parked outside.
Then there was Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt—beautiful, gentle Mittie; she threw a grand ball in our honor. As we were ushered into her lovely brownstone on East Twentieth Street, I spied two little boys peeking around a corner. The youngest clung to the hand of the oldest and when Charles saw them, he beckoned mischievously, so that they had to come forward.
“Hello, young gentlemen! What are you up to this fine evening?”
“We were waiting for you,” the eldest replied. He had spectacles, was painfully thin, and spoke in a wheezy, high-pitched voice. His younger brother had golden hair and the face of an angel. “We wanted to see if you really were as small as Mama said.”
“Well, are we?” Charles asked, cocking his head quizzically.
“No! I thought you might be as small as a gopher. But you’re not! You’re not much smaller than me!”
“Charles.” I gently nudged my husband and glanced upstairs, where we could hear the violins tuning up for the ball.
“Can’t we stay here a little longer, Vinnie? I’d much rather play with these chaps than parade around a ballroom.” Charles looked at me so eagerly—as did the two boys.
I shook my head, feeling every inch the schoolteacher. “No, of course not. Say goodbye to these nice young men.”
“Well, goodbye, then—what were your names?” Charles sho
“I’m Theodore Roosevelt the second,” the older boy replied with comical gravity. “And this is my brother, Elliott.”
“That is a very big name for such a little boy.” I smiled as I nudged Charles again. He waved, sadly, as we headed up the massive staircase; so many of these grand homes had very steep stairs!
I understood Charles’s reluctance to leave them; the truth was, we were not fond of balls, although it was very kind of our friends to want to give them in our honor. But Charles and I had to dance almost exclusively with each other, all eyes upon us. I attempted to dance with other gentlemen, but it was difficult; they had to take such mincing steps, and my arms ached with the strain of reaching so high up. And for Charles it was impossible to dance with other women, what with the fashions the way they were; those huge, swaying hoops kept him from getting near enough to a woman to grasp her hands.
But, of course, we did not complain in public, as it would have been hurtful to our new friends. And so many of them did I make in those heady days in the late spring of 1863! The General and I were back in New York, back in the St. Nicholas Hotel, once more, after our whirlwind honeymoon tour, the culmination of which—for Mr. Barnum, at least—was our reception at the White House. You can be sure he trumpeted this in all the Press!